Chapter 16
“Okay, let’s go over the basics.” Bobbi walks me over to the enormous espresso machine behind the counter at Strange Brew. “What do you remember?”
I stare at the array of knobs and tubes and panels. I’m only ten minutes into my first shift and already mentally preparing my resignation letter. “I’m not sure.”
He nods sagely, like he’s encountered this before. “Right. Then let’s start with a cappuccino. That’s one part espresso, one part steamed milk, one part foam. With me?”
“Sure,” I say. Meanwhile, my palms are so sweaty, I have to wipe them against my Strange Brew–issued brown apron.
It’s just past ten a.m. on a Thursday and even though Bobbi assures me there’s always a lull around this time, I still can’t stop looking at the door, positive that a group of thirty stressed-out college students is about to appear and force me into action.
“Now, all you have to do is slip the portafilter into the grinder and press one if it’s a single shot—that’s our standard—then fit it here under the grouphead, but make sure it’s tight or it’ll make a mess.
Then press this button and steam the milk while it brews.
Just remember to check what kind of milk the customer wants. Or if they want a double shot.”
“Or a double long,” Claire, the other barista working today, says as she emerges from the storage room, a sleeve of coffee cups in hand. She’s barely five feet tall, but her platform boots bring her heavily lined eyes level with my chin. “Gina from the post office likes hers with a double long.”
“Right.” Bobbi nods again. “Gina likes hers with a double long.”
“What’s a double long?” I ask, eyes wide.
“It’s just a doppio, except with more water,” Bobbi explains.
My brow furrows. “What’s a doppio?”
“A double shot,” Claire says over my shoulder.
“Great. Got it,” I say, even though it feels like I might burst into tears.
Bobbi turns to look at me and his smile dissolves the minute he sees my expression.
“Are you sure?”
“Yup,” I say. My bottom lip is wobbling now. “Sorry, I can totally do this. It’s just hard to keep track of information since my fall. Like directions or instructions, or anything that has to be followed in order, you know? And my emotions are a little all over the place, too, so… so…”
Claire cringes and turns to head back to the storage room, while Bobbi carefully removes the portafilter from my hand.
“Let’s just have you work on clearing tables today,” he says, offering a placating smile.
I don’t even mind. A bit of the tension in my shoulders dissolves and I nod. Clearing tables. Yes. I can do that.
I try to get a hold of myself as I wander the dining room, collecting plates and wiping away crumbs, but the tears stay right there, just under the surface, ready to burst out of me at any minute.
I hate it. Before the accident, this job would have probably seemed like a breeze, someplace to show up to keep my insurance while I figured out whatever I was doing with my life.
But now, every detail feels like it requires more brainpower than I’m capable of, resources I don’t have access to anymore, leaving me feeling lost and overwhelmed.
If my grandmother were here, I know she would say this is a gift. The universe is forcing you to be more present. Embrace it. But I can’t embrace anything when I’m holding a tray full of dirty cappuccino mugs in one hand and a sodden cleaning cloth in the other.
By the time the coffee shop closes at five p.m., my feet ache, my fingers are pruned from handling a wet rag for hours, and my scalp is unbelievably itchy from the knit hat I’ve been wearing to keep my bangs at bay.
I don’t take it off, though, I just shove my arms into my coat, then follow Bobbi and Claire out the main doors to the sidewalk.
Bobbi locks the front door, then stops to turn to me. “Oh, almost forgot, are we still doing that photography thing?”
I look at Claire, wondering if he’s talking to her, but her attention is on me, too.
“What photography thing?” I ask.
“You know, that class at the Cambridge Arts Center that starts in December. You left the pamphlet in the break room,” he says, waving back toward the dark café. “I’m going to register tonight. You’re still in, right?”
He drops the information so casually, it takes me a minute for my mind to gather it up. I signed up for a photography class? It sounds impossible, but then I remember the 35 mm camera in my apartment, the roll of film still waiting to be developed, and it suddenly seems to fit.
“I think so, yeah,” I reply before I can think better of it.
“Yay! It’ll be like a field trip. Okay, see you Saturday morning! We’ll tackle flat whites.” He blows me an air-kiss before walking with Claire down Prince Street toward the T stop.
I watch them go, momentarily stunned, then turn in the other direction, burying my chin in my coat as the wind whips around the corner.
I’m taking a photography class, I think.
I have no memory of signing up for it, or leaving a pamphlet in the break room so others would join me, but the knowledge that I did—that I’m not just a barista, I’m out there doing something—feels right.
It feels vital. A glimmer of hope that my life here wasn’t completely unrecognizable.
That maybe I knew what I was doing. Or at least, I was trying.
The sky is already getting dark and the streetlamps are on, adding an otherworldly glow to the North End’s narrow streets, but all I can think about as I turn down Sheafe Street is telling Ben.
Then again, maybe that’s exactly the type of thing I shouldn’t do right now.
When he told me about Lauren a few days ago, I had felt so relieved, I hadn’t taken a moment to consider what that could mean in the broader context of us.
Before, when I thought he had a girlfriend, our relationship was neutral territory.
Now those divisions are blurred, and every action has the potential of being so much more.
I want it to be more. But that doesn’t mean Ben feels the same.
He might not have a girlfriend, but he also made it clear that he doesn’t do relationships.
And unfortunately, I’ve never been the type of person who can hook up with someone without completely falling for them, too.
If something happened between us, I’d definitely get my heart broken.
After everything I’ve been through over the past couple of weeks, I don’t know if I could survive that.
The thought is so distracting, I almost miss the sound of my phone ringing at the bottom of my tote bag.
When I finally reach inside to grab it, I see Sara’s name illuminated on the screen.
“Hey!” I answer a bit too loudly. But I can’t help it, I feel guilty, like somehow she knows I was just thinking about somebody other than Matt.
“Hey.” Her voice is high-pitched and cheerful. “What are you up to?”
“Just leaving work,” I say, hugging my coat to my body as I turn down my block.
She gasps. “Did you get a job?”
“I already have one, remember? I’m a barista at a coffee shop near my apartment.”
“Right, sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you went back to work there. I thought you meant you got a job job. Like back at Probus or something.”
A familiar annoyance sparks in my chest. It’s the same one I always feel when Sara says something that not-so-subtly tells you exactly what she thinks about your choices.
“Well, after a full day on my feet wiping down tables, I can tell you that it is definitely a job,” I say.
She groans. “I’m sorry. That sucks. But I have some good news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“What are you doing two weeks from today?”
I blink, working hard to remember the date. Halfway through my calculations I realize it doesn’t matter anyway; I have no plans. In my new life, I am perpetually planless.
“Nothing,” I admit. “Why, what’s happening two weeks from today?”
“Drumroll, please,” she says, and I can hear that she’s tapping her hands on her knees. “Garrett and I are coming to Boston!”
A smile spreads across my face as I stop in the middle of the sidewalk just a few steps from my building. “Really?”
“Just for like, twenty-four hours. Garrett has a work thing, but I thought I would tag along. I have a meeting first thing on Monday morning, so we’re literally flying in Saturday morning and leaving Sunday, but I thought that was still worth it, right?
I need to see you, even if it’s just a quick dinner. ”
The annoyance I had been feeling ebbs, and a smile spreads across my face.
This is good news, I think. And I really needed some good news.
“I can do a quick dinner. Maybe even a long one,” I reply.
She squeals. “Don’t tease. Okay, I’ll text you our flight details and start looking into restaurants. We can do one of those Saturday night dinners like we used to!”
My smile falters. Saturday night dinners were a weekly tradition in LA, but they always included the four of us: Sara and me, and also Garrett and Matt.
“Sara—”
“I know it’s not exactly like we used to, but come on, you and Matt are still our friends, right? And we miss you.”
I unlock the building’s front door and step inside.
Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem pointing out just how incredibly awkward this situation will be.
But I can also acknowledge that this is an extenuating circumstance: The four of us haven’t seen each other in a year—at least I don’t think we have—and despite how the dynamics of the group have changed, we’re all still family to Sara.
Besides, I miss my best friend. If I have to have dinner with my ex-boyfriend to see her, so be it.
“Okay,” I say.
“Really?” she gasps. “Oh my God, I’m so happy. Okay, you go relax. I’ll text you all the details once I book reservations somewhere.”
“Okay.”
“And reach out to Matt! Maybe he can pick you up on his way.”
I roll my eyes as I start up the stairs to the third floor. “We’ll see.”
“Okay, I gotta go, talk soon.”
And then she hangs up.
I wish I was more excited, but I can’t ignore the inevitable.
This is going to be another one of Sara’s master plans, some scheme to get me and Matt back together despite the fact I’m almost positive neither of us wants that.
Which only makes the whole thing worse, since the only person who will end up getting hurt is Sara.
My brain is working so hard to come up with a solution as I climb the stairs to the third floor that I don’t see the book that’s waiting on the welcome mat outside my door until I almost step on it. When I bend down, I see it’s Ben’s copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
And on the cover is a light blue Post-it:
Let me know what you think. —B
Suddenly, I forget to worry about Matt and Sara, or the ache in my feet and my pruned fingers. Because right now, only one thing really matters: Ben remembered.