Single Dad's Barista

by Amelia Wilde

  “They can always start another shop, Ellie. New stores open all the time. Besides…” I rub at her shoulders, trying to bring her back to reality. At least close to reality. “I’ve had my shop open one day, and Medium Roast is fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” she says, stepping back. “We lost customers today, and I can’t even…” she glances around at all the new installations, the fresh paint, the even tiles. “I can’t say that they’re wrong to come here. But the tourist traffic is what’s going to tide us over through the winter. Tide them over through the winter,” she corrects herself. “I could always try to find other work, but Medium Roast is their livelihood.”

  I take her face in both my hands. “Ellie, listen to yourself. Your aunt and uncle left you, alone, to run their permanent nest egg?” Anger clouds her eyes. “No, don’t take it that way. You’re amazing. You can do anything. But Medium Roast needs more than a good barista. We both know it. It needs new paint. It needs new walls. It needs suppliers and managers who can get things to you on time. Did you have enough coffee for today?”

  Ellie frowns, her cheeks pressing against my palms. “Yes.”

  “And when you open tomorrow, will you have enough to get through the morning?”

  She shakes her head. No. Of course not. “I might not, but you’re still being condescending as hell.”

  I take my hands away. “I’m being honest. You came in here asking me to close my shop. I’m not going to do that.”

  Scarlet color floods her cheeks. “I thought you’d at least consider it, after...” she can’t finish.

  Wait. “Consider it after we slept together?” An ugly, twisted feeling is rising in my chest. It didn’t start with her. I was optimistic about this move, about this business, about this chance at a fresh start, but every glance thrown this way has been a chink in the armor. And that sign—Jesus, that sign was fucking stupid. A protest. Against a coffee shop. Another local coffee shop. It’s not as if I’m some national chain swooping in to slash and burn everything in Lakewood’s downtown.

  Maybe sleeping with me is Ellie’s own form of protest. Maybe this hasn’t been a magical fall into the kind of love I can count on. Maybe it’s been a setup all along so that she can come to me right now with this question and bank on the fact that I’ll be so enamored with her that I’ll agree.

  “Yeah,” Ellie says, her voice rough. “I thought you would consider it because of how close we’ve become, sex or not. Fuck, Dash. You don’t have to be an asshole.” Her hands flutter up to her hair and she turns slightly away. “It hasn’t been that long, but I still thought it was worth a chance. They’re my family. I had to try.”

  “You think I don’t have a family?” I can’t force down my anger any longer. “I have a family, too. A daughter. Who can’t run out and start another business.” I grit my teeth, trying to keep the words in. It doesn’t work. “Is that what you were thinking when you came over here? That my daughter is less than your grown-ass aunt and uncle?”

  Ellie’s face has lost all its color. “No,” she whispers. “I would never want anything to happen to Rosie. She’s the sweetest—”

  “Then think about what you’re asking,” I thunder. “Think about it for five seconds before you—” I cut myself off, but the words come tumbling out. “I’ve been open one day. For Christ’s sake, Ellie, see how it goes. If Medium Roast can’t fucking handle it, then maybe you need to sit down with your family and reevaluate what you’re even doing in the business.”

  Ellie’s chin quivers, but I’m too consumed to let it affect me now. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “You didn’t think. You’re too busy living in the past to realize you might have to grow up and do something different for the future.”

  Ellie’s jaw drops. It crashes into me then, what I’ve said.

  “Ellie,” I say urgently, the hot rage swirling down the drain. “That’s not what—I wasn’t talking about what happened to you. I meant that—”

  “You know what?” she says, voice trembling, forcing a smile onto her face that breaks my heart. “This was probably a mistake. No,” she waves a hand between us, “it was definitely a mistake. I’m sorry I got in the way of your new store.” She’s backing up toward the door, one hand behind her, searching for a wall. “Best—best of luck.” Her eyes are shining with tears, and I hate myself for them. “I’ll be coming for you.” She tries to make it jaunty, but it’s fucking heartbreaking. “Watch out.”

  39

  Ellery

  “I never used that as an excuse,” I say into my steering wheel.

  Then I lay my forehead on top of my hands and let the tears come.

  For a minute because this is making me feel stupidly pathetic, and I can’t stand it.

  I pick my head up and look at myself in the mirror. Looking back at me is a hot mess.

  The hard knock against the driver’s side window makes me jump a foot in the air. Oh, God, it’s him. He came to apologize and caught me crying. My heart soars with relief...then crashes back down to earth when I turn my head. Then it soars again. What a roller coaster.

  “Hey,” says Honey, her forehead wrinkled with concern. “Why are you crying in there? Are you overheating? You should come out!” She has a big grin on her face and looks for all the world like a supermodel who stepped off a photoshoot and into downtown Lakewood.

  “You’re back!” I shriek, and she barely has time to jump out of the way and avoid my car door. I jump out and throw my arms around her. This is how I felt after a long vacation away back in school. I bet it’s like reuniting with a favorite sister. I only have a brother. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back.”

  “I might not make it out of this hug alive,” she says, pretending to be strangled. I let her go and she steps back to take me in. “What’s going on, Ellie? Rough day at the shop?”

  “More than that,” I tell her, and I can feel the floodgates opening.

  “Whoa,” says Honey, patting my shoulder. “This is not a parking lot conversation, clearly. Where’s your wine?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. “Not in the car, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She surveys me once more. “You need a shower and a drink. Your place or mine?” Then she laughs out loud. “Kidding! Mine is still rented. You’re driving. Pull yourself together.”

  At my house, Honey rushes me into the shower and says she’ll be right back. I lose track of time a little bit. Showers are good for thinking. They’re also good for sulking. But eventually I smell chocolate chip cookies. That, and the hot water runs out.

  I throw on shorts and a tank and wander into the kitchen still toweling my hair. Honey is pulling a tray of warm cookies from the oven using an oven mitt shaped like a fox that I keep hanging on a peg near the stove.

  One glance and she nods. “That’s better.”

  “Oh, thanks.” She puts the tray on top of the stove and flips the cookies onto a clean plate with a spatula. She knows me. There is no good reason on earth to keep cookies waiting, even if you have to eat them with a spoon.

  “You don’t have any plans this evening, do you?” Honey picks up the plate and brushes past me, leading the way into the living room. “Ha! These are your plans. Get used to it.”

  In the living room, my coffee table has been transformed. She’s thrown a folded-in-half tablecloth over all of it, lending it an air of sophistication. She’s popped popcorn into a classy serving bowl I got at a thrift store. Perched on either side are two glasses of wine. It hasn’t touched my lips yet, and I’m already starting to relax. Heartbreak will hit me later. For now, cookies, wine, and popcorn.

  Honey puts the plate down on the table with a flourish and falls onto the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. She picks up a wine glass, waits for me to pick up mine, and holds hers out between us. “Cheers.”

  “For what?”

  “Friendship,” she says, wearing her signature grin. “Now put a cookie in your mouth. And tell me everythin
g.”

  I tell her about the cold mornings of the springtime when the frost would cover my car and make it a real bitch to leave the driveway. I tell her about the way Medium Roast is constantly out of shit. I tell her about the regulars who I’m in a love/hate relationship with. I tell her about the day Dash came to town. I tell her about twerking. I leave nothing out.

  We drink one glass of wine, then two, and then the bottle is gone.

  Honey looks at me sagely from across the couch when I’m finished talking, twirling her wine glass between her fingers. She’s been more careful than I have. She still has some left. “I don’t think he meant it, El.”

  “He meant it,” I say it with passion. I might be slightly drunk.

  “I don’t think he meant it that way.” Honey leans forward on the sofa. “What I’m saying is, you don’t have to write him off because you had one argument.”

  Hurt bubbles up again, pure and strong. It’s more than a match for the wine. I’m not sure if it’s a match for the cookies. I put another one into my mouth and savor it before I answer her. “You know, it wasn’t meant to be. We’re on opposite sides of this thing. Literal opposite sides of the street.” It’s a really good cookie. “He knew what he was doing when he opened the store, and he knows what he’s doing now. If Medium Roast closes because of him...” I shake my head. “I couldn’t forgive that.”

  “Ellie, be rational.”

  “I’m being so fucking rational. The most rational person in the world,” I tell her. An idea is dawning. “I don’t need him, Honey. I was fine before he showed up and I’ll be fine when I wake up in the morning. But before I wake up...” I’m going to tackle this. I’m going to go all-in on Medium Roast. So what if my aunt was mean to me on the phone? This is about more than a bad mood. “I have some plans to make.”

  “Plans for right now?”

  “I’m not going down without—” my wine glass slips from my grasp.

  Honey gasps out loud.

  I catch it just in time. Heart racing, I look her in the eye and say it as clearly as I can manage. “I’m not going down without a fight.”

  40

  Dash

  The phone won’t stop ringing. It buzzes in my pocket again and again, first one call, then another. I made Norma promise to call the direct line at the store if there was an emergency with Rosie, but that line hasn’t had a single call other than one errant delivery guy.

  I should silence the damn thing.

  I don’t.

  Finally I have to shut off the coffee grinder and turn away from the front of the line.

  I’ve been in this all day, but only half present. The fight with Ellie keeps crashing over my mind like thunder, lightning splitting the sky. Was I the asshole or was she the asshole? Were we both the asshole? It was probably both of us, but every fifteen minutes I change my mind. Every fifteen minutes another wave of guilt for hurting her at all, ever, covers me like high tide.

  “Excuse me,” I say over my shoulder and slip my phone from my pocket.

  It’s an unknown number.

  Jesus. Endless prank calls? I don’t know, and I don’t care. What I do care about is that there’s not a single message from Ellie. I never heard from her after she left the shop last night. I never heard from her this morning. She’s awake. She’s alive. She’s at Medium Roast right now. I’ve been seeing flashes of her through the window all morning, and it’s slowly killing me. But there is nothing but radio silence. Nothing but a crowd on the corner, making it look twice as busy on the opposite side.

  The protesters—I can see Walt from here, running his mouth to whoever passes by—are forcing an unintended consequence on Medium Roast. The busier it looks outside, the more people hesitate to go in. To be fair, it is busy. It’s Saturday. It’s a circus. But the longer they stand there, glaring at me, the more people they send right into my hands.

  I wish I could feel more triumphant about it.

  “What’s a cappuccino?” says the lady at the front of the line, head tilted back to look at the menu. It reminds me of the way Ellie would throw her head back when she came. Need tightens every muscle in my body, a lance through my heart.

  I have ten seconds. I’m sending a fucking message.

  Have you forgiven me yet?

  It’s not the right thing, and I know it the moment I hit send, but the coffee shop virgin at the front of the line demands my attention.

  My answer comes ten minutes later at the tables in front, right by the window. I’m wiping them down in a micro-lull between customers, and I feel it—someone’s watching me. Someone other than that idiot Walt and his friend Morris. I look up. They’re both talking to a third guy, and he’s pointing feverishly at Medium Roast. It’s not them.

  Ellie stands in the front window, perfectly still.

  When she sees me looking, she raises one hand, her middle finger held high.

  Message received.

  Rosie screams, her voice as high-pitched as the espresso grinder, setting my teeth on edge.

  “Sweetie, you’ve got to sleep,” I say. I breathe in. I breathe out. I don’t get angry with the baby. I keep my cool. That’s what I’m doing. I’m keeping my cool. She’s the baby and I’m the one in a position of authority. She’s the one having a hard time. I am fine. We are fine. We will be fine, anyway. She’s overtired and overexcited and she can’t lie down. Rosie sits up on her little legs in the crib and reaches for me, howling.

  When my phone starts to ring, I’ve had it.

  I scoop her up from the crib and start walking, Rosie shrieking in her pajamas. It’s the same number as before. With a low curse, I swipe across the screen. Whoever’s on the other end of the line is going to get a piece of my mind.

  “Hello?” I growl into the phone.

  “Dash,” says a woman, and at the sound of her voice, all the rage in my chest is set loose. “How are you? How are things?”

  It’s Serena.

  “Can you hear me?” There’s a muffled rustling on the other end of the line, something like static. “It’s one of those internet phones from a café. We’re back in from the countryside for a day or two and I thought I’d call.”

  “Serena—”

  “How’s Rosie? Oh, I miss her,” she says wistfully as if it were Rosie who decided to flee halfway across the planet. “Is that her?”

  It almost kills me on the spot. Is that her? Rosie is wailing now, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. There are so many things I want to shout at Serena that I can’t choose. Not now. Maybe not ever. Does she know she signed away custody in the divorce agreement? Does she know there will be no second chance to waltz back into Rosie’s life? “It’s not a good time.”

  “Is that Rosie?”

  “Can you fucking hear her?” I spit into the phone. “Yes, Serena, that’s our daughter. I’m busy. Did you have anything important to say?”

  This is her big chance, and I suck in a breath, waiting to see if she’s going to make anything of it. She could apologize right now, and it might lower the heat a little bit. If she’s any kind of mother at all, she’ll use these precious few seconds to tell me that she’s on her way back to the United States, that she wants to try harder, that she understands the damage she’s doing.

  “No,” Serena says finally. “I’ll—I’ll call back another time.”

  “That’s it?”

  I can’t believe I ever married her. I can’t believe I ever loved her. There are no feelings left for this woman. None.

  “I’ll call back another time,” she repeats, and I can tell from her tone that her mind is already elsewhere. A screaming child? No, not for her. She wants the laughter and the light. She doesn’t want to put in any of the work. The weight of it settles on my shoulders, heavier somehow in this moment.

  “Goodbye.”

  I hang up the call.

  Rosie finally settles, relaxing against my shoulder, but I walk her outside into the night air, my chest pulsing with hurt.

&nbs
p; At the lakeshore, I stop and sway, Rosie’s breath deepening in my ear. “Maybe we should go,” I say to her, though she’s eleven months old and sleeping. “There’s only one person here I want to talk to. Besides you, anyway. And she’s done with me.”

  41

  Ellery

  “What are you doing?”

  Honey squints at me from a nest of blankets on the couch. She’s decided to stay at my house until her place is free of the renters who were taking it over while she was trekking all over the planet. Who am I to say no to my best friend? I’d never turn her away. But waking up early is the ballgame this time around.

  “Going to work.”

  “In that?”

  I’m wearing my oldest jeans, so ragged they can hardly be called pants, and a Medium Roast shirt from Aunt Lisa’s first run—a burnt orange color so hideous that it’s never seen a good day in its life.

  “The store’s closed.”

  “Then where are you going?”

  “The store.”

  Honey pushes herself up on one elbow. “You’ve lost it. Or you’re still drunk.”

  I’m not. I’m completely sober, and I have been for hours. I slept a little. Then my eyes shot open in the dark and I haven’t been able to sleep.

  It’s time.

  “I’m good. I have to go and get some paint.”

  She runs a hand through her hair. “Talk me through this.”

  I turn to face her, smoothing a stray tendril of hair back into my all-purpose bun. I’ve already showered. I’m good to go. “I’m going to make some changes to Medium Roast,” I say slowly because I know Honey woke up so recently. “I need paint. The paint shop in town doesn’t open until nine. I’m not going to wait that long, so I’m headed over to the big city.” That’s what we’ve always called the town half an hour down the road. They have a McDonald’s...and a superstore open twenty-four hours a day that happens to have a home improvement department. “Then I’m going to get started.”