“I wish I could,” I reply, pressing my lips into a thin line.“I have some things to finish before closing.”
Truth is, I need to keep moving.
I don’t trust myself to sit still right now.
“Well, thank you for the fresh coffee,” Lou nods, but his gaze still holds a shadow of the concern.“Remember, don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”
I nod curtly, needing to escape his searching gaze.I force a smile to hide that in truth I feel like a pressure cooker about to blow its whistle.
The lunch rush is a blur of orders and forced pleasantries.Helen throws me worried glances, occasionally stepping in seamlessly when she sees me fumbling or pausing too long.I function somehow, serving coffee, taking money, but it feels like watching someone else go through the motions from a great distance.
The thought of tomorrow night is a constant, sickening drumbeat beneath the surface noise of the café.
What am I going to do?
Will I survive it?
By the time the late afternoon shadows begin to stretch across the floor, the knot in my stomach has tightened into a solid ball of dread.Another night alone on that damn couch, wrestling with thoughts of Matthew.The fear of tomorrow night with James…
No.
I can’t.
Not tonight.
As Helen finishes wiping down the last table, I duck into the back room.Tucked away on the highest shelf of the metal storage unit is a dusty bottle of decent Cabernet Sauvignon.A forgotten gift from a supplier months ago.
Perfect.
Bottle in hand, I walk back out front where Helen is lifting the last chair onto the table by the window.
“How about a drink before you head out?”I ask, holding up the bottle with forced casualness.
“It’s been so long since we cracked open a bottle of red,” she replies, approaching the counter.“Must have been Mary’s last day, I think…” She pulls back one of the stools.“I miss those days.”
“So do I,” I admit, my heart squeezing painfully.
“You used to be a lot lighter.Happier,mija,” she reminds me, her usual warmth tempered by concern.“Looks like owning this place has been rough on you.”
I shake my head, coming around the counter with the bottle and two plastic cups.“It’s not that,” I say, sliding onto the stool across from her.“I love running this place.It’s Bancroft and James that make it hell.”
Setting everything down on the countertop between us, I pour the wine and hand her a cup.
“To assholes,” Helen declares, raising her plastic chalice.
“I’m not drinking to that.”I hesitate.
She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping.“May they all rot in hell.”
“Yes.I’ll drink to that.”I touch my cup to hers.“Cheers!”
“¡Salud!”
“You look like you’re marching to your death,” she tells me.“Couples fight all the time and make up.What’s that thing they say about sex and making up?”
I sputter, choking on a mouthful of wine.“We’re not a couple!”I wheeze, wiping my mouth.“No sex.No making up.”
“Riiight…” She takes a long, skeptical sip.
