Their concern for my well-being warms my heart.
Carmen’s already slid past me, busying herself with unloading the boxes and putting the contents wherever they need to go. As usual, it didn’t take long for me to drop out of her attention.
But as I shrug on my jacket and catch up with the guys who are already piling out the door into the thickening snow, I’m not discouraged.
She said my name. I heard her laugh. That’s a start. A tiny one, but better than nothing, which makes today a breakthrough.
Carmen’s the first girl I’ve ever met who’s given me the feeling that she might beher. I’ll be damned if a couple months of the cold shoulder can make me give up on the chance of that.
2
CARMEN
“How about this weather we’re having, huh?”
I blink slowly at the open, friendly face of the man on the other side of the counter. My throat rumbles with a gruff hum of acknowledgment.
How about it? How about it, what? What does that even mean? It’s cold. Big surprise for January in Vermont.
Then I feel a tiny kick of reminder in my conscience. I’m working retail. Customer service and all that. I really needed a job, and my aunt Cindy giving me this position at the café-slash-bookshop she owns, no questions asked, was a lifesaver. I don’t want to repay her by running off her customers.
I still have no idea how to respond to that morsel of small talk the customer just laid out—I must have been born without that particular gene, which everyone else seems to have—but I should at least … I don’t know, smile or something.
I try to, but the muscles that lift the edges of my lips are sorely out of practice. I end up producing something a lot closer to a grimace than a smile.
But the guy is still chipper as ever as he pays for his drink and hums to himself while walking back outside.
I clamp down on my inclination to feel bitter about other people’s good moods. It’s not a good trait, and I always try to check myself when I feel it creeping up on me.
It creeps up on me a lot more often on days like today. Days when I’ve had little sleep the night before, because I was up late, spending the long, empty midnight hours wrestling with writer’s block. The chapter I’m working on right now is killing me. Every time I sit down at my computer and try to fill out the blank space on my Word document with the scenario I’ve constructed in my head, it feels like my brain turns into a block of cement.
At the same time, I can’t focus on anything else. If I try to watch a movie, or a show, or read a book, or even take a walk, I feel an irresistible force pulling me back to my laptop so I can write this chapter—but once my hands are on the keyboard, it’s like they’re paralyzed. I end up sitting at my desk, frustration twisting through me, until my eyelids mercifully become too heavy to keep open.
The last week and a half have been like this.
If I’m being honest with myself, though, I’m always grumpy when I have these morning shifts, writer’s block or not. I’ve always been a night owl. But whatever shift Cindy needs me to take, I’m not going to complain about it. She’s done too much for me, and the last thing I’m going to do is ask for special treatment with scheduling.
A yawn surges up from deep in my chest, and I try to stifle it. With my teeth clenched and lips pressed to hold it down, I probably look like I’m scowling at the customers.
Granted, sometimes I do, especially when one makes an asinine comment or asks a ridiculous question. Both occasions are far from uncommon.
But this time I really am just trying to stifle a yawn.
I’d rather not give away how tired I am. Nothing’s worse than people making comments all day, asking if I got enough sleeplast night, when, no, I didn’t, and for a very frustrating reason. A long workday of commentary like that from chatty customers would have me grinding my teeth, and I can’t afford any dental issues right now.
A customer walks to the counter wearing a navy-blue suit under a raincoat. Probably a local picking up coffee for the drive to his office job in Burlington. He catches me right when my yawn-suppression has my face at its scowliest.
He wags his brow at me. “You know, you should try to smile even if you’re in a bad mood. It’ll help.”
This time, I don’t feel any twinge of guilt when I level him with a sour look, not a trace of concern about customer service in my mind. The crease of my lips pulls so flat and tight that a car jack couldn’t lift it into a grin.
“I’m sure your boss would agree,” he continues, like he’s too stupid to read my expression. Something tells me that the company he works for puts less of a premium on intelligence than it does on entitlement. Hardly rare in the corporate world. “Seeing a smiling face behind the counter makes a customer want to come back, especially if it’s a pretty girl.”
Various cathartic visions flash in my mind. Like grabbing the pair of scissors from the drawer behind the counter and snipping his tie in half. Or throwing a cup of hot coffee at him.
But then my conscience whispers to me,Don’t get your aunt Cindy sued.
The rationale is persuasive enough to keep those fantasies bottled up in my mind.
