“I think so. She’s lactose intolerant so at least I didn’t have to figure the milk out. You should probably get a substitute… You know you can buy ones where you just have to press a button?” he says, tapping the steam wand.
“Shawn chose it, and I’m certain she did so she could spend more time out here slacking, pretending it takes forever to make a damn coffee. So you can blame your brother for that one.”
“Can I blame him for everything?”
“Be my guest. I am.”
“So that’s one thing we have in common.”
With the stencil in hand, I stop by the door and look back at him. “And?”
He doesn’t look at me, instead he dispenses more grounds into the portafilter then stamps it down and locks it into place. I roll my eyes and start turning away when he finally says, “And so maybe you can stop being such a dick to me.” Then he slides another cup under and presses for the water to start.
“I’m not being a dick.”
“You still haven’t said thank you for anything other than the paper towel.”
“I don’t see why I need to be thankful for something I didn’t ask for.”
Carey turns to me and raises one hand to his hip. “You and Eden really are cut from the same cloth, aren’t you? You’re both toddlers trapped in the bodies of old men.”
“I’m not old.”
“Well you’re not fucking young.”
With my whole body tense, I watch him turn back to the coffee machine, move the cup over, and add hot water.
“How many sugars do you have?”
“I don’t want one.”
Carey slams both his hands down on the counter and hangs his head—his wild blond waves falling into his face again. Then, slowly, he turns his head to look at me, the sunshine in his eyes, gone. “You need to cut the bullshit.”
“You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“And you don’t get to keep playing the victim. I don’t really wanna be here any more than you want me to be, but we both need each other right now. You know it just as well as I do.” He moves the Americano to the side and slams down a handful of sugar packets and a spoon next to it. With my client's coffee in his hand he walks towards me, and stops. Close. Almost eye to eye. “Drink the damn coffee, and stop acting like such a fucking baby.”
As he walks out, I’m left staring at the mug like it’s going to lunge at me, the echo of his voice crawling under my skin, burning up all the excuses my brain can come up with for why I need to make him leave. Because, fuck him, he’s right.
My palms itch.
My jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching, and… I want to feel like that again.
Like I did just now. When he spoke down to me. When he called me out and took some of the weight from my shoulders.
Like a zombie I walk to the counter, pick up two sugar packets and empty them into the coffee. I stir them in, throw the spoon in the sink, and return to the shop floor.
I see Carey sidled up next to my client on the seat beside her.
“He’s grumpy today,” he whispers, loud enough for me to hear.
She giggles nervously.
I glare at him, but he grins back, his eyes bright and unrepentant.
My client comes over with her coffee and setup goes smoothly. She’s getting a phrase in a delicate script in Norwegian on the inside of her forearm.
She tells me, “My mom always said this to me.”
