Chapter 12 #2
There are only a few people in the coffee shop—two men bent over their computers at two different tables, and a couple standing nearby waiting for their drinks.
Meanwhile, behind the counter, a green-haired barista pours a carafe into two mugs.
Above him there’s a chalkboard covered with neat handwriting, and I stare up at it, pretending to find it interesting while I work to curb my pulse.
The sheer joy of finding this place has quickly been usurped by one question: Now what? I could order and sit down, wait to see if something looks familiar, or maybe I should—
“OH MY GOD, MARNIE!”
I whip around, darting my eyes to the other customers to see who yelled my name. Then I make eye contact with the green-haired barista only a second before he’s enveloping me up in a big hug. “We were so worried about you! Are you okay? Can I hug you? God, you look awful.”
I’m so confused, all I can do is blink and say, “Hi.”
“How are you? How’s your head? Did you break anything?
” He continues his line of questioning as he pulls away, keeping his hands on my shoulders.
“Becca felt awful, but I told her it wasn’t her fault.
Not completely. It’s not like she purposely mopped the floor just before you walked across it, but you know that. I told her you know that.”
I stare at him for a minute, then look down. The floor of the coffee shop is polished cement.
“Wait. Did I fall here?” I ask.
“Oh my God, you don’t remember.” He gives me an exaggerated frown.
“Yes, right over there by the seasonal display. One minute you were walking with a latte, then bam. Your head met the floor. Honestly, I can’t believe you got up like it was nothing.
I thought you’d have a concussion or something.
But afterward you seemed fine! It wasn’t until I came in for my shift on Tuesday that Becca said some guy called to say you were in the hospital. ”
I blink. “Which guy?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Becca. She’s taking a few mental health days because she thought she killed you, but she should be back soon.”
My mouth falls open, but I don’t know where to start asking questions. My brain is too tripped up on all the details that don’t seem to fit together.
After a moment, his eyes widen. “Are you having a stroke?”
I let out a long breath. “No.”
“Did you have a stroke?”
“No. When I hit my head, it injured my brain and—”
He nods sympathetically. “Like a concussion.”
“Not really. There was bleeding—”
“My brother got a concussion once playing Little League,” he continues. “Took a ball straight to the temple. When he woke up he thought he was Jason Varitek, then he puked all over home base.”
I blink. “Is he okay?”
“Yeah, he’s a corporate attorney now.”
“That’s… good.” I have absolutely no idea where to go from here.
“How about you? Are you okay now?” he asks, leaning down a bit as if this will help him focus.
I pause for a moment before saying, “Well, everything in my brain has healed, but I’m still having an issue with my memory. I don’t actually remember the fall, or anything that’s happened over the last year, really.”
“Wow. Okay, well my name is Bobbi,” he says slowly. “B-O-B-B-I.”
“Right.” I force a smile. “And I’m here a lot?”
“Oh yeah. A couple of times a week at least.”
I glance over at the two people on their laptops, still working away. “Do you have any idea what I do?”
He narrows his eyes, like this is a trick question. “You make… coffee?”
It takes a moment for my brain to process the information. “I work here?”
“Not, like, here,” he says, motioning to where we’re standing in the middle of the room. Then he waves toward the counter. “But, like, over there.”
But I’ve never worked in a coffee shop before, I want to say. I don’t even like coffee. My gaze flies around the room, looking for something, anything, familiar. For one detail to stick out and make all of this make sense.
“Are you okay?” Bobbi asks, watching my reaction.
No? Yes? Maybe? There is no correct answer to that question.
“I work here,” I repeat. “Making coffee.”
“And matcha,” he quickly adds. “We serve matcha, too.”
My mouth feels like it is permanently ajar now, but I can’t help it. What had Sara said? My new job was in sales and distribution for a beverage company? At the time, it had sounded impossible, but then, I hadn’t considered this angle.
“Are you worried about your shifts?” Bobbi asks. “Because Helen got them all covered through Monday. She’s so scared that you’ll sue for unsafe work conditions, she not only kept you on the schedule, but called to make sure all our health insurance policies were up-to-date.”
Huh. Well, at least that solves the mystery behind the health insurance card in my wallet.
“That’s great,” I reply flatly.
The bell above the door rings out just as a family of four wanders in with a stroller.
“Let me go take care of this order, then I’ll grab your schedule for next week. Sound good?”
I nod, not trusting myself to form actual words.
Bobbi retreats to the other side of the counter as a muted Noah Kahan song plays from the speakers above.
Okay, I think, looking around as I release a shaky breath. So I never found the bank. But on the bright side, I have a job! And I found a location from my list! That has to count for something, right?
I want it to. But I can’t move past the fact that after spending five years building a career in recruiting, I am now a barista. And I don’t even like coffee.
Is this the magic my grandmother always talked about? Because this doesn’t feel like magic. This feels confusing and lonely, like I somehow ventured off the universe’s path and am now so lost I can’t find my way back again.
But there has to be a reason why. At least one that would explain the napkin.
I let my eyes do another long audit of the room, waiting for something to snag my attention.
The brick walls, the mismatched chairs, the chalkboard menus.
It all looks worn and comfortable, but it also feels like the first time I’ve been here to notice that.
I sigh and pull off my knit hat. In the periphery I can see my bangs shooting out in different directions, but before I can tamp them down, my gaze catches on a low bookcase in the far corner.
The shelves are full of board games, angled and bent to fill every available space.
The ones that don’t fit are piled on top, requiring you to really commit to your choice if you were going to find a way to get it out without knocking over the others.
Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly, something called Farkle…
Wait.
My attention zeroes in on the Monopoly box. It’s barely a box anymore, its edges and corners devoid of their original shape, replaced by new creases and curves that reveal the brown cardboard beneath the faded packaging.
I rush over to the corner, dodging the tables between me and the bookcase until I’m there, on my knees and pulling the box from the shelf.
An entire narrative is spinning alive in my head as I lift the lid—Matt and I laughing over a couple of scones, rolling the dice in the hopes of avoiding the hotels on Boardwalk—and I know, I just know, that this is it, the corner piece of the puzzle in my head.
Matt and I played Monopoly here together.
And if that moment was important enough to immortalize in my collection of memories, then it has to help sort out the rest of them, too.
I push my bangs away from my face so I can focus on the mess of colorful money in front of me, community chest cards, and metal playing pieces. There’s a top hat and a battleship. A race car and a thimble… and there, sitting in the corner, a small metal dog.
I stare at it, irrationally angry at its presence, when Bobbi appears beside me.
“Here you go,” he says, holding out a piece of paper with a calendar printed on it.
“Your shifts through the end of the month!” He looks down at where I’m kneeling on the floor, surrounded by a mess of pink and blue money.
Then his gaze slides to my forehead, lips pursed.
“Is that what you’re doing with your hair now? ”