He swallows visibly. His fear is evident in his posture. “I’m, um…supposed to start today? Miranda said to be here at five thirty.” He talks softer than a guy with laryngitis. “It’s—the summer job? She hired me last week.”
Oh, shit.I completely forgot. Miranda cornered me after a shift two weeks ago and said something about hiring someone for the summer. I nodded along, but the information had gone in one ear, taken a sharp left turn, and plummeted off a cliff into the abyss of hockey-obsessed oblivion.
“Right! Yeah, no, of course.” I snap my fingers and point at him. “You’re the new hire? Miranda didn’t tell me that part.”
Alex’s shoulders inch down from his ears by approximately one millimeter and smiles.
“Come in, come in. Close the door—you’re letting the AC out.”
He steps the rest of the way inside, his eyes scanning the room from a different perspective now. That of an employee, not a customer. I know the feeling; it’s always weird being on the other side of things, learning how it all works.
“Alright, Alex. Welcome to The Brew.” I stretch my arms out to either side, palms up like a game show host revealing a prize. “This is going to be the best summer job you’ve ever had. Possibly the only summer job you’ve ever had. Either way, you’re in good hands.”
He nods once, quick and tight, as I lead him behind the counter.
“This is Jamie.” I pat the register. “She’s temperamental, a bit bitchy, and occasionally freezes mid-transaction. Kind of like Kyle before his second coffee. You’ll learn to love her. Or at least tolerate her. The menu’s up there.” I point to the chalkboard above us, covered in Miranda’s loopy handwriting. “Espresso drinks, drip coffee, teas, smoothies, and a few food items. Don’t let the simplicity fool you—people get weirdly specificabout their orders. Last week, a girl asked for a latte with exactly three pumps of vanilla, two pumps of hazelnut, a sprinkle of cinnamon—but not too much—and extra foam.”
I move us to the espresso machine, which is the crown jewel of The Brew’s operation. It’s a two-group La Marzocco that Miranda saved up for two years to buy. Sleek, chrome, and worth more than my car.
“This is Quinn. She’s the love of my life, and if you treat her wrong, I will know.” I run my hand along the top. “I’ll teach you how to pull shots and steam milk over the next few days. For now, watch what I do during the morning rush and take notes.”
Alex nods, producing a small notebook from his back pocket. A pen is clipped to the cover.
My heart does a weird little squeeze. This kid came prepared.
“Hey.” I lower my voice and wait until he meets my eyes. It takes a second, but he does. “You’re going to be fine. This job is pretty chill. The regulars are mostly harmless, Miranda’s cool as long as you show up and do your job, and I’ll be here a lot, so you’ll have backup.”
His shoulders drop another fraction. “Okay.”
I clap my hands together. “Moving on. Back here—” I guide him through the narrow corridor behind the counter to the storage room. Shelves lined with coffee beans, syrups, cups, lids, napkins, and enough oat milk to drown a small village. “This is where we keep everything. Miranda does inventory on Sundays. Your job during slow periods will be restocking whatever’s running low up front.”
Alex scribbles my words in his notebook.
“Through there is the break room.” I push open a door to reveal a closet-sized space with a folding table, two chairs, and a mini-fridge covered in stickers. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s got AC, and Miranda keeps snacks in the fridge. The good stuff too. None of that vending machine shit.” We head back out front. “What made you want to work here this summer?”
“I wanted to do something other than hang out with my dad in the apartment all summer.”
“Well, you made a great choice, bud. It’s a good gig. Especially in the summer when the campus clears out. You’ll get the regulars—professors who never leave, grad students who’ve lost all concept of time, and the occasional townie who wanders in looking for directions to the beach.”
I check the clock. It’s six forty-five. Fifteen minutes left until we unlock the doors.
“Alright, last thing. The apron.” I grab two from the hook by the register—forest green with The Brew’s logo stitched on the front in cream thread. I toss one to Alex, who catches it against his chest with both hands. “Welcome to the team, Donovan.”
He glances down at the apron, then back up at me. And there it is—a real smile. “Thanks, Oliver.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until after you meet the morning rush. They’re animals.” I tie my apron behind my back and head for the front door. “Ready?”
Alex pulls the apron over his head, smooths it down, and straightens the strings. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and nods. “Ready.”
I flip the sign from CLOSED to OPEN and unlock the door. Morning light spills across the threshold, warm and golden, carrying the faint salt breeze that makes Berkeley Shore the best place on earth.
Within three minutes of opening, the first customer walks in, and we get to work.
Alex handlesthe morning rush better than I expected. By nine, he’s restocking cups without being asked. By ten, he’s memorized the prices of the six most popular drinks. Byeleven, he’s caught a mistake with a regular’s order before I did. Kid’s a machine.
Noon rolls around, and we migrate to the break room for lunch while two guys who typically work the afternoon shift take over the front. I use the term “take over” loosely, since Tommy has already broken three mugs, and Matthew is trying to figure out how to turn on the register. Youth is wasted on the young.
The folding chair protests with a metallic screech as my weight settles onto it, the frame flexing visibly beneath my thighs. Alex glances over from the other chair, where he fits perfectly fine. An involuntary laugh escapes him that he immediately tries to smother behind his hand.
