He just blinks at me. If I were Jess, he’d be falling all over himself to please me.
“Fine,” I state. “A large honey cinnamon latte with nonfat milk and a cinnamon bagel with plain cream cheese.” Yes, I drink nonfat milk in my coffee, and sugar and grease in everything else. I don’t have to be logical to please my taste buds and belly.
Greg punches in my requests while I slide my card into the charge slot. Once the transaction is complete, he says, “Name?”
This man has asked me that question at least thirty times before today, and I fight the urge to tell him as much. Nevertheless, an uncharacteristically snarky reply slides from my lips and does so rather easily. “Invisible Girl,” I say, and once it’s out it feels good, as liberating as that presentation years ago had, in fact. I’m not allowing myself to be invisible. Take that, Jess.
In return, I expect Greg to grimace or make some smart remark. Instead, he grabs a cup, writes the name on the cup, and says, “We’ll call you.” He walks away.
I stand there a moment, just staring at the space where he’d been moments before, telling myself that the burn in my belly that resembles anger is the wrong emotion to feel. I should be pleased right now. Being dismissed supports the hypothesis that I won’t be noticed enough in the meeting today to make a fool of myself. And yet this encounter with Greg doesn’t feel good. Why can there be no happy medium?
I turn and walk to my seat, sitting down and pulling my MacBook from my bag before opening the lid and powering it up. My fingers drum on the table for far too long as I contemplate what a conflicted mess I am. I want to be noticed and yet, today, in that meeting, I do not want to be noticed. Apparently I want to pick and choose by who, when, and where I am seen.
Right then, the barista calls out, “Order for Girl!”
Girl.That’s it. JustGirl.
I can’t even get Greg—no, “the guy behind the counter,” which is how I plan to think of him from now on—to write out “Invisible Girl” on my cup.
Why in the world am I worried about the presentation? Greg has made my point, driven it right on home to the parking lot in my brain. That point being that my father has never been dismissed. He is not me. I am not him.
“Girl!”
With that name filling the air again, I all but grind holes in my teeth. Pushing to my feet, I cross the room, bite my tongue, and pick up my order. Once I’m sitting down again, my gaze lands on the scribbled “Girl” written on my cup. I draw in a breath and sip from the coffee to discover it’s not even a latte at all. It’s just black coffee, and I’ve hit my limit with “the guy behind the counter.” I stand up and march toward the counter.
The manager is behind the register, and I beeline to the empty counter in front of her. Loretta is tall, thin, and fortysomething by my first guess, and, people watcher that I am, I’m good with ages. And names. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she greets. “Mia, right?”
I blink in surprise. “You know my name?”
“Of course,” she assures me. “You’re in all the time. What can I do for you?”
“I ordered a nonfat—”
“Honey cinnamon latte,” she supplies. “Does it taste off?”
“It’s just plain coffee.” I slide the cup in front of her.
“Oh no,” she says, her tone reading as genuinely concerned. “I’m so sorry.” She lifts the cup to eye the order on the side and frowns. “Girl? He wroteGirlon your cup?”
The female barista, whose name I do not know, leans toward Loretta and says, “He can barely remember his own name.”
Loretta scowls and murmurs, “Isn’t that the truth,” before adding, “I need a nonfat honey cinnamon latte, ASAP.”
“You got it, boss,” the barista replies, eyeing me to say, “Sorry about that.”
“Thanks for making me a new one,” I say, feeling my agitation floating away in a sea of kindness and apologies.
On that very note, Loretta casts me in a concerned stare, reaches under the counter, grabs a couple of cards, and hands them to me. “Coupons for a few free coffees. Sorry for all of this.”
“Thank you,” I say, and on a scale of one to ten, my frustration is now a zero. Loretta pretty much had me at hello. I went from feeling like an outsider to belonging right here in this little corner of downtown Nashville. “Really,” I say, my mood uplifted as I add, “I do appreciate how you handled this. It was perfection.”
She smiles as if she’s found a new book she can’t wait to break open and read. Feeling better than I have all day, actually, despite the impending presentation, I walk back to my booth.
I’ve just slid into my seat when I discover a white notecard on my keyboard that reads “Girl” on it.
My brows dip, and Loretta appears beside my table. “I told her to rush it and rush it she did. If that’s not perfect, you let me know.”
