"Training starts at six AM. Wear comfortable shoes."
I shake his hand and sign the paperwork with trembling fingers.
$12/hour. Roughly $25,000 a year if I can get full-time hours.
I used to make $85,000.
***
My first shift starts before sunrise.
The morning sickness hits hard as I'm getting dressed. I barely make it to Gretchen's bathroom in time. When I emerge, pale and shaking, she's waiting with crackers and ginger ale.
"You sure you're okay to work?"
"I don't have a choice."
The Luna's uniform is simple—black pants, white shirt, green apron. I stare at myself in the mirror. Dark circles. Hollow eyes. Hair pulled back because I don't have energy for anything else.
This is my life now.
Ross trains me on the register, the espresso machine, the dozens of small tasks that make a coffee shop run. My feet ache within an hour. By noon, my legs are screaming and my feet feel like they might fall off.
"You okay?" My coworker Maya asks. She has bright pink hair and a nose ring. "You look really pale."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you look like you're about to—"
I'm already running for the bathroom.
I throw up twice, splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror. Twelve weeks pregnant. Working as a barista. Everything I'd built—gone.
When I come back, Maya hands me a water bottle. "Take ten. Sit down."
"I'm fine—"
"You're clearly not. Ross's orders."
I sink into the chair in the back room, sipping water, palm pressed to my belly. The slight curve is impossible to ignore now. Soon I'll have to tell Ross. Get maternity clothes. Figure out what happens when I can't stand for eight-hour shifts.
One problem at a time.
Around 2 PM, someone walks in who makes my stomach drop.
Sarah from marketing at Williams.
She scans the menu, doesn't see me at first. Then recognition flashes across her face. Her eyes widen, travel from my face to the apron to the register and back.
"Bailey?" Shock, then something worse—pity. "Oh my god, I didn't know you worked here."
"Just started." I keep my voice level, professional. The same tone I used to use in conference rooms. "What can I get you?"
"I'm so sorry about what happened at Williams." She lowers her voice like we're sharing a secret. Like this is somehow intimate instead of humiliating. "Everyone was shocked. Are you okay?"
"Grande latte?" I position my fingers over the register, waiting.
"Oh. Right. Yes. Grande latte." She fumbles for her wallet. Leaves a ten-dollar bill for a five-dollar drink.
