Ouch.
Here's a tip: do not sleep with a laptop on your head.
All that research took a lot out of me. I still don't know exactly what I'm going to write about for that definitive and crucial personal essay.
Do I write about my accomplishments, my experiences, or my trauma?
Does nursing my best friend to health after drinking a dozen too many count?
Another tip for my health: don't skip too many morning coffees at Saxby's.
Sure, my archnemesis works there. Sure, she very well could poison my order. But I am brave, and I am strong.
I sneakily enter the doorway of the establishment. Clad in a sports bra and yoga pants, I'm prepared to book it if Sarah's working today.
"Vanilla latte with some honey, please."
The barista nods and starts making my order.
I take a seat at a secluded table and pull out a book that I borrowed the other day. I can finally relax and finish it.
A light tap notifies me that my latte's finished. I take a cautious sip, and the creamy deliciousness fills my mouth. Mm, that dash of honey really completes the drink.
I return to my novel to accompany a troubled protagonist on her journey to redemption: Lindsay Smollett. I left off where she "accidentally" killed her mother. Sure, it sounds like she's a long road away from redemption, but after about 190 pages, I think she's doing great. I mean, her mother was an abusive cunt who would lease her daughter out for drugs.
Everyone reaches their breaking point eventually.
The chair across from me screeches as someone seats themself.
I glance up from my novel.
He clears his throat.
"Hey, I'm Jake."
And I'm busy.
Sheepishly, I grin. "I'm Gen."
"You come here often?"
"Sorry, I'm just—" I lift my book, hoping he'll get the hint.
He nods, acknowledging my gesture. "Right—don't want to be bothered. Sorry."
He gets up to leave. I feel bad now…
"I-I'm sorry. It's been a rough couple of weeks for me. I didn't mean to come off rude."
"Nah, it's fine. You mind if I sit here?"
I pause for a second.
"I swear I'll be silent. You looked very emersed in your book."
So, this guy just wants to watch me read?
He's not bad-looking. I mean, nothing about him screams run, cover your purse, or keep your self-defense weapon handy.
After a few minutes, he places an order for a small, iced black coffee.
I take note of his lack of taste while sipping my vanilla latte.
Although this is a heart-wrenching and devastating novel, of course, there are a couple of love interests to spice things up. First, we have the sweet and heart-warming love interest—he's nice, he does everything for her, and he's accepted by the parents—Luke. Then, we have the bad boy, the unattainable and dark love interest—he's an asshole and parents hate him—Jace.
So, while Lindsay's riding off into the sunset with Jace, escaping a murder rap, Luke is left pining after her. True, Lindsay's problems trump Luke's feelings, but—
"Good read?"
I break from my thoughts. "Yeah, very… um thought-provoking."
I smile at him. He returns the gesture.
"Maybe I should give it a read."
I nod absentmindedly. Then, I remember the smut that occurs throughout the novel. Eek.
"What school do you go to?" I ask.
"Sellworth High. I'm a rising senior."
"Yeah, same, but at Clarenton High," I nod.
"So, Gen, can I have your number?"
Smooth.
My first instinct is to say no, I have a boyfriend. However, Jake's nice. We could be good friends. What's the harm?
We exchange numbers, and he gets a phone call.
"One sec," he whispers.
I can't imagine I've been good company, so why does it seem like he's trying to get rid of whoever's on the phone to return to me?
I bury myself back into A Girl's Secret.
Oh shit, Jace crashed. It's not gonna be long before the police catch up with them. I mentally gasp. What if Luke's helping them? I mean, he "loved" Lindsay, and now she's running off with the hot bad boy. Let's be real, though. That "love" is just infatuation—
"Wow, you seem to be in a whole other world," Jake chuckles.
"Yeah, it's weird what a book can do."
He nods with a wild grin.
"I'll let you in on a secret," I whisper.
He leans in.
"Coming here, having a latte, and reading a book has to be the most fun pastime of mine."
He smiles suddenly, but I can sense humor behind it.
"You think I'm lame, don't you?"
"No, I think your hobby is cute."
I blush involuntarily.
"Thanks," I mutter.
He holds a genuine smile for a while.
"So, do you just casually enter coffee shops to watch girls read?"
He chuckles darkly, "No, but when I see a pretty, smart girl in a café alone, I take my opportunity."
Charming.
"Well, I've got to go. We should meet up sometime soon. Maybe you can watch me read more Murder-Romances," I giggle.
He nods and crosses his arms.
* * *
"Dude, what are you wearing? Do you want to get catcalled?" Claire guffaws.
I roll my eyes. "Shut the hell up. I lost track of time. Also, no one told me that I was scheduled for 11am."
Catcalled?
"Morning, everyone!" that voice screeches.
I wonder if people know they sound annoying…
"We're doing clothing distribution today."
"When are we out today?" I whisper.
"Mm, I think at about 5…"
I sigh. So much for my relaxing day.
I'm dressed like a yoga instructor in L.A. I have to admit that I look good, though.
"The doors open at 1, so we need to get a move on," a deep, authoritative voice states.
We? When has he ever done anything more than sit around in his office?
Boxes of cotton T-shirts, sweatpants, and sweaters are stacked up around the room.
"We're going to put a sweater, a pair of pants, and a T-shirt in each bag. Every item is a size large. Let's get to work."
To my surprise, he rolls up his sweater sleeves, and tears open a cardboard box. Claire and I do the same. Some Sunday morning service—classic.
We lined up three boxes for the respective garments, and we created a human conveyor belt to bag all the clothing efficiently.
Staple starts monitoring all the groups. So far, we have made the most progress, not to toot my own horn. Toot toot.
"Good work," he whispers huskily.
5 minutes in and we've finished about 100 bags.
Before I know it, it's 12:59, and the main doors are being unlocked. People start rushing in and collecting clothing.
I feel eyes on me. Not literally, but I'm getting that instinctual feeling… like someone's watching me. It's like when you think a spider's on your back, but it's just lint. I turn to see Drake, but his back is turned toward a different group.
I snap back around to hand someone a bag.
"Who's that?" I ask Claire.
"That's Jax," she smiles mischievously.
"Claire and Jax, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—"
"Shut up." She turns red.
"Ooh, you actually like him?"
"Don't sound so surprised," she crosses her arms.
"I'm not. I mean not like that. I just didn't think you'd have a true crush."
He's not the guy that got her number the other day…
"So, how long have you—"
"More bag-handing, less interrogating," she rolls her eyes.
I roll mine back at her, and they land on our supervisor. Surprisingly, he's already looking in our direction.