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“I’ll take the ginger cortado. No sugar, please.”
“Sounds good.”
I ring that up, knowing I’ll have to make it. There’s no way that Bianca’s going to make it for this man after what happened the last time. He places his card in and then takes it out when I gesture to the machine.
“Here’s your receipt.”
“Thanks.”
He takes it gently, much nicer than that previous woman, and then walks over. I head to the back, making a ginger cortado. It’s a simple, frothy drink, but we just don’t get many orders for it because most of the patrons prefer just a simple coffee with an espresso shot.
I top the drink with froth and rest it on the counter. “Here you are!”
He approaches, taking the coffee. “Thank you very much.”
I expect him to walk away. I don’t actually know why he’s here in the first place. He looks away but stands there, waiting to say something.
“Do you need something else?”
Our eyes meet. Seeing him like this instead of in front of a cash register is like night and day. He’s incredibly attractive.
“I just want to apologize. For the other day.”
“Oh. It’s, uh, fine. I just thought you were in a bad mood.”
“I was. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though.”
He slips his receipt and something else back to me.
“Here. Keep the tip.”
He turns around and walks out the door. I stand there, unable to move as I process what the heck just happened.
This is the first time that a customer actually apologized to me. I never let their words get to me, but this throws me for a loop.
I reach for the receipt held in my hands and figure out what’s attached to the receipt a moment later.
“Holy—”
It’s a hundred-dollar bill. The guy gave me a freaking hundred-dollar tip! I scan around to see if he’s still here, heading out the door to catch him. There’s no way I can just accept this without talking to him. I step outside, seeing all of the cars bustling about. There’s no sign of him. He gave me that tip and left, just like that.
What is he trying to do? I race back inside, heading to the back. Bianca’s in the back on break drinking some water and eating a sandwich.
“Bianca, can you man the counter?”
“Sure, but what is—”
“I have to check something,” I state. I duck into the bathroom and sit in the stall.
My hand unfurls the receipt, and I place the hundred inside my wallet. I tuck it way in the back to make sure it doesn’t fall out. I look at the receipt and the message at the bottom.
I’m really sorry for being rude the other day. I’d like to take you out to dinner if that’s possible.
My hands shake. This can’t be happening. I put the receipt in my apron and head back out there. I try to maintain a poker face of customer service, smiles, and a high-pitched voice, but inside I’m reeling.
He wants to see me.
I close up right at two and head back to my apartment. The TV drones on as I walk inside, with Katie sprawled on the couch, watching some reality TV show. I hate those things, but they have an absolute chokehold on her.
