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Gritting my teeth, I nod.
My pride is definitely battered, but what else is new? By this point, I’m used to things going from bad to worse. The only thing that can top this crappy night is if my Ducati breaks down on the way to discovering that my beloved mattress is on fire.
Once I’ve jogged back onto the field, I crouch in preparation for whatever nonsense life will inevitably throw at me next.
Chapter 6
Willow
“Oatmilk matcha latte, extra ice, for Stan,” I call out, setting the green to-go cup on the mobile-orders counter.
There’s only a middle-aged woman typing furiously on a laptop at one of our bistro tables, but Gus insists we sing out every order. I seriously think that if mobile orders didn’t significantly improve his bottom line, he’d do away with them altogether. He’s often lamenting about the ‘good old days’ when people actually chatted with each other while they got their morning motivation.
As if I conjured him out of the ether, my cantankerous boss flings open the front door, his comb-over trembling with the action.
“Wilma.” He nods to me.
At this point, I answer to anything he calls me. He’s never once gotten my name correct, calling me either Wilma or Wendy.
“Good morning, Gus,” I say, smiling, though I feel my blood pressure rising with his arrival.
My boss frowns like my cheerful greeting personally offended his mother before glancing at my coworkers. “Leo, I’ve told you a dozen times that you have to wear a Deja Brew-logoed hat while on shift.”
“And hide this fresh fade?” Leo’s fingers slide over his hair. “Naw, Mr. P. That’d be a crime.”
A ruddy red flushes Gus’s cheeks as he clenches his jaw. “My office. Now.”
Leo clicks his teeth, slumping off toward the back.
“There goes another one,” Indy whispers while dolloping a to-go cup with foam.
“I liked Leo,” I whine, grinding espresso for the next drink. “He was the least incompetent of the teen boys. Good sense of humor too.”
“I know.” Indy shakes her head, her box braids shifting over her shoulders. “The only upside is now Gus has something to be mad about, so he can’t invent something.”
My boss doesn’t come into the shop often, but when he does, he throws a tantrum, usually over something innocuous. We’re talking a screaming, slamming-pots-around, kicking-trash-cans kind of meltdown. The glass from the pastry display case had to be replaced after he pounded it with his fist while berating us over a sloppy cup stack. I’m pretty sure the only reason any of us still work here is because Gus pays us three dollars an hour more than any coffee shop in the area.
“Hopefully, his hissy fit will be contained to the office,” I mutter.
Indy hums in agreement. “Poor Leo.”
Though I feel for my coworker, I’m grateful I’m not on the chopping block. I need this job—all of my jobs, actually. Not having health insurance didn’t seem like a big deal a week ago. After being diagnosed with a medical condition that requires expensive equipment and medication to, you know, stay alive, I’ve been rethinking its necessity. The problem is, I can’t even afford the cheapest plan.
Indy and I both flinch, hearing a crashing sound.
A second later, Leo storms out sans apron. “This stinks.”
“I know,” Indy and I say at the same time.
“I made you your favorite,” I tell him, pushing a white chocolate mocha his way.
Indy grabs a cinnamon roll from the pastry display and drops it in a bag. “It’s not much, but…”
“Thanks.” Leo accepts both, shoots daggers at the back office, and walks out.
The next hour passes quickly and peacefully. A few groups of people arrive, cluttering our small shop. Sunday mornings can be busy, but not in the same way as the weekday rush. There are more kids, which always makes me smile because I get to top hot chocolates with whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles.
I’m topping three mugs with delightful bits of color when a dark shadow looms on the other side of the pickup counter.
