36. 36 Parker
36
36 PARKER
STEAL MY SUNSHINE
Holy Grounds was dead this morning. Sundays were always hit or miss, as far as business went, and today? Well, I was thankful it was a miss.
I hadn’t slept much last night. After I left Heathcliff’s, I drove home in a daze, thankful that Simon was asleep when I arrived. I was in no mood to rehash everything and listen to his well-meaning advice. I still wasn’t, which was why I’d snuck out this morning while he was still asleep. My reprieve wouldn’t last much longer, though, since Simon worked this morning.
Glancing at the clock, I mentally calculated how long I had till he showed up. About ten minutes. Maybe not enough time to brace myself for the whirlwind of Simon. Definitely not enough time to piece together a response to his inevitable How are you ?
I could lie, I thought as I replenished the stack of small coffee cups. I could lie my butt off and buy myself some time to process everything. Just a day or two to piece my thoughts together, to piece my heart back together.
As if that’d be enough time.
Guilt wound itself around my already twisted brain. Shaking my head, I put the overstock cups beneath the counter. Nope. Clearly wouldn’t be lying to my best friend today.
“Great,” I muttered to myself, drawing glances from the sole occupied table in the lobby. Our writer had brought a friend this morning, and both seemed concerned for their forlorn barista. I gave them a sort-of smile and reached for a package of napkins.
Guess I’m gonna cry today after all , I thought, stocking up for the inevitable.
No sooner had I finished did Simon sail through the door.
“Hello, hi, good morning,” he sang. “How are you this gorgeous Sunday morning?”
I smiled in answer and waited as he dropped his things off in the back. Then, as if the universe was looking out for me, a group of high schoolers walked in as Simon returned to the front. Sending a silent thank you to whatever drew these kids into our shop, I slid into my spot in front of the register.
“Hey,” I said to the first person in line. “What can we get started for you?”
About ten minutes later, Simon called out the last drink and the group herded outside, going about their day. Once they were out of our sight, Simon placed his hands on my shoulders and whirled me to face him.
“Okay,” he said. “Now that that’s done.” His eyes sparkled like the mischievous sidekick in a cartoon. “How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages . Catch me up!”
Cheeks burning, I turned away. Reaching into the bucket below the counter, I grabbed the towel and wrung it out. As I wiped up the mess we’d made during the mini-rush, I searched my brain for what to say. Where to start. At the end, then work backwards? Or from the beginning? Or—
“You are blushing, ” Simon said, delight in his voice. “Details, details!”
I faced him, his face a blur through tears I hadn’t realized were there. Before I could speak, he had his arm around my shoulder. The moment he touched me, the barrier broke. Turning into him, I buried my face against his chest, crying every tear I’d held in for the last however many hours since I’d left Gigi outside of Heathcliff’s.
Simon’s arms tightened around me. He rubbed soothing circles across my back, making shushing sounds against my temple. In the darkness behind my eyes, last night replayed like a home movie. Gigi shining so bright onstage, then falling apart in my arms. The conviction in her voice when she said she was choosing me.
The hurt in her eyes when I told her I couldn’t let her do that.
Not for the first time since I’d said the words, I wondered if I made the right choice.
“Okay, all right,” Simon said, gently pulling me away from his chest. “People are starting to stare, hon. Let’s get it together.”
I took the handful of napkins he offered. “You just don’t want my snot on your shirt.”
“Two things can be true.” He dabbed at the tear stains I left on his Holy Grounds-issued tee. “You really were drawing the attention of our patrons.”
One glance over my shoulder told me he was right. Both writers stared in our direction, twin expressions of concern on their faces.
“I’m okay,” I called, waving their way. “I’m good.”
Neither looked convinced. Turning to each other, they bent their heads and conferred amongst themselves.
I turned back to Simon. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” I gestured at his tear-and-snot-stained shirt, wincing. “I can hold down things here if you want to run home and de-snot-ify.”
“Eh.” Simon shrugged. “Probably the least objectionable thing I’ll get on this shirt before the end of the day. Now.” He leaned against the counter and cocked his head, concern shining in his hazel eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I looked down, twisting my napkins into oblivion. Where did I start? How did I start? My heart lay in my chest, barely beating. My brain was a constant loop of scenes from last night. How did I string together an explanation from that?
“I…I think I fucked up.”
Simon’s eyes widened. “You fucked up?” He put his hand over mine. “Who are you and what have you done with my sweet baby bestie who wouldn’t dream of dropping the eff bomb?”
I couldn’t even muster a smile. Throwing the napkin massacre into the trash, I wrapped my arms around myself. “We broke up.”
A chorus of awws rang up from the lobby, and both Simon and I turned to find our resident writers decidedly not writing.
“Sorry,” one of the women said, looking chagrined. “You’ve looked so sad all morning. We had to know why.”
Her friend nodded, eyes wide. “We suspected breakup, but were hoping we were wrong.”
Simon looked from them to me, then seemed to make a decision. Taking my hand, he dragged me from behind the counter and into the lobby. We made a pitstop at the door where he flipped the sign to Closed , then steered us to the table beside the writers.
“What,” I started, but the rest of my question was lost to the immediate hand squeezes and shoulder pats from the other table.
“Reinforcements,” Simon said when I looked askance to him. He took his seat across from me, crossing his legs. “I know nothing about lady emotions. Cari and Jill, on the other hand? Well, they write romance novels .” He said it with such reverence I couldn’t help but smile. “If anyone can help, it’s them.”
I looked from Simon to the two people with laptops, feeling like a turd for not knowing their names or what they were writing before this. Simon was so much better at this job than I was. Giving them what I hoped was a smile, I looked back to my best friend. “All due respect,” I said, “but I don’t know that there is help for this.”
“Even if there is nothing to be done,” Simon said, “it’ll at least help to talk it out.”
Cari and Jill nodded their agreement. One glance around told me that I was surrounded by sympathy. Even if two-thirds of that sympathetic audience were strangers, the energy was warm and comforting. I took a deep breath and, before I could second guess, I told them everything.
“Then I…walked away.”
I looked up some time later to find everyone watching me with tears in their eyes. Even Simon, who prided himself on his stoicism. Cari doled out napkins and we all dabbed our faces. The coffee shop was quiet, save for the occasional sniffle. And, you know what? I felt better.
Not better better. My heart still ached like it’d been run over a couple hundred times by a bulldozer. But at least I could pull a full breath into my lungs again. One would think I’d know how beneficial talking about things was, considering my soon-to-be profession.
Alas.
Once the tears were sufficiently dried, Jill spoke up. “That is one hell of a black moment.”
Cari nodded, her face serious. “Truly,” she agreed. “The darkest of dark nights.”
Simon and I looked between them, then at each other, bafflement mirrored on both our faces. Simon spoke first. “You two mind explaining what in the cryptic sound bites we just encountered?”
Jill laughed, her blue eyes sparkling behind her neon pink glasses. “Sorry,” she said. “We sometimes forget that not everyone speaks fluent romance novel.”
Cari pivoted in her seat, pulling one leg up. “So,” she started, all-business, “the black moment is the all hope is lost moment in a romance.” Her brown eyes danced with enthusiasm. “It’s when our main characters retreat back into themselves, run away from their feelings, let their wounds win.”
Across from her, Jill nodded, shifting excitedly in her seat. “It definitely sounds like you both let your wounds win.”
I frowned, looking from one writer to the other, then to Simon, who shrugged, just as lost as me. “Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ll bite. What’s a wound?”
“Ooh, all right.” Cari dropped her feet to the floor. “So. A wound is something that happened in a character’s past that affects how they operate today. Usually some sort of trauma, big or small, that has left an impression on them and shaped who they are.”
As she spoke, my brain pinged with memory. Gigi telling me about her dad, and the regret over not being here for him when he was sick. The guilt that pushed her to take over Heathcliff’s so her brother could step back. Her stubborn belief that she couldn’t have it all—the bar, the band…love.
I’ve hurt too many people I care about already.
My eyes stung. I blinked and looked away, fumbling for a fresh napkin.
In my periphery, I saw Cari and Jill lean in. Then, in an act of Twilight Zone weirdness, they both asked, “What is her wound?”
Simon put his arm around my shoulder and eyed the two women. “Are all writers this weird?”
Jill nodded. Cari grinned. “Yep.”
“On the upside,” Jill added. “We could help you plan one hell of a grand gesture.”
I was about to ask what, exactly, a grand gesture was when there was a knock on the front door. All four of us turned at the sound. A disgruntled old man stood on the sidewalk, gesturing to the hours of operation sign.
Simon heaved a ginormous sigh and stood. “Back to work, ladies. Leave it to a man to ruin our fun.” He walked across the dining room to open the door, flipping the sign back to Open . “Sorry, sorry,” he sang as he let the man in. “Staff meeting, you understand.”
The man harrumphed and marched to the counter. “Black coffee,” he grunted. “Large. And make sure it’s hot. None of that lukewarm bull-hockey, young man.”
Across the counter, Simon caught my eye and quirked a brow. I gave him my most sympathetic smile and stood.
“Hey,” Cari said, putting a hand over mine.
I paused, turning back to her.
“We’re so sorry you’re hurting.” She squeezed my hand. “Both of you.”
Jill smiled up at me, empathy radiating from her. “This isn’t the end of your story. You two aren’t done yet.”
I returned her smile, hope and despair battling behind my ribs like Godzilla vs. King Kong. I thought about telling her that it felt very much like the end. That I didn’t see an ending where Gigi and I fixed things. That the wounds we both had were not compatible. We were two broken pieces from different masterpieces. Our wounds? They only poked at each other. They only hurt.
But I kept all of that inside. Who was I to crush the idealism of these two romance novelists?
“Thank you,” I said instead, taking a step back. “Happy writing.”
They smiled back and I stepped behind the counter to join Simon. A trio of curmudgeonly men had joined the first grump. Taking over at the register, I smiled at them and let Simon move over to make their drinks.
If only, I thought as I took their orders. If only real life was like a romance novel. Or even Gigi’s romance show. Then maybe this wouldn’t be the end.
Maybe then, it’d be just the beginning.