Page 2 of Go Back to December

Ferocious grinding and a pungent, dreamy aroma beckon me to the tiny marble counter at the front of the café. Amal hands me caffeine salvation in my treasured hand-painted cup.

“You ran the open and made coffee; we do not deserve you,” I say.

She waves a hand dismissively. As my assistant manager, she’s used to covering for me.

“There’s a lot on your mind this week, and I know you hate being late.” Her eyes drop to my chest and widen. “What happened?”

I glance down. A dark stain has risen on my sweater like one of the Living Dead.

“Also, your face is leaking.”

Frantically, I swipe open my phone camera. Thanks to the sweaty pursuit of the charlatan coat, my mascara is bleeding down my cheeks in the manner of a deranged mime.

We’re momentarily distracted from my colossal state of disrepair by the front door opening. A couple unabashedly ignore the giant CLOSED sign printed in shouty capitals and strut to the coffee bar. The lanky blonde waves her company identification badge from Blackhart & Steele, the law firm that owns everything around us. She flashes it like it’s an FBI credential. A license to kill our sanity by barging in before business hours.

“Please tell me you have coffee.”

The diamond earrings she wears are large enough to sink the Titanic. She’s a Money Honey, like most of the café customers. It might be the twenty-first century, but not that much has changed when it comes to financial privilege.

There are people who have it, and people like me who survive by serving those with it.

The guy Money Honey gives the blonde an edgy look, and she pastes on a smile. “Oh my God, I love your hair. Is that your natural color? What is it?” She’s holding up her phone like she’s going to take a photo of my ginger locks so she can color match fabric.

Amal and I exchange a look. I grit my teeth around a smile and reply, “We only have decaf.”

The guy Money Honey chokes. “Forget it.”

As he herds his fuck buddy/girlfriend/colleague through the door, I lurch toward the bathroom to fix my face, and Amal’s hand snags a loose end of my filmy sweater. When she rears back to untangle herself, a vicious tug rips at my shoulder. Fraying wool pools at my wrist. My exposed bicep flashes freckled skin that hasn’t seen sun in months.

And I definitely haven’t shaved under my arms in a few days.

The front door slams open again.

“I’m ending those two, and a jury of my peers will not convict me.”

“It’s not them,” Amal whispers.

Slowly, I turn. That camel coat hell-bent on destroying my day looms at the door.

It belongs to Baz Johnson. Six feet, three inches of dark-haired, chisel-jawed, over-educated particularity.

I force my brain to commit the image of him in that coat to memory, so I never mistake it in the future. There’s no excuse for getting bamboozled by an imposter. Not when I’ve seen him every weekday morning since the café opened two years ago.

Before he begins his day practicing legal dark arts on the twenty-first floor, Baz joins us for breakfast. He consumes at least three menu items, orders additional food to go, and tips over twenty percent. He’s our most generous and regular customer.

“What the hell is this?”

He is also a ginormous pain in everyone’s ass.

Everything Baz orders comes with modifications. He spares no dish from his critique; he sends something back for a redo at least once a week. When he has to wait more than five minutes for anything, he audibly crunches ice cubes between his molars.

“Nothing’s ready!” He gestures wildly at the half-set tables and stacked chairs.

Baz really should be short for Bastard. In my head, it is. His given name is Sebastian, after the patron saint of the town in Spain where his mother grew up.

He’s unaware that I possess this tidbit of biographical background. Additional facts in my dossier include his two sisters; the scar on his chin is from a run-in with a diving board when he was twelve; and he can recite every word in “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Even the weird ones.

Baz doesn’t remember telling me all this at a college party eight years ago. He has no recollection of meeting me before the café.