She gives me a pointed look. We’ve been over this before. “We’re fine, Charlie. And you’re about to be late for work.”
Emily always was the stable one. I’m kind of like the one misfiring synapse in someone’s brain—some genius moments and some moments we could all do without.
“Talk later. Love you both.” I blow a kiss as I hang up.
If I can’t be there, I do the next best thing, which is send them everything I make to support them, outside of school costs.
Today is my last shift of my usual thirty-hour week. That’s on top of studying full-time at University College London and going to band rehearsals whenever we can squeeze one in. Those are at least a bit of an escape from the usual hectic pace, though we’ve been ramping up the frequency as we book more gigs. There’s also the weekly check-in with my therapist and, when they get their way, Sunday dinner with my family.
It’s…a lot.
Lately, I’m so exhausted in lectures that everything goes in one ear and out the other. I’ve usually either rushed to class from the café or needed to go straight to a shift or rehearsal right after. At night, I try to go through the lectures again to figure out what I’ve missed. The term’s been a total muddle.
I rake my hands through my hair a third time for luck, grab an apron, and head into the front of the café.
The screech of the steamer does my head in. Never mind the strip lighting. While I’m warm and dry indoors today, give me November gray and rain. For my headache, dark and dreary lighting, please. And silence.
But the customers queuing for their Saturday morning coffees don’t care about the state that exhaustion and Friday night’s left me in. I’m not sure if it was the single pint I drank that packed a wallop, the lack of proper sleep for days, or the press of what might be a migraine from too much stress. Or maybe it’s that last night’s gig still rings in my ears. Luckily, most of the customers so far this morning are regulars. There’s little talking, punctuated with occasional nods and gestures at the pastry display.
“Your order’ll be up in a couple of minutes,” I say in the brightest customer service voice I can manage to the woman I’ve just finished helping at the counter.
Jasmine pauses beside me with a ruthless grin. “You sure you don’t want to be on food orders, Charlie?” Behind her, Lars smirks at the espresso machine as he wipes down the steamer for the next drink, doing a poor job of pretending not to listen.
I shudder at the thought of frying eggs—frying anything, really. Any sort of greasy or fatty food is out, too. Brioches. Croissants. And never mind salads. Too leafy. The offensive crunch of celery, and the tyranny of raw vegetables on an unsuspecting stomach. It’s a total nightmare. The till is the safest here, even with the glare of the lighting overhead. Safer yet would be the luxury of lying absolutely still in my own bed with the pillow pressed over my face, but I need the pay. Every penny counts.
“Fuck no.” An involuntary shudder ripples through me.
They’re convinced I’m hungover. Which has happened before, sure, but I haven’t had time or money for drinking in a long while. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Like malaria. Or dysentery. Or the galloping consumption, which would be at least useful for my English literature essay, and appropriately Victorian. Maybe I can get a sick note and an extension again.
“Let me know if you change your mind.” Jasmine flounces off in a cloud of curls and irreverence. Bloody typical.
Beyond her, the café’s full of university students and tourists. It’s the students that I especially notice, mostly head down over their textbooks and laptops. Like I should be, because I’m always way behind with my assignments and studying. That’ll be me the moment I’m done with my shift tonight. The closest student has a daunting stack of economics books, enough for my blood to run cold as an English student. At any rate, exams are breathing down my neck as I get the last of the term’s assignments in. Plus, I’ve got two assignments to finish up over the holidays on a special extension after some passionate groveling to my tutors.
Another group of students, a trio of guys, talk about their big night out plans for later tonight. Dinner, drinks, dancing. Sounds amazing. Sign me up. Except I’ve got no cash for a big—or small—night out, loads of homework, and precisely no dancing lined up. My band has a gig later but it’s work, too, so I’ll already have less time to study than usual on Saturday night.
With a sigh, I squint against the light for the next customer. They’re somewhat man-shaped at first glance. He says something that I don’t quite catch. He’s nothing but a dark silhouette with far too much bright light blasting my eyes from behind him.
Then he slides cash—cash!—across the counter in an offhand way. Like we do this routinely and have the drill down.
Now I’ll need to do sums. Perfect.
“What sort of wanker or monster uses cash these days?” It tumbles out before I can stop myself.
“A wanker or monster that’s lost his wallet and bank cards. That sort,” says the shadow mildly. Scottish accent of some kind. “Also, criminals and people who want to stay off the grid. You’ll just have to guess which sort of monster I am.”
Frowning, I lift my head and look at the customer more closely. Screw the bright light.
He’s about my age, early twenties. Lean. Lip ring. Bleached, streaked, and disheveled blond hair. Multicolored jumper under a leather jacket with matching long scarf. He’s grinning. Very fuckable. I haven’t seen him here before, but he looks familiar. But from where? He’s a face out of place, without context.
“Sorry. Didn’t think you’d hear.” Bad habit, me running my mouth off and sticking my foot in it. Jasmine’s entertained on a regular basis. Emily’s taken me to task over it for years. I really do know better. Current me is only bothered enough to serve hipsters hot drinks in a passable enough way to pay the bills. I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like Carys and Emily. And tuition. Real world worries.
“My hearing’s not bad. Youth and all.” He stuffs his hands deep into his jacket, smiling, a bit bleary-eyed. Even still, he’s appealingly lickable. Icantake a moment to imagine that, even if it isn’t Friday night—the only night of the week I allow myself to interact with potential hookups. The guy won’t know. And I can delude myself for at least five minutes.
“Spry. Good. I like that. But…” I glance down at the cash, crumpled from his pocket. It’s the side with Jane Austen demurely facing out, a reminder of my reading and essay waiting at home.Wuthering Heightswaits for no one, least of all me. “Only old people carry money. How did you get money if you lost your wallet?”
“Old people!” A laugh follows. “I’m here for a coffee, not an interrogation about how I manage my money. Or about what I keep in my wallet. But like I said, I could be a criminal or someone keeping off the grid.” He leans in ever so slightly, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe you shouldn’t push too hard.”
Thank God he’s amused and not offended. And that my manager is nowhere in earshot for this exchange. Lars and Jasmine are lapping this up, from what I can see out of the corner of my eye. I never get flustered by customers, so no doubt I’ll be hearing about this after.
