Page 20 of Man Flu

“No, Rick. No, they don’t.” I follow him upstairs and pass by him to give Cora a quick kiss on the head before I leave. “Let her sleep,” I whisper as I pass by him.

“I know, Hannah.” Yeah, I’m sure you were just going to stand here and stare at her sleeping.

I shouldn’t feel nervous about leaving Cora with Rick all day. He’s her father, but he’s so incompetent and self-centered that I feel I might be better off leaving her with Tiana. I don’t know who’s worse.

I have a little extra time this morning since I don’t have to get Cora to the bus, so I’m skipping the bagged coffee and going for the real stuff. Two mornings in a row … another miracle.

* * *

Like yesterday, there’s a short line of people waiting to place their order, and I could stand here all day inhaling the roasted scent of fresh coffee, and whatever pastry smells like heaven. The chalk-written menu blurs into a colorful swirl as I daydream of a life where I could have just twenty minutes to myself every morning, but my daze is interrupted when a hand lands on my shoulder. “I think you’re next,” a man says. I shake my head around, clearing up my vision. Oh my God, how long was I daydreaming? “Hannah?”

I turn around as I take the few steps forward, finding Batman, the temp—Logan—behind me. “Logan?”

He turns and glances over his shoulder as if I were talking to someone else. “I think I’m the only Logan here,” he responds with a chuckle. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course I’m okay. Are you okay?” Why am I asking him if he’s okay? He’s obviously okay. I’m the one standing in the middle of a coffee shop looking like a lost child.

“You’re still next,” he says.

“Right,” I hop up to the counter, facing the annoyed teenage girl with piercings lining her lips and eyebrows. Where is my normal girl whose name I can’t remember? She knows what I want more often than I do. “Can I have a—” I look back up at the chalk writing, deciding between the hazelnut coffee and chai tea. I’m in the mood for something different today.

“We literally only have coffee and tea,” she says, sounding bored, monotone, and stiff. When did I become so uncool? I used to work in a Starbucks, you little twerp.

“Thank you for clarifying,” I tell her. “I’ll have a medium hazelnut coffee.”

“Sweetened?” she asks, looking around as if I’ve been thinking about this decision for an additional twenty minutes.

“Please,” I tell her.

“That’ll be four dollars,” she says. I give her a ten, and she drops six bills down on the counter and pushes it toward me. Kill with kindness. It almost never works, but I still try. I put the six dollars in her tip jar, hoping she’ll lighten up a bit. Why a girl her age could be so miserable is beyond me. I’d like to tell her what being a single mother is like while my ex lives next door with Barbie, but no one wants to hear my sob story. In fact, I’m sick of hearing my sob story.

She doesn’t thank me for the tip or give me another second of her time. I toss the straps of my purse back up to my shoulder and slide down the counter to the pick-up area where a few teenage boys are hustling around to prepare the orders.

“That was rude,” I hear Logan say.

“Rude?” the cashier giggles. She giggles at him but snarls at me. Do I come off as a bitch? Is that my problem and no one is telling me? Maybe my misery is rubbing off on other people. That’s kind of sad, I suppose.

“Yeah, that was rude. She just gave you a nice tip for no good reason. Why not at least say ‘thank you’? Has no one ever taught you any manners?”

“Guess not,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders and a stupid smirk. “Hey, aren’t you that baseball player? You look familiar. Logan Grier, right?”

“I get that a lot,” he says. “I’ll have a large black coffee.”

“You are him, aren’t you?” she says, ignoring his order.

Logan looks over at me, probably wondering what I’m thinking. He’ll be happy to know I’m wondering the same thing. I had no clue how big of a deal he was because I pay absolutely no attention to baseball, or any sports for that matter. I’m sort of a moron when it comes to anything with balls … clearly.

“Did you get down the large black coffee?” he asks.

“Can I have your autograph?” the cashier replies.

Logan seems to be getting slightly agitated. He leans forward and says something to the girl I can’t hear, though I’m quick to figure it out as she slides down the counter across from me and says, “Thank you for the tip, and I’m sorry for acting rude.”

“Apology accepted,” I say. “Thank you.”

She spends little time in front of me before running back down to where Logan is standing. She presses a button on the register, and a stream of white paper unravels from the top. With a quick tear, she whips a pen out from below the counter and hands it to Logan, who signs his name. “Please, the black coffee before I’m late for work. My boss might kill me if I’m not there at nine.” He peers over at me and winks. Smooth. Real smooth, Logan Grier.

“Your boss?” the girl laughs while punching in his order. “Aren’t you your own boss?”