"That was the deal if I transferred. I support myself." I keep my voice even. "I'm sorry, I'm literally walking in the door—"
"We're going to talk about this."
"I have to go."
"Adela—"
I end the call.
The café smells like espresso and something baking when I push through the door at twelve.
Jordan is already behind the counter with the same energy as yesterday. He looks up when I come in and nods once, like I've been here for months instead of one shift.
"Apron's in the back," he says.
I find it. I tie it. I start.
Today is busier than yesterday. The afternoon rush hits properly — students, laptops, and complicated orders. I feel the chaos of a small café understaffed at peak hours. I move through it without being asked twice about anything: dishes, tables, the condiment station, trash. I learn the register when it gets quieter. I learn how to use the milk steamer after that.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket.
Cody.
I silence it and keep moving.
It buzzes again twenty minutes later. I silence it again.
The third time I step into the back and answer because three times means something is wrong. Is he that upset about the job?
"Hey," I say, aiming for warm and easy, even though it’s not how I feel.
"My dad said you have my laptop."
The cold hits me so fast I almost visibly react.
"I don't have your laptop," I say.
"What do you mean you don't have it? He said—"
"I don't have it, Cody."
"Then where is it?"
"I—" My mind is completely blank. I have nothing. No story, no explanation, no constructed version of events that leads safely from point A to point B. "I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I’m at work, Cody. I have to go."
"Adela—"
I end the call.
I stand facing the wall for three full seconds.
Then I turn around and go back to work.
I steam milk, wipe surfaces, restock the pastry case, and smile at customers. But underneath it, the question loops.
