Chapter 43: The Audacity of This Rich Guy Showing Up at My Workplace!
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Saturday mornings at Joy’s Café tended to be pretty predictable. It was busy, loud, a bit annoying sometimes but kinda comfortable, and filled with at least three customers who treated ordering coffee like it was some kind of deeply personal spiritual quest that needed everyone’s undivided attention and patience.
The same familiar faces showed up each week, maybe with a philosophy student thrown in who was just there for oat milk and a little validation.
Normally, I could handle it. I had my systems in place. My muscle memory kicked in. Plus, I had Maya, who was much quicker at the register and a lot better at pretending to care about what people were saying.
But today was different. I was running on about two hours of sleep, wrestling with some pretty strong emotions, and just trying to survive through sheer caffeine-fueled willpower and a splash of spite.
That meant I was one minor annoyance away from snapping at someone. Preferably Damien Lockwood because he was 40% of my problems, though he was across campus and therefore temporarily out of my reach.
What really stung...the worst part, was that that gentle ’goodnight, Oliver’ hit harder than the kiss we shared in the closet. It was infuriating to carry that around on a Saturday morning. It made me think about feelings I wasn’t ready to unpack.
I scrubbed a table down with the kind of intensity that suggested I was channeling all my unresolved emotions into that cleaning cloth.
"Jesus Christ," Maya said from behind the counter, keeping an eye on me as if I were some wild animal in distress. "That table probably has a family, Oliver."
I kept scrubbing.
The café buzzed around me with its usual weekend energy. The aroma of espresso and fresh pastries filled the air, doing about ten percent of what it usually does to make me feel better. Soft indie music played in the background.
People were talking at their tables, but I wasn’t paying attention. At a nearby window, a little kid was relentlessly tearing apart a blueberry muffin like it had offended him personally.
Usually, this place calms me down. After two years, its rhythm had become automatic and soothing, something my body just knew how to adapt to without my brain needing to interfere.
But today, my brain was fully engaged and not in a helpful way. It kept looping the same thirty-second clip since about three AM:
’Do you really hate me?’
’Goodnight, Oliver.’
I slammed the cloth down on the table hard enough to make the salt shaker slide a bit.
I felt guilty about hating him for what was now no reason at all. I was such an idiot, for running off when he wanted to start over.
Maya narrowed her eyes while steaming milk.
"You know," she said, in a tone that suggested she was about to tread carefully, "I have a pretty accurate internal radar for when something’s off with you."
"Nothing’s off with me."
"You’ve cleaned that table four times, maybe you should take pity on it and let it be."
I glanced at the table, which was, honestly, the cleanest surface in the café right now. It practically glowed.
I stood up straight. "I’m tired."
"Mhm." She made a sound that implied she was skeptical.
"That’s it?"
"Mhm."
"Stop saying mhm like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know something."
"I know a lot of things," she said cheerfully, and went back to frothing milk, practically glowing with the satisfaction of having gotten under my skin. "Like how I know that when ever you’re really stressed you stress clean."
I stepped over to the counter to grab some more lids, mainly to create some space between me and her questioning gaze. Unfortunately, Maya had known me for nearly two years now, so she could read my emotions like a weather forecast...no words needed, just looking at the skies.
I kinda wished I could do the same to her, but she was so upbeat and happy at all times. It was hard to see the problems I knew she had to be dealing with deep down.
"You’ve had that frown since you walked in," she continued, arranging the pastries with an innocent focus that clearly indicated she was still poking around in my business. "Did something happen at home?"
"No."
"Did your new roommate do something?"
I paused. "No."
"Did you do something?"
"Why is that the second question?"
"Because I know you."
Fair point. It was annoying, but fair.
"Nothing happened," I insisted, stacking cups with more force than necessary.
"You’re stress stacking."
"I’m just stacking."
"Oliver."
"Maya."
"You can talk to me."
"What are you a therapist?"
Maya laughed and shook her head, "Nope...but you sure need one."
I also couldn’t argue with that. Besides it’s not like I could just tell her my dumb roommate is that ’hottie’ who comes here every Saturday, sit there and glare at me while sipping his coffee...and he’s making my head all jumbled up and shit by doing literally nothing.
She’d probably laugh in my face and call me gay or something.
"I know I can talk to you. I’m just choosing not to."
She sighed dramatically, clearly feeling entitled to more information. "Fine. But you’re going to spill the beans eventually."
"Probably," I conceded, which was honest. Maya’s patience mixed with her curiosity meant she’d still be asking me about this come March.
The bell above the door jingled as yet another customer walked in. The typical weekend crowd was steady and relentless. I didn’t bother to look up, Maya was closer to the register, and I was mid-restock. That was how we divided things.
I grabbed another sleeve of cups and made my way toward the storage shelf, desperately trying not to think about how Damien’s voice had sounded deeper this morning when he whispered two words in the dark, the unique quality of it when he lowered his guard, the way he—
Nope. Full stop!
I was at work, I was a professional, I needed to focus!
I was going to stack these cups, take someone’s order, and get through my shift without letting my thoughts drift back to my roommate, who was currently not in the picture and therefore not my concern for the next six hours.
I nearly bumped into Maya when she appeared out of nowhere, her expression indicating a development I wasn’t going to like.
"Oliver?"
That tone. That barely suppressed ’something is happening’ tone. I stopped. "What?"
"A customer wants to order."
I looked down at the cups in my hands. "So take it."
"He asked for you specifically."
My hands froze mid-stack. "What?"
"He won’t let me take it." She was trying hard not to smile and was losing that battle. "He said he wants you."
I stared at her for a moment. "Who is it? What customer has developed a preference for me?"
Maya’s face broke into a full grin. "It’s the tall, scary rich hottie."
Everything inside me went on lockdown.
"...What."
"Blue eyes, dark hair. The absolute Greek god who makes me want to drop out of school and be his full time wife."
I stood completely still for a few seconds, running the information through my head and rejecting every conclusion I came to.
"No," I said.
"Yes."
"Not today."
"He’s at the counter."
"Tell him you’re better at this. You’ve been the one taking his orders!"
"But he specifically asked for you, what if he complains to the manager?"
"Tell him I died or something."
"What are you talking about? He can literally see you!"
Maya grabbed my shoulders and physically turned me toward the counter, which was a clear violation of several workplace protocols, but I lacked the strength to resist right now.
There he was.
Damien stood at the register, exuding that calm, collected presence he had in every space he occupied, dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, which should have been normal but wasn’t because I knew that fit alone could pay rent.
Just what was this guy up too now?!