THE MORNING CAME QUICKLY. I went to bed around one and woke up at six. How many hours do doctors recommend again? Seven? So, I'm only like 30 percent off target. Which, yeah, is a lot. But I've gotten used to staying up late and waking up early. I'm slowly becoming a New Yorker. I drink coffee daily, I'm starting to get the hang of the subway system, and I learned how to share the sidewalks with the stroller moms in Brooklyn.
Tessa has learned all this, too, right along with me, although we differ in one maybe-significant way: I give less of my money to the homeless I see on my way to school and back. Tessa, for her part, gives away half of her tip earnings on the walk home. Not that I don't care or help, I just prefer to give coffee or muffins when I can, not money to feed possible addictions. I understand the hope Tessa feels when she hands a homeless man a five-dollar bill. She truly believes he will buy food with it or something else he needs. I don't, but I can't really argue with her about it. Maybe she has the better idea here, but I know a lot of her attitude comes from her personal connection with the homeless. Tessa found out her dad, who wasn't around in her life, was living on the streets. They got to know each other a little bit before he succumbed to his addictions and died a little less than a year ago. It was really hard for her, and I think helping these strangers heals a small part of that open wound.
For every dollar she gives, she's rewarded with a smile, a "thank you" or "God bless you." Tessa's the kind of person who tries to pull the best out of everyone. She gives more of herself than she should and she expects people to be kind, even when it's not the most accessible part of their nature. I think she sees her small mission as some kind of redemption for her failed relationship with her father, and even with Hardin, who is one of the most difficult people I know. Maybe she couldn't help those two, but she can help these people. I know it's naïve, but she's my best friend and this is one of the only positive things that actually energizes her lately. She doesn't sleep. Her gray eyes are swollen 99 percent of the time. She's struggling with getting over a catastrophic breakup, the death of her father, moving to a new place, and not getting accepted into NYU.
That's a lot for one person to carry on their back. When I met Tessa a year ago, she was so different. Her shell was the same, a beautiful blonde with pretty eyes, a soft voice, and a high GPA. The first time I talked to her, I felt like I had met the female version of myself. We immediately bonded over being the first two to arrive in the lecture hall our first day of college. Tessa and I got closer as her relationship with Hardin developed. I watched as she fell in love with him, and he fell harder, and they both fell apart.
I watched them rip each other apart and then stitch each wound back together. I watched them become one another's everything, then their nothing, then everything again. I had trouble picking sides during the war. It wasn't without casualties. It was just too complicated and messy, so now I'm taking my cue from Bella Swan and staying neutral, like Switzerland.
Yikes, I'm referencing Twilight. I need caffeine. Pronto.
When I walk into the kitchen, Tessa is sitting at the small table with her phone in her hand.
"Morning." I nod to her and switch on the Nespresso machine. I've become somewhat of a coffee snob since working at Grind. It helps to have a roommate who's equally obsessed. Not as picky, but even more addicted than I am.
"Morning, sunshine," Tessa says distractedly, at first barely glancing up from her phone, but then her eyes go straight to the gash above my eyebrow and concern takes over her expression. After rubbing some Neosporin on it this morning, I was happy to be able to omit the Disney Band-Aid.
"I'm fine, but damn, that was embarrassing." I grab a pod of Brazilian espresso and push it into the machine. The counter space here is minimal, and the thing takes up half the room between the off-white fridge and the microwave, but it's a necessity.
Tessa smiles, biting her lip. "A little," she agrees, and covers her mouth to stifle her amusement.
I wish she would laugh . . . I want her to remember how it feels.
I glance over at her miniature coffee cup. It's empty.
"Need a refill? Do you work today?" I ask.
She sighs, picks up her phone, then puts it back down. "I do." Her eyes are stained with angry red lines again. Bloodshot from the tears soaked into her pillowcase. I didn't hear crying last night, but that doesn't mean she wasn't. She's slightly better at hiding her feelings lately. Or so she thinks.
"Yes to both. Work. And I want more coffee. Please," she clarifies with a half smile. Then she clears her throat and her eyes fall to the table as she asks, "Do you know which days Hardin will be here yet?"
"Not yet. We're still a few weeks away, so he hasn't told me. You know how he is." I shrug my shoulders. If anyone knows Hardin, it's her.
"You're sure this is okay, right? Because you know if you aren't, I can have him stay at a hotel or something," I offer.
I would never want her to be uncomfortable in her own apartment. Hardin would fight me over this, but I don't care.
She forces a smile. "No, no. It's fine. This is your place."
"And yours," I remind her.
I put the first cup of espresso into the freezer for Tessa. She's doing this thing lately where she only drinks cold coffee. My suspicion is that even something as simple as a warm cup of coffee reminds her of that boy.
"I'm going to pick up extra shifts at Lookout. I'm almost done with training anyway. They're letting me do brunch and dinner today."
My chest aches for my friend, and for once, my loneliness doesn't seem so bad compared to the alternative of her shattered heart.
"If you change your mind—"
"I won't. I'm fine. It's been—what?" She shrugs. "Four months
or something?"
She's lying through her teeth, but nothing good is going to come from me calling her out on it. Sometimes you have to let people feel what they need to feel. Hide what they think they need to hide and process it however they do.
The espresso burns my throat. It's thick and strong, and suddenly I have more energy than I did two seconds ago. Yes, I'm aware that it's a mental thing, and no, I don't care. I throw the little cup into the sink and grab my sweatshirt from the back of the chair. My running shoes are by the door, lined up in a straight row with the other shoes . . . Tessa's doing.
I slip them on and head out.