Page 4 of Naked Coffee Guy
“Everything’s fine,” I lied. “Why would anything be wrong?”
“Because you never call me. Usually you just show up, bearing gifts of coffee and pastries. Which, by the way, I miss. You haven’t stopped by in a while.”
She’s right. Ever since Ethan proposed, our friendship has taken a backseat. She’s been wrapped up in wedding plans and family stuff, and I’ve been holding back to respect the process.
Plus, I hate to admit it, I’m a little jealous. For years I’ve had my friend all to myself. But now, she’s preparing to make this complete life change by getting married and shit, and I’m still single Maren—working a dead-end coffee job, entertaining casual flings and cutting them off when they appear to be heading toward seriousness.
But now that I see how happy Claire is and how her life seems to be heading into this whole new realm of adulthood, I can’t help but feel a twinge of regret. I’m twenty-six years old and about to be homeless for fuck’s sake.
“I’ll drop by tomorrow morning,” I promise, all the while trying to figure out a way to ask Claire if I can crash on her couch without completely destroying my thread of an ego.
“Ooh, can you bring me one of those morning buns? I’m obsessed.”
“You and the rest of Sunset Bay,” I say, the taste still lingering in my mouth. These buns really are pure deliciousness, kind of like cinnamon rolls but not gooey at all. They’re actually crispy, fried cinnamon pastries with hardened sugar on top. We just started serving them and run out every day.
“Is that Maren? Tell her to bring two. I’m starving,” Ethan says in the background.
“You just ate breakfast, sparky,” she laughs. “And she’s coming tomorrow, not today.”
He says something I can’t hear, and when Claire giggles, I know it wasn’t meant for my ears. It’s also apparent that if I move in, I’ll be taking a front row seat to their lovefest. As much as I love my friend, I think I’d rather live in my car than be an intrusion—or a witness.
“My break’s about over, but yeah, I’ll bring morning buns for all of us. We already sold out and it’s not even nine o’clock.”
We end the call and I stay where I’m standing for a moment, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do. I should have said something. It’s not like I have any other choices.
“You still have a month or so to figure this out,” I reassure myself. But I don’t feel reassured. I feel scared.
There are a few minutes left of my break, so I take the time to scroll through Instagram. But, as usual, my scroll turns into a pseudo stalking session when I open my search history and touch the name at the top of the list.
Lydia Huerta.
It’s been years since I’ve seen my little sister. The last time, she’d been hiding behind my father as I begged my parents to take me back. I’d been out for a month at that point and wasting away from both the drugs and lack of food.
In a way, I understand why they wouldn’t let me back in their home. Lydia was nine, and I was a strung out seventeen-year-old with a death wish, ready to take down everyone with her.
I wouldn’t let me in, either.
I still don’t forgive my parents.
Looking at my sister’s photos, I can see she’s happy and surrounded by friends. She’s now the same age I was when I was kicked out, but her story couldn’t be more different. We look a lot alike, from her dark hair and pale Latina skin to her wide eyes the color of espresso. Just like our mother. What’s different, though, are the deep dimples in each cheek, a feature she models in every single one of her smiling photos. You don’t even have to know her to see that she’s kind and lovable. And it makes my heart ache that I’m not in her life.
In her latest photo, she’s clad in her green and gold track uniform, the colors of the high school I used to go to. She’s surrounded by friends, all sweaty and smiling. It’s apparent they’ve just finished a run—another difference between us. The only reason I would be running is if something were chasing me, and even then, I’d be weighing the pros and cons of breaking a sweat versus being maimed.
If I came home, would Lydia know me?
I close out of her account quickly and head back to the shop. It’s not going to happen. I am not crawling back to my parents’ house just because I’m in a bind. They didn’t help me when I hit rock bottom, and they haven’t reached out to me since…even though I still live in the same town and have worked at the same job for years. I’m not hard to find, and they’ve never tried to find me. I mean, I work in the most popular coffee shop in Sunset Bay, and they have never walked through those doors. Coincidence? I think not.
I step back inside Insomniacs, noting how Nina is leaning against the counter, chatting with Jess, her roommate for the past several years. A glance at the coffee station, and it’s like an espresso bomb went off. There are coffee grounds all over the workstation, dirty towels on the counter and floor, and unwashed frothing pitchers hanging off to the side. Susan is nowhere to be found, which means I have to be the one to manage my messy coworker.
Or just do it myself.
Which I do, because I don’t have the energy for a confrontation—which is so unlike me because I’m all about confrontation. But this whole house thing is throwing me for a loop, and I realize at some point I’m going to have to get over myself and ask for help.
The question is, who’s the lucky person I get to inconvenience?
“Well, that was interesting,” Nina says, joining me as I finish cleaning the bar. “My roommate just told me she’s moving out, effective immediately.”
I stop what I’m doing, and face her, not believing what I’m hearing.