NERO: Chapter 8

My ride to work is short and uneventful, and the driver is thankfully quiet as he navigates the empty streets of Minneapolis.

It’s nice being so close to everything, but I’d love to live in a house again someday. One that’s clean. In a safe neighborhood. Somewhere with a yard big enough for a garden, and a couple of chairs. Maybe a fenced-in yard so I could get a dog.

I bet if I had a dog, he would’ve barked his head off when that guy walked into my apartment last night. I bet my dog would’ve been so protective the guy would’ve turned around and left the way he came.

The fantasy is nice, but I can’t get a dog. No matter how much I might want one.

I work too much. I have a tiny apartment. I don’t actually know how to take care of one. And none of that even matters because mostly, I can’t afford a dog. I mean maybe if it was small, and only ate a little bit, and never ever got sick…

An ache starts to form in my chest at the thought of that sort of companionship, but I shove the feeling down just as the driver pulls to a stop right in front of Twin’s Cafe. I thank him before stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Just in time.

My cheeks puff out with a sigh as I use my key to enter through the front door and walk into the brightly lit establishment.

I stuff my purse into the cupboard under the register, and I almost laugh as thoughts wander back to the dog idea.

I may only have a high school diploma, but I’m smart enough to know it’s naïve to hope. I mean in general, it’s a bad idea. Especially about this. If my past luck is any indication, I’d wind up getting a pet with a never-ending appetite who gets sick with every change of season.

“Morning,” Jean, one of the owners, greets me distractedly as she carries a tray of scones up to the bakery display.

“Morning,” I reply, shrugging my jacket off and swapping it for a plain white apron.

“Miss the bus?”

Her question surprises me since I didn’t think she noticed me through the windows.

“Yeah.” I nod.

It’s easier to just say I missed the bus rather than saying I spent the money on an Uber on purpose. And there’s no way I’m telling her, or anyone, about what happened last night. At least not yet.

Jean makes a sound that might be construed as understanding, then goes back to straightening the items in the display case.

On autopilot, I go through the motions with her––brewing coffee, counting the till, and removing the cling wrap covering the deli salads in the cooler case.

Twin’s Café is a small, but consistently busy, breakfast and brunch spot. We open at six a.m. and close at four p.m., serving coffee, deli salads, soup, and sandwiches. There’s a kitchen in the back where Tamara, Jean’s twin sister, does most of the cooking, along with Tommy. He’s an older guy that doesn’t talk much. But he’s never been mean, or grabby, so he’s basically my best friend.

“First customer!” Jean calls out loud enough to make me jump.

She does this every morning, like we all need some sort of heads up to prepare ourselves. But today I was so in my own head that I didn’t even notice her unlock the front door.

“Okay!” Tamara’s cigarette-scratched voice shouts from the back.

As always, Tommy stays silent.

When I ring up my first cup of to-go coffee, I let the normalcy pull me in. And by the time 10:00 rolls around, I’ve almost tricked myself into forgetting about last night.

“Howdy, Payton!”

I smile as I turn toward the door to watch one of our regulars walk in, his usual swagger and charm in place.

“Hey, Carlton,” I greet him.

“How’s my favorite barista?” He grins as he approaches the counter, stopping when he’s across from me.

I just roll my eyes; I’m no barista. My talents are hardly worthy of the title. But no matter how many times I correct him, he keeps calling me that.

“You want the usual?”

Carlton dips his chin. “You know I do. Gotta keep this figure.” He runs a hand down his flat stomach.

I smile. “Uh-huh.”

I type his order in––a large, iced coffee with four sugars and cream and a chicken salad sandwich on a croissant with extra mayo.

Carlton is tall and lanky, and one of those people gifted with a high metabolism. Because no matter how often he comes in, no matter how many of these oversized sandwiches he consumes, he’s always thin as a stick.

Taking his card, I swipe it through the reader. “How’s the band doing?”

His grin widens. “Great! I don’t want to jinx it yet, but we might have a good gig coming up.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Carlton nods. “You’ll still come if we book it?” When I hesitate, my shoulders stiffening with nerves, he sticks his lower lip out in a pout. “You said you would.”

I force myself to relax a little at his teasing tone. He’s just being nice. “As long as the tickets aren’t like three hundred dollars, I’ll come.”

My attempt at making a joke flops as my mouth forms the word hundred. Reminding me of the damp hundred-dollar bill sogging up my wallet.

Call me paranoid, but I didn’t trust leaving it at home, even if letting it sit out to dry would’ve been the smarter idea.

Carlton laughs. “Deal.” Holding his hand out, like he wants to shake on it, causes my tenseness to reappear tenfold.

We’ve never touched before. That’s the safety of our friendship. That’s the safety of this job. I stay on my side of the counter, everyone else stays over there.

I don’t like to be touched.

It’s never gone well for me.

You didn’t mind when that man touched you last night.

My heart jumps a beat.

Because it’s true.

I didn’t mind it.

Carlton’s smile doesn’t waver, not seeming to read my hesitation.

Tentatively, I reach out. If I can let a stranger touch my body after breaking into my apartment, I can let a friend shake my hand.

His long fingers close around mine. And nothing bad happens.

I haven’t had much need for handshakes in my life, so I’ve never mastered them. In TV and movies, they always make it look so easy. Just take a hand and shake it.

But how hard do you hold on? How many shakes do you do? How big is the movement supposed to be?

Carlton doesn’t say anything about my loose grip, giving my hand two big shakes before he lets go.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I can be normal about this.

“I’ll keep you posted.”

I tuck my hands into my apron pocket. “I’m looking forward to it.”

That sounds like the right thing to say, even though I’m not sure if it’s a lie or the truth.

Movement just outside the cafe catches my attention. And when my eyes follow the distraction, my lungs clench.

It couldn’t be.

Carlton, following my gaze, turns to look back through the large windows onto the street. “Something wrong?”

He’s unintentionally blocked my view, so I have to shuffle to look around him, but the sidewalk is empty now.

Or was it always?

“Payton?” There’s concern in his voice as he shifts his attention back to me.

My attempt at a smile is brittle. “Oh no, it’s fine. I just thought I saw…” I trail off. Because what I thought I saw, I can’t vocalize.

I thought I saw a man in a suit. Staring at me. And Carlton. Jaw tight, fists clenched.

“Earth to Payton.” A hand waves in front of my face, and I jump.

“Sorry.” I press a hand to my chest. “I thought I saw a, um, dog.” My cheeks flush at my lie, so I follow it up with a truth. “I really want a dog.”

I’m saved from further awkwardness when Jean calls out Carlton’s name, signaling that his sandwich is ready at the other end of the counter. Gathering his lunch, Carlton holds the wrapped sandwich to his forehead in a salute goodbye, while backing out the door.

When he steps out of view, my eyes scan the street again.

Sill finding it empty, I wonder if maybe this is how I’ll die. Slowly losing my sanity, until even the nicest of customers stops talking to me.