Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
I’m on a high the next day at work. Sarah’s unimpressed glances do nothing to bring me down. As soon as I see Priya walk into the cafe, I give her a big hug and tell her, thank you.
“I guess you worked things out?” she asks with a mischievous grin on her face. She wears her short black hair half up in a high ponytail today, with her bangs hanging loose over her forehead. I tussle them with my hand before answering her.
“Yes, but not like that, Pri!” I give her a teasing punch on her shoulder and laugh. “We’re going to be friends for now. And I’m happy with that.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”
We make it through the rest of the shift with Priya giving me suggestive looks and winks every chance she gets.
I can’t count how many eye rolls I receive from Sarah, but I’m too distracted to care.
I only messed up one drink today—a blended coffee that I may have accidentally forgotten to put coffee into.
Oh well, we fixed it, and the customer ended up getting two drinks instead of one.
Win for them. Red X for me, I’m sure. I really am trying, but this is all so new to me.
I wish Sarah saw my attempts rather than my failures.
At the end of my shift, I go home and root through my purse, hunting for the sheet of paper Dylan gave me with his number.
It’s nowhere in my bag. “How do I keep losing things in here?” I mutter as I flip my black purse over and dump every single item onto my bed, sorting through them frantically with my hands.
After about five minutes of rifling through the same contents multiple times, I give up. I must not have put it in my bag, and either left it there, or it slipped out and onto the floor when I was leaving. Fuck.
I close my eyes and try to picture the note with the numbers on it. I remember saying it out loud when he handed it to me, his blocky printing scrawled across the paper, light smudge marks on the corner from his thumb.
624-1432
I think.
I don’t remember the area code, but a quick search tells me it’s probably 902, so I cross my fingers and type out that number into my phone.
It rings for a moment before an automated message tells me the number isn’t in service.
Fuck. I must not be remembering it right.
I guess another random appearance is in order soon so I can get his number. Again. I’ve never had such a hard time contacting a guy before. If dating apps were this difficult, no one would get together.
The next morning at Pleasant Coffee, Sarah tells us we officially have the pumpkin spice syrup in, so we can sell our pumpkin spice lattes and drinks.
“Oh, August twentieth. That’s got to be a new record.” I say to her.
“Well, you weren’t here last year, so of course you think this is early,” she says with an upturned nose.
Foot in mouth. Of course. “No, I mean, this is great. Definitely not complaining. Fall drinks are my favourite.” I try to recover. I don’t need to start my day off on Sarah’s bad side over a silly comment. A joke!
When I take my first break of the morning, Priya makes me a pumpkin spice latte and instantly spots the look of disappointment I make after my first sip.
“Not good? I can make you another one,” she says. “I might be a little rusty.”
I wave my hand up to stop her. “No, no. It’s not you. I had a really good pumpkin creamer the other day, and it was the best coffee I’ve ever had. I forgot just how good it was until I had this. This syrup doesn’t hold up.”
“Yeah?” She grabs my drink out of my hands and takes her own sip, licking a bit of whipped cream from her top lip. “Tastes fine to me. What brand is the other one?”
“Not a brand. Homemade. That guy I was telling you about made it for me. I need to make it again for you to try. You’ll lose your mind; it’s so good.”
“Why don’t you text him and ask him for the recipe?” She takes another sip of the drink that she has officially commandeered.
“He doesn’t have a cellphone. Just a landline,” I tell her, snatching my latte back and giving her a fake scowl.
“Then how do you talk on Tinder?” she questions.
Shit.
“Um, on his laptop,” I respond, hoping she believes me.
“Hmm.”
“I’ll get the recipe next time I see him.”
“Sure.”
We finish our shift, busy as ever, as word of our fall drinks being out makes its way through town.
All of our regulars came in asking for lattes and iced chais with spiced pumpkin cream cold foam.
I thought steaming regular milk was hard, but cold foam is a whole other battle.
I don’t think I even did one correctly today.
Sarah had to take over in the end and banished me to the cash register, where I was only responsible for taking orders and pouring coffee.
At the end of the day, I’m exhausted and, honestly, a bit defeated.
It’s been close to two months now, and I still feel like I can’t get the hang of this job.
Every week, I come in wondering if this is the week Sarah has convinced the owner to fire me.
If this is the week I screw up so badly that they have no other choice.
It’s moments like these that Marcus’ words ring in my ears.
Spoiled little rich girl.
Can’t survive a day on her own.
I give my hands a shake, trying to move past my depressing thoughts.
I think back to Dylan and how he cooked us such a delicious dinner, and an idea comes to mind.
I look up a simple recipe on my phone. Pan-fried garlic shrimp with lemon and herb rice.
A mixed green salad on the side. Scanning through the steps and ingredients, it seems easy enough.
I grab some fabric bags from the closet by the front door, pop downstairs, and start the quick walk to the closest—and only—grocery store in town.
There’s a weight lifted off my shoulders as I step inside with a cart and a plan and walk down each of the aisles, finding exactly what I need.
It’s a bit more expensive than my Buldak ramen, but it’s going to be homemade by me and only me, and that’s something to be proud of.
After finding all the ingredients, I head back home to start cooking.
I empty all the bags onto my kitchen counter and pull my hair out of my face into a topknot with an autumnal-themed scrunchie adorned with pumpkins.
An impulse purchase I spotted while waiting in line with my groceries.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” I say out loud to my empty kitchen.
I turn on the Midnights album (3am Edition, of course) so it plays through the speaker on my phone and work my way through the recipe step by step, taking it slow and taking my time to read through everything.
In the end, it turns out okay. Nothing amazing, but it’s tasty and edible. Sure, the shrimp is a tad overdone, and the rice turned out wetter than I’d hoped, but the feeling of pride I have from making something completely on my own, other than instant ramen, is huge.
“Screw you, Marcus,” I shout as I clean up after dinner.
I like to think Dylan would be proud if I told him. He’d probably say something sarcastic, but I can picture the way he would crinkle his eyes and the full-on grin he’d give me.
I can’t help that the thoughts of him linger as I wipe down the counter, my mind constantly drifting back to those emerald eyes.