Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“You seem distracted today,” Priya says to me as she steams some milk for the latte she’s currently making. Her short, thick black hair is pulled out of her face with some very cute butterfly barrettes as she focuses on what she’s doing.
“Hmm?” I’m staring into the cafe, not really taking anything in. Definitely not sweeping the floors like Sarah asked me to do earlier.
“Exactly my point,” she muses, carefully pouring the frothy milk over top of the espresso shots she just pulled. “Are you seeing someone? Is that what’s got your head up in the clouds?”
For the smallest of seconds, my mind drifts to the mystery lighthouse keeper who’s been taking up residence in my mind. Long brown hair and piercing green eyes, giving me that smile I’ve come to enjoy. Someone who I find so infuriating but so interesting all at the same time.
I shake my head and focus back on my friend.
“Nope, not seeing anyone. Just tired.” It’s been a long week, and I’m tired, hungry, and hell-bent on learning who this lighthouse keeper is.
I still can’t believe there’s no mention of someone taking over Killick Point.
I don’t know why, but I haven’t said anything else to Priya about him.
I can’t make sense of it myself yet, and I don’t want someone to tell me I’m nuts or have the wrong lighthouse again.
“Sure, sure,” she says. “Latte for Maya!”
I get through the rest of my shift with Sarah only berating me once for an iced mocha I made with expired shots that apparently tasted bitter as hell. My bad. I’m still getting the hang of the timing with espresso. You can’t let it sit out for too long. It goes bitter. Who knew?
I get home that evening and am so tired I drop to the floor of my tiny apartment.
I’ve never worked so much in my life as I have since moving here and getting a job at Pleasant Coffee with Pri.
I was a very privileged child who grew up with a mom and dad who provided everything for me.
I became so comfortable with that life that I never felt the need to try to do anything on my own.
Why bother when the swipe of a credit card solved any problem, and I always had a roof over my head that was nicer than anything I could afford without my parents.
I never looked at my upbringing as a bad thing, because it was all I knew, but being here now and working for everything I have has been humbling, to say the least. It’s also taught me how hard life can be for the average person.
I’m reminded about the Check Engine light that came on in my car on the drive home from work. I rest the back of my head on the door and shut my eyes. Great. Another thing I need to worry about.
I make minimum wage at the coffee shop, but thankfully, rent in the tiny town of Pleasant Cove is quite cheap.
Especially when you rent a very old, un-air-conditioned studio apartment above a corner store.
I work full-time, Monday to Friday, at the coffee shop (Sarah wasn’t keen on the idea of me serving customers over the busy weekends), and it’s enough to pay my rent and allow me some groceries.
Nothing too extravagant, but it feels good to know that I’m doing it all on my own over here.
I still haven’t quite mastered the art of a latte, let alone a cappuccino, but at least I’m trying.
I wish Sarah saw that. She only sees my mistakes, and it’s a constant reminder that I’m a fish out of water here.
I don’t belong. I get so stressed every week when I mess things up and she gives me that disappointed look.
My nerves tell me it’s only a matter of time before she sees me as a hindrance and convinces the owner, Mandy, to let me go.
Then I’d be screwed.
I remember the looks on my parents’ faces when I told them I wanted to do this.
Move over twelve hundred kilometres away from home to a town I would never have heard of if it weren’t for Priya.
Her family moved when we were in elementary school, and we were such good friends that we kept in touch.
She would come back to Ottawa and stay with us for part of the summer break.
“You want to do what?” my mom had asked, peering up from her magazine, black Prada glasses down on the bridge of her nose as she gave me an inquisitive look.
“I need to do this, Mom.” I sat down in the chair opposite her. “I am so appreciative of everything you and Dad have done for me, but I need to spread my own wings. Go off on my own. Try to live my life and see what I can make of it.”
What I don’t tell her is what happened with that ass, Marcus Reynolds, my last boyfriend, more out of convenience than affection, as both of our parents were part of the exclusive Rideau Club and were friendly.
They loved that we were dating, and it was easier to go along with it for the sake of keeping everyone happy. He seemed nice enough. At first.
It wasn’t until we were on what would be our final date, after only a few months, at an upscale restaurant downtown.
We had a new server. I could tell he was a little nervous, and he accidentally screwed up Marcus’s very complicated drink order.
In my opinion, no big deal. He apologized and was going to fix it.
A sane person would have moved on from there.
But not Marcus. No, he went off on him and belittled him in front of the entire restaurant.
Practically threatened to get him fired for his mistake.
When the teenager apologized again, offering to comp our meals, Marcus just scoffed at him and dropped his cloth napkin on the ground in front of him.
“Pick it up,” he said with more condescension in his voice than I’d ever heard from him.
I’d always noticed brief hints of this in past situations: the way he spoke to his driver, how he acted around other people, with an air of “I’m better than everyone here because of my money and my status.
” The funniest part was the money wasn’t even his; he was an inheritance child.
His grandfather was the one who started a successful business, and his parents and their children were the ones who profited from his hard work.
His treatment of that poor server was it for me. I stood up, bent down to pick up the napkin, and threw it back in Marcus’ face. “You are an asshole,” I said to him. “You’re not better than everyone here because of your stupid money and status.”
As I started to walk away, he yelled back at me, “You’re just like me, Lucy, don’t you see? A spoiled little rich girl who couldn’t survive a day on her own.”
“Fuck you, Marcus,” I responded angrily, though the knife had already twisted itself in my back, letting loose all my insecurities and innermost thoughts. His words wrapped around my brain and infested my mind.
“Going to call your driver to take you back to your parents’ mansion?” he sneered. “Fucking hypocrite—”
White-hot rage distorted my vision, and I turned around, picking up his incorrectly made drink, and threw it in his face. “I will never be like you.” With that, I stormed out of the restaurant and never saw him or his smug face again.
After that incident, I felt sick every time I used any of my parents’ wealth for my own gain.
The driver, the meals, the limitless credit card.
It all seemed vapid and materialistic now.
I also hated that a small part of myself, deep down, believed Marcus.
That I couldn’t last a day on my own. I’d never been taught to do anything. Work for anything. Nothing.
I knew nothing.
“Have you been reading self-help books again?” my mom asked, magazine placed on the marble end table beside her.
“Yes, but that’s not the point,” I replied pointedly. “I need to know that I can live on my own. I’ve never had a job—”
“You don’t need to have a job, Lucy,” she cut me off. Your dad and I make enough that you don’t need to worry about that.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned toward me. “You can enjoy your life.”
“I can’t, though, Mom,” I admitted, the words “spoiled little rich girl” stuck on a loop in my head.
“I’m lost. Clueless, sometimes. I don’t know how the world works, and I don’t know how to work for anything.
You and Dad know those things because you worked hard for everything you have now.
I don’t want to reap the benefits of your labour anymore.
I want to carve my own path and feel like I can contribute something. ”
“Oh, sweetie.” She leaned forward and touched my arm before leaving for the kitchen.
I sat there, eyes locked on the magazine she placed down on the glass side table.
The top articles caught my eye. “Finding Your Leading Lady Shoe” and “Is Face Tape the New Botox?” I scoffed, chuckling at how unimportant all of that was to me now.
Maybe there was a time where I would have cared, but now I just want to work on being a better and more independent person.
Someone who didn’t worry about things like that.
Finally, she returned with two cups of coffee in hand, brewed with the press of a button rather than with time and effort.
“I might not agree with you, but I spoke to your father. We will support this, of course. Though I think you’ll be home sooner than you realize once you get a taste of the real world.
It’s hard out there. But our door is always open.
Can we give you any money to get started? Everyone can use a bit of a break.”
I wanted to prove my parents wrong. To prove Marcus wrong.
I could do this. I could make it on my own in the real world.
“Maybe enough to help me get a car,” I said, knowing I’d need one to get around Pleasant Cove—where Priya lived—and explore a new province.
I didn’t have a car here because my parents hired a driver.
“But not a new car. Something old is fine—as long as it works.”
After talking them down from $20,000 to $10,000, I had enough to buy an old 2010 Honda Civic that was in decent condition.
And it had air conditioning, which was a bonus.
Its cloth seats were sticky and stained—unlike the last vehicle I’d sat in—but at least it was mine.
The remaining money went to rent and a deposit on my apartment, and some furniture from the thrift store.
At the beginning of July, I said goodbye to my parents and the only life I’d ever known, got in the car with a few belongings, and made the long drive to Nova Scotia, terrified and excited all at the same time.
The taste of freedom fresh on my tongue.
I blow some blonde hair out of my face and pick myself up off the semi-clean floor of my apartment. Freedom has been nice, but damn, it’s been tough.
I never realized how sheltered I’d been until I came out here. I’d never worked a day in my life before getting the job at Pleasant Coffee with Pri. Thank goodness for her, or else I would probably still be looking.
Here’s my resume, yes, you’re right, it’s just a blank piece of paper.
I do like the feeling I get from working, though.
I’m still trying to find my way there, screwing up at least once per shift.
I’ve caught a few offhand comments from Sarah about firing me, but since Pri fought to get me this job and she’s one of their top employees, they haven’t—yet.
But the sense of accomplishment each shift gives and the way I feel when I get my paycheque has been new.
I’ve never had to work for money before; my parents just had me on a monthly allowance that was so high, I never went over it.
I feel like I’ve earned it now. It’s nice.
I pop into my very plain kitchen with chipped white paint on the cabinets and pull out a pack of instant ramen, the one thing I can cook to perfection now.
I click the kettle on and empty the ramen into a bowl.
As I’m doing this, my mind starts to drift and wonder what the mystery lighthouse keeper is doing right now.
Is he making dinner as well, alone in the lighthouse?
What kind of meals does he even make in his small kitchen?
Is it possible he’s having noodles as well?
Sitting on that plaid couch, probably drinking coffee, if I know him.
Reading that book I saw underneath the coffee table.
I don’t know why I keep thinking about him. He’s kind of an asshole. But I got the sense, the last time I saw him, that maybe he just has a hard exterior.
When my noodles are ready, I bring the bowl over to my couch, a navy blue loveseat I thrifted. I curl up and wrap an old quilt around myself and eat my dinner, thoughts drifting to a white-and-red striped lighthouse and the mystery man inside.