“Coming right up,” I manage, forcing a smile that feels stiff.
It’s her usual Sunday treat, an order I could make in my sleep.
Turning to the case, I grab the tongs and slide a plain butter croissant into a paper bag.
“Oh, dear, I think you grabbed the wrong one,” Mrs.Henderson points out gently.“I asked for the almond.”
Heat floods my cheeks.“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” I stammer, fumbling to take the bag back, nearly dropping the tongs.“Of course, almond.Right away.”My fingers feel thick and clumsy as I bag the correct pastry.
Helen steps in smoothly beside the register.“Sorry about that, Margaret,” she says, her words a warm apology as her fingers move efficiently over the register keys.“Long weekend for all of us, I think.”She doesn’t look directly at me, but I feel her concerned side-eye as Mrs.Henderson thanks her and walks away.
Just breathe.
I turn to the espresso machine, needing the familiar rhythm of making a latte to steady myself.
Tamp the grounds, lock the portafilter, pull the shot.
You don’t have time for this.Neither do I.
Matthew’s flat voice rings in my ears.
My movements are robotic as I reach for the steaming pitcher and pour the milk in.I plunge the steam wand in, flicking the switch automatically.The machine hisses, steam swirling the liquid.My gaze blurs, lost in the image of Matthew’s cold eyes and rigid shoulders walking away.
The hiss climbs in pitch.The milk heats.Then, a flash of bright red from the carton catches my eye.
Red label, not blue.
My head snaps towards it.
Dairy milk.
Not the oat milk Mrs.Henderson requested.
My stomach sinks.
Not again.
With a choked sound of frustration, I yank the steam wand out, cutting off the hiss midstream.“Damn it,” I whisper, staring down at the perfectly steamed wrong milk.
I dump the pitcher’s contents into the sink grate, the hot milk swirling down the drain like my composure.
Before I can reach for the oat milk to start over, Helen’s hand is there, resting firmly on my forearm.“Mija, stop.”Her command is quiet, low enough that the customers won’t overhear.
I freeze, milk carton in hand, unable to meet her gaze.
“Go sit down,” she continues, her eyes locked on my profile.“Take a break.Please.I can handle the last hour.”
“No, I’m fine, Helen.Really, I just…” My protest sounds as weak as I feel.
Helen gives my arm a small, insistent squeeze, forcing me to look at her.Worry fills her dark eyes, tempered by a resolution that makes arguing pointless.
“Go,” she repeats softly.“Now.”
Defeated, I nod, setting the carton down with a trembling hand.I turn and walk toward the hallway, acutely aware of Helen’s gaze boring into my back.
I stop just outside my office, resting my shoulder against the wall.I close my eyes for a second.
Get a grip.
