I have to move forward at some point. The hand I’ve been dealt sucks, and I may never be one hundred percent free from the shackles that bind me, but the least I can do for my mental health is try.
I can do that.
Right?
~ ~ ~
Four thirty AM comes quicker than expected, and I start my morning with some hype music. Normally I would put on some sad sappy shit that leaves me feeling melancholy, but this is a new day and a new me, so I’m doing things differently.
Does it help me get into a better mood? No.
Well, maybe a little bit.
After I brush my teeth and wash my face, I dress in my signature pink high-top Vans, jean shorts, and oversized band shirt. I throw my four-day old messy hair into a bun on the top of my head and call it good. After putting on a sweater, I grab my backpack, put my longboard through the straps, and head out the door. The street is empty, like every morning at this hour, as I make my way to the local bakery, Coastal Cravings. Only a block from the coffee shop, Pam the owner, provides us with all of our baked goods for the day. She’s best friends with Penny’s mom, Briana, and is the best in the business.
One of her morning bakers helps me haul the load to the shop, and then I get to work turning on the computers and thecoffee machines and putting our signature Beach Brew playlist on. This gives me just enough time to make myself a caramel macchiato, with extra caramel, before I open the doors at five thirty AM.
I love having a moment to myself in the mornings before anyone comes in. The shop is quintessential SoCal. Surfboards hang from the ceiling, creating a ceiling in and of itself, and tasteful, blown-up photographs of surfers cover the walls. Palm trees sit in pots in the corners of the shop, bringing the outside in, and wood tables and chairs line the walls along with a few couches and recliners. It’s cozy and inviting, and everyone who comes in can’t get enough of the space or the coffee.
There’s not a lot of foot traffic at this time in the morning since tourist season is at its end, so it’s a waiting game until the first customer strolls through. But there’s still the occasional out-of-towner who comes in early just to get a famous cup of joe from our little shop before they make their way down into San Diego.
When the doorbell chimes, signaling the arrival of a customer, I’m not surprised. For the last few weeks, at exactly five forty AM, the same man has walked through the door.
He’s not from around here, but rumor has it he’s staying in a house just up the way. He orders the same thing every day, two of our Mocha Choca Lattes, and sits on the front corner couch using his laptop while he slowly savors them. The first coffee takes him exactly forty minutes to drink before he asks me for his second. It takes him another forty minutes to finish that one before he tosses his cup in the trash, and heads out the door at precisely seven AM.
But who’s paying attention?
Not me.
Okay, maybe me. But who wouldn’t?
The man is a walking GQ ad and hotter than sin. He dresses in a black suit, white button-down, and black tie like he’s going on some kind of 007 mission. His bright blue eyes are framed by Clark Kent glasses and magnified by his olive skin, alluding to the fact that he’s some type of mixed race. His dark brown hair is just long enough to see the wave pattern and he wears it styled back. If he didn’t have product in it, it would be the perfect Southern California surfer hair. To top it all off, the scruff lining his jaw perfectly frames his face, giving him a sexy rugged look.
He’s the type of man who commands a room. And I couldn’t be more intimidated by him.
Any crush I originally had on him died quickly because he only makes eye contact to signal for my attention and then proceeds to avoid my gaze the rest of the time he’s here.
He’s way out of my league anyway. The last thing I need is to get all googly-eyed over someone who doesn’t give me a second thought.
When he gets a few steps from the counter I smile at him, hoping it looks genuine. “The same thing this morning, sir?” I say with a little more pep in my voice. Does it sound forced? Possibly. But there’s no going back now.
His eyes find mine and then search my face. Something he has yet to do since he only looks directly at me for two point five seconds.
He’s taking too long.
Shit.Is there something in my teeth?
When he finally responds, there is genuine concern in his voice, “Yes, I’ll take the Mocha Choca Latte. Are you okay though?”
What?
“I’m fine. Totally fine,” I say, my smile turning to a frown. This is not how I wanted to start my morning off. Why wouldn’t I be okay? Did I really just fuck up a simple smile?
With a grimace, he nods, hands me a ten-dollar bill – he never takes the change – and quickly walks towards the end of the counter to wait for his mocha.
I’m on autopilot as I make him the sugary concoction. And it’s possible that I’m overanalyzing every facial expression and voice inflection between the James Bond wannabe and me.
Has it been that long since I’ve unabashedly smiled at someone I’m not familiar with? There used to be a time when my carefree spirit was untainted by this thing called life.
