Beat It

Boyd

Tuesday afternoon, when I finally make it in for my shift just before 4pm, Monica isn’t wearing her usual you’re late face. She’s got a suspicious grin that tells me I’m in for an earful. We’ve been friends for seven years, since she started working here the same week I did. Because of my busy schedule, it’s nice having a built-in friend in a co-worker. The convenience aspect is secondary to the fact that she’s a good person and we’ve always gotten along well. She puts up with my grumpiness, and I tolerate her perpetual optimism. I guess that’s one area I have some balance.

It doesn’t take long after the last customer in line makes their way to a table before Monica spills. “She came back. The brunette with the—” She makes an hourglass shape with both hands.

I don’t allow my face to betray the little swirl in my stomach. “So?”

“That woman came in here, wearing a dress that… whoo. And heels that could be the star in any fantasy.”

Part of me wants to hear more about this dress. The rational part, however, has no interest. “Is there a point to this?” I ask, tying my apron around my back.

“She looked disappointed. Like she wanted a coffee, but wasn’t really here for the coffee. You know?”

“No, I don’t. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She’s too much like her, and you know my policy.”

One factor that bonded me and Monica has been our strict no-dating rule. We’ve both been burned in the past and refuse to put ourselves in that position again. For her, being a single mom to a thirteen-year-old son has been a constant reminder of what trusting the wrong person can do. Granted, she loves her son—as do I—but raising him on her own hasn’t been easy. For me, my life is too busy to make room for anyone else. Sunday dinners are enough of an inconvenience.

“I do. But I also think it’s time you stop letting her rule your life.”

“She’s not.” My already foul mood sinks to new levels and her name hasn’t even been mentioned. Just reminding me of how stupid I was, being blinded by a nice smile and charming personality, is enough to turn me more sour.

“You can tell yourself that all you want, but she is, because you’re not living your life for you. Your resentment is making choices before your heart is.”

I scoff. “You’re one to talk.”

How mature. Next I’ll stick my tongue out and say ‘I know you are, but what am I?’

Mercifully, we’re interrupted by a pair of girls in their early twenties walking in and placing elaborate orders. I get to work making a trenta green tea frappuccino with a banana smoothie base, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, two espresso shots, topped with light whip and caramel drizzle. No one can convince me this is a better tasting option than plain coffee. The second order is equally ludicrous. I hand off the drinks to the giggling duo, happy to rid that ridiculous list of instructions from my screen.

Before I can get into any sort of work groove, Monica picks up our earlier conversation. “I also have a kid to consider. My bad relationship didn’t just impact me, and I couldn’t sit around feeling sorry for myself until I got over it. I had to be strong and put my kid first. So no, I don’t want to risk bringing anyone else into the dynamic I’ve worked hard to protect.” She levels me with a glare that only mothers are capable of.

Like my mother, Monica also has the ability to make me feel like an idiot for holding onto a grudge for as long as I have—even though neither of them will forgive her either.

“Besides, she may dress nice, but I get the impression Sophie has worked for it. If she was a snooty, stuck-up type like her, she’d come in here and order some obnoxious concoction like those two just did. She might surprise you.”

The problem is, I want her to be different, but I have a hard time trusting my instincts outside of my job. My professional instincts are finely tuned. Personal instincts are deranged. Monica’s instincts are more trustworthy.

“I’ll think about it.”

That satisfies my best friend. She ends the conversation with a smile and a victorious nod as she unties her apron to wrap up her shift for the day. Lately, our shifts have only had a slight overlap, so we haven’t seen each other much. The least I can do in exchange is consider what she’s saying. She hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

Wednesday, I walk into the café just after lunch. It’s chaotic and loud, with every table full. Monica, Shawny, and Tessa are behind the counter, fluttering around in a choreographed routine to fulfil orders.

“Oh good. You’re here,” Monica says, her shoulders slumping as she exhales. “We got slammed. Did you know there was some big conference happening at the hotel, and apparently they don’t have coffee to offer?”

“Shoot. Sorry, Mon. I didn’t know. Everything okay?”

“It is now. We ran out of a few things and it was a nightmare to grab stuff from the back while we were so busy, but we managed. Tip jar makes up for it.” She winks and turns back to make another customer’s drink.

I jump on the line to pick up the slack until there’s a lull. Several items are nearing empty by the time the bulk of the crowd clears out. I go to the stockroom to grab a few new syrups, and when I return to the counter, I find Sophie standing opposite the cash register, placing her order with Tessa. She’s wearing a powder blue pencil skirt and a floral blouse, which makes her look like an actual angel. She doesn’t appear pretentious or extravagant. Just poised. Polished. Fierce.

Maybe Monica is right.

Her name and order appear on the screen again—same as always. I pop the syrups in place and remove the empty containers, then get to work on a flat white. The espresso machine hisses as it expels the last of the two espresso shots, and the milk has reached the appropriate temperature, so I add the ingredients to the takeout cup and snap on a lid.

“Sophie?”

“Thanks.” She steps forward. “Looks like it was busy in here today.”

I follow her eyes, turning to look over my shoulder. My co-workers all look beat. Frazzled hair, defeated body language, and filthy aprons. “Yeah, I guess so. I just got here thirty minutes ago.”

“Oh.” She moves to take a sip of her drink, stopping herself before her lips hit the lid. “Right, it’s hot.” Her cheeks flush, which almost makes me smile.

“Sure is.”

She clears her throat and lowers the cup with both hands to her waist. “I came in yes—” She’s interrupted by the door chime, and several people dressed in tailored suits file inside. “I’ll let you get to work.”

Work is always my focus. There’s never a day I come in here and don’t give it my all. I should be happy to get back to doing what I’m good at. But once again, I’m struck by conflicting feelings as she walks away. Like she did on Monday, she exits the café and finds a seat on the patio.

Ten minutes later, we’ve successfully navigated another influx of caffeine addicts—thankfully, most of them just wanted plain coffee—and Sophie is still sitting outside.

“Go ‘clean the tables,’ would ya?” Monica jokes, using air quotes to call me out on my excuse from two days earlier. She sends me off with a rag, a bottle of cleaner, and a trademark wink.

I walk onto the patio and pick up some trash previous customers left lying about, then clean off the tabletop opposite Sophie.

“Is Boyd a family name?” Sophie asks from behind me as I wipe down a chair.

“Uh… no. My parents just thought it suited me.” Though, how anyone looks at a baby and thinks ‘yep, he looks like a Boyd,’ is beyond me. “Apparently it means blond. My parents are from the UK… it’s a Scottish name.” That was far more information than she asked for—again. Why does she have that effect on me?

“Hm.” She tilts her coffee, draining the contents, and wrestles with the chair to stand.

A lot of this encounter is feeling like a routine… and I don’t hate it.

“I have no idea what my name means. Or why my parents chose it.” She tosses her cup in the garbage can, then walks toward me.

There are a lot of things I’d like to say right now. Like how I associate her name with complete mental paralysis. How she’s synonymous with flat white. But I surprise myself by saying the words Monica encouraged me to. “Hey, Sophie? Would… I’m sorry if I’m off base here, but do you want to go out sometime? A drink or dinner?”

She glances at the table to my left with an unreadable expression. My stomach sinks because if she was interested, her face wouldn’t look like that. Serves me right for stepping out of my comfort zone.

“I… I’m seeing someone, actually. It’s serious.”

Now there’s a shortage of oxygen. I’m not sure if the choking feeling I have is from being suffocated by humidity, or if embarrassment feels that much like having a bag pulled over your head. If it were possible for me to leave with my ego intact, I would bow out, but it’s already obliterated. Apparently, I should have trusted my head. Monica’s radar is off.

“Well, he’s a lucky guy.”

“Thank you.” She offers me a kind—pitying—smile. “And thanks again for the coffee.” Then she walks away. She hops into a white Cadillac SUV parked along the curb, and I return to cleaning tables as she drives away.

There’s a reason why work is my comfort zone. It never leaves me with annihilated dignity. I’m never left berating myself for being presumptuous. So I’ll stick with what I know best. Work hard and stay single.