Tears for the naïve woman who believed his promise of forever.
THIRTY
A RHYTHMIC CLATTER followed by a loud whoosh wrenches me from sleep.Mugs clinking, water running, punctuated by Helen’s familiar off-key humming, filter clearly under my office door.
She’s already here.
Already working.
Panic slices through the grogginess.
Helen.
My eyes fly open to the lamplit confines of the office.Every muscle screams in protest as I bolt upright.My neck is stiff, my back aches, and there’s a dull pounding behind my eyes.
Helen has clearly begun prepping.
Sunday is our busiest day, and she cannot find me like this.
Adrenaline fuels my clumsy movements.I scramble off the couch, bare feet hitting the cold floor.I snatch up my wool coat, stuffing it back into my open suitcase.My gaze darting to the locked office door, I pull out the first clothes my fingers land on: jeans and a plain grey sweater.I kick off the striped pajama bottoms, pull the top over my head, and change fast, my skin prickling with the fear of discovery.The jeans feel rough after the soft cotton, the sweater familiar but offering little warmth.
I dart across the short hallway into the staff washroom.The face staring back from the mirror is puffy-eyed, but it no longer surprises me.I splash icy water on my skin, hoping to shock some color into my cheeks.I dab them with the rough paper towel before hurrying back to my office.
I run shaky hands through my hair, a desperate attempt to smooth it out, before tying it back into a ponytail.A quick glance at my phone confirms the café is officially open.I take a deep, silent breath, listening to the bustling sounds beyond the door.
All I have to do is time my exit.Wait until she’s distracted.Act normal.
The sounds from the café floor grow louder.The steady hiss and grind of the espresso machine, the rising murmur of customer chatter, Helen calling out an order.Taking a steadying breath, I ease the door open and slip out.Hugging the wall, I creep halfway down the hallway.When I a line forming at the counter, I straighten my spine and stride the rest of the way, as if I just arrived.
Reaching the bustling counter, I step behind it, grabbing a cloth to wipe the already clean steel surface near the pastry display.
Anything to look busy.
“Oh, hey!”Helen glances over her shoulder as she tamps down espresso grounds, offering a quick smile.“Didn’t see you come in.”
“Morning,” I reply, forcing a small smile.I busy myself with arranging the croissants in the display case.
Helen finishes pulling shots and starts steaming milk, the hiss filling the space.She glances my way again, her eyes lingering a quick, assessing sweep.
“Rough night?”she asks over the machine’s noise, brow furrowed.“You don’t exactly look rested after your day off,mija.”
Heat climbs my neck, but I keep my eyes on the pastries.“Still tired,” I murmur, fiddling with the tongs.“Didn’t sleep great.”I grab an order slip, turning towards the register just as the next customer steps up.
For now, the Sunday rush is my shield.
And it holds, for the next hour at least.The café doors revolve constantly, letting in bursts of fresh air and caffeine-deprived weekenders.The gurgle of the espresso machine blends with the rumble of the grinder, the clatter of mugs, and the rising buzz of talk.
Helen and I fall into the familiar dance of service.A blur of steaming milk, pulling shots, calling out names, and bagging pastries.My hands move automatically, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought fails.
Pour, tamp, pull, steam, pour, wipe, repeat.
Keep moving.
Don’t think.
“Need more oat milk up here!”Helen calls, not looking up, frothing milk.
“Got it,” I answer, ducking into the back fridge.
