I stare at the espresso dripping into the cup until my eyes sting.
It would be better if he didn’t come back.
I don’t need new problems.
I just need Eden in his chair and someone fresh at the desk with no baggage. No ties to the shop or anyone in it.
Someone who’ll listen and not challenge me with two different colored eyes, a sunshine smile, and a smell that lingers like the beach at the end of the day.
Iwake before the sun, like always.
Eden’s apartment is dead silent, and I shuffle out from the futon, stepping straight onto the pair of slippers I bought for myself at Watersons’. I stare down at them, the fuzzy navy fabric already squashed down after wearing them for only two days at the shop before being told to leave.
I guess now they’re just a reminder of a job I never really had.
I scuff my way to the bathroom for a shower. I brush my teeth inside then dry myself off with my beach towel.
I boil some water for coffee and shove two pieces of bread under the oven’s grill. Most of the time while I wait I look out the kitchen window into the backyards of the properties behind the apartment building. I can’t see much with just moon light, but it’s more interesting than staring at the empty living room.
As soon as the toast is buttered and the instant coffee is in the mug, I carry them back to the spare room—nodding at the dead roach that’s still in the corner, as I walk by.
I don’t spend time in the living room or kitchen if I can help it, there’s no point. Apart from a few things in the pantry and the cheapest kettle I could find, I can't keep much else without a fridge.
I should probably get a cooler at least. That way I can keep milk for cereal.
If I decide to stay.
I’ve got no reason to, now.
Sat in the camping chair with the cartoon-covered folding table beside me, I eat, and drink, and feel sorry for myself.
My suitcase is still not unpacked on the floor, open with clothes spilling out of it—the ones that need washing strewn around the futon because I’ve been too lazy to wash anything yet.
My surfboard is propped up beside the closet and my skateboard is flat on its back next to it, wheels up. The only thing inside the closet is the paper bag with Tek's paint covered slippers.
I remember Tek’s face when I asked for more money. The way his jaw clenched. The crack in his voice when he told me to leave. My own voice was so high, so apologetic and shameless. I’ve never been a push over, yet I’ve let him talk me into almost crying more than once, to only turn around and say sorry tohimfor it.
But what did I actually expect? That he’d change his personality for me? That he’d think I was special because I mop the floor and have a good phone manner? That he’d want to keep me around in spite of being his best friend's kid brother, not because of it?
I flex my toes inside the slippers. They don’t make me feel good anymore.
I flick my feet—kicking them across the room, hard. They hit the window with a thud and slide down between the end of the futon and the wall.
I try to ignore them, but I can’t, and within seconds I’m retrieving them from the crevasse and lining them up by the side of the futon before collapsing back onto it.
Wishing I could just go back to sleep, I squeeze my eyes shut but all I see is Tek’s unreadable face. Like he’s waiting for me to say something else. To put my foot in my mouth. To apologize, or fight back harder.
My chest aches so I roll over and grab the only distraction I have; my phone.
I start with Indeed, searching ‘Broadrock + part time’ and get exactly one hit: dishwashing at one of the cafes on Main Street. They’re weekend shifts and the pay is dog shit. The only other options are fast food in the next town over, or ‘assistant’ jobs that sound like pyramid schemes, and there’s no fucking way I’m going door to door.
I write in two group chats; one with friends from San Diego and the other from my time on The North Shore. It’s still only six a.m. so I’m not sure who I expected to respond. The only one who texts back is Carter from high school, and it’s just a blurry selfie of him in bed with a girl, plus the words,when u comin’ back brah.No question mark.
I check the bus schedule.
If I get myself to Seattle I can be back in So-Cal by tomorrow.
I imagine walking into my parent’s condo, sun blasting off the stucco and glass. It looks like a dream but the reception would be colder than here. My mother would look up from whatever book she’s reading and stare at me blankly for far too long before lowering her head again. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be home for Thanksgiving,” she’d say. “I’m not cooking, Your father and I have a reservation at Teo’s.”
