Page 3 of Naked Coffee Guy
“I’d like a triple shot latte with chocolate syrup and extra foam,” the customer facing me orders.
Fun fact. A latte with chocolate is…drum roll please…a mocha. But try to correct a customer, and you’ll find yourself on the other end of an argument you never wanted to enter in the first place.
And extra foam? On a mocha? Whatever dude.
“Anything else?” I key in his latte as a mocha and try to ignore the growing line behind him.
That’s when Nina bursts through the front doors.
“I’m here! Let the party begin!”
Nina uses her hair as a canvas, and today is no exception. Yesterday it was faded pink, but today her long locks are mermaid green with blue highlights. To finish the look, she’s wearing shimmering green and blue eyeshadow, and her long nails are painted a vibrant blue. As annoyed as I am with her, I’m also impressed. I love fashion, but my color palette is usually in the black range. Nina wears colors loud and proud.
“You’re late, Nina,” Susan says, not bothering to even look up.
“Sorry, there were extenuating circumstances.” The smirky side-eye Nina gives me is a prelude to whatever wild story she’s about to unfold. Last week it was about the date she went on with a guy who failed to mention he was still in high school. She only found out when his mom tracked his phone and showed up at the movie theater they were making out in, then lectured him about going out on a school night while Nina made her escape. The week before, Nina escaped out the second-story window of a guy who forgot to mention he was married before his wife came barreling up the stairs.
Ten out of ten, her wild story was about a guy.
“So there’s this guy,” she begins, as she takes over the cash register and I move to the espresso machine. I roll my eyes, but keep my ears perked, even over the whoosh of the steam wand and the cadence of chatter throughout the shop. “He’s new to the neighborhood, but holy hell, is he making an impact.” She goes on with the story even as she helps the next customer, a mousy middle-aged woman who looks like she’d rather be praying than listening about Nina’s smoke show neighbor.
“The guy has a literal eight-pack. I mean, I’ve read about eight-packs in that blue alien book series. You know, the one with the barbed peni—”
“Nina.” I shoot an apologetic look at the woman in front of my coworker.
“Right. That will be $8.50,” Nina says, twirling the screen so the flustered customer can finish her transaction. “So, every morning this guy walks around our neighborhood, shirtless and barefoot, carrying nothing but a cup of coffee.” Nina holds the back of her hand up to her forehead, pretending to swoon. The next customer is standing there, waiting to give his order, but seems more invested in the story than the lady before him had been.
“Every morning?” I ask.
“Yeah, every morning? Even if it’s raining?” the customer asks.
Nina shoots the guy an annoyed look. “This is California. When was the last time it rained?” But then she grins. “And yes, every morning. So far, without fail. The guy has the whole neighborhood wrapped around his finger, including me.”
“Nina, less chit chat, please,” Susan murmurs out the side of her mouth while taking inventory of the pastries. “Maren, when you put in the pastry order this afternoon, double the amount of morning buns. Those ones are going too fast.”
Just the mention of pastries reminds my stomach that it hasn’t consumed any food yet. I get through the next hour of drink orders, and when it seems like the morning rush has died down, I take my break.
With my almond milk latte and the last morning bun, I snag a table and pull out my phone, scrolling Craigslist for an apartment in my price range. It’s a quick process.
“Shit,” I mutter, scanning the rents that far exceed anything my meager paycheck will allow. I’ve been so spoiled with my low rent that I forgot the reality of housing costs in California. Even renting a room in someone’s house will cost more than I was paying for my entire apartment.
I’m not an emotional person. I don’t cry at the drop of a hat. When I come close, it usually comes out in anger. But this is a whole new experience of feeling hopeless. I don’t have any family to help, or a savings account that will pad my income until I figure out a better solution. I don’t have the education for a better paying job, and I just so happen to live in one of the most expensive tourist traps in SoCal because I never thought to move someplace more affordable. Partly because I lucked out on this apartment, but also because this is my home—always has been. Plus, there’s Claire and my favorite kid, Finn. My best friend and I have been through too much for me to up and leave.
Even though I don’t want to do it, I think Claire is my only hope in this situation.
I step outside the shop and call her. She picks up on the third ring.
“Hey,” she says, and I note the breathlessness in her voice.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask, hating how weak I sound right now. But I feel weak. I’ve made it my mission to never need anyone, and right now, I’m tearing out the backbone of that resolve.
“No, not at all.” She laughs then, and I hear muffled sounds. “Ethan, give me a second.”
Fuck. I was interrupting.
“I’ll call back,” I say.
“No, it’s fine. We just got Finn off to school and are cleaning the kitchen. I could use the distraction. What’s up, everything okay?”