Begin Again(18)
“Have you tried switching to tea?” I suggest.
Milo’s eyebrows rise up into his unruly curls. He turns to Shay. “You heard that too, right? You heard the new kid try to murder me.”
We’re interrupted by the sound of the coffee grinder and the sudden nearness of the group of freshmen at the register, their eyes alight with the promise of carbs.
“Hi, what can we get for you?” asks Shay, who moves aside to let me work the register but thankfully stays close in case I muck the whole thing up.
Even as I’m inputting all their orders in the system for the line cooks in the back, I’m acutely aware of just how many co-eds are lining up behind them. I ring up their order without a hitch, then quickly ask Shay, “What is going on?”
“The first-period rush hour,” she explains. The next kid must be a regular, because she taps in the order before he even opens his mouth. “Half the campus is hooked on Eternal Darkness.”
Shay is not exaggerating. A good hour later I feel like I’ve rung up enough orders for Eternal Darkness to make Satan himself mad for stepping on his toes. Shay and I make an excellent team swapping between the register and the coffee orders as Milo relays bagel orders to the back kitchen, only pausing to chug another cup of coffee so fast it looks like he’s competing in a sleep-deprivation Olympics.
“That can’t be good for him,” I say as he heads to the kitchen to collect another round of orders.
“I think he’s been like this awhile,” says Shay. “He’ll be fine.”
“Really?” I ask doubtfully. “A few minutes ago I watched him walk into a trash can and apologize to it.”
Shay’s face registers mild concern, but not necessarily surprise. “He’s a little overscheduled,” she says, just in time for us to watch Milo return from the kitchen while popping a coffee bean into his mouth and eating it raw. “Okay. Maybe a lot.”
I examine him as he hands a group of students their bagel orders, taking in his mildly bloodshot eyes and unkempt curls and overly tall but nonetheless slouched posture. “Hmmm.”
“Oh, no. I already know that look,” says Shay.
“What look?” I ask innocently, smiling at the next wave of students coming up to the register.
“The little miss ‘I’m gonna fix this’ look,” says Shay. “And trust me, when it comes to Milo and his common-law marriage with caffeine, you’re setting yourself up to fail.”
She’s probably right. But the thing is, Milo has helped me, and now I feel compelled to help him, too. I know that whatever is going on with his brother and his ex is none of my business, but coffee isn’t personal.
“We’ll see about that,” I say through my smile, which I then aim at a group of fellow students clutching their laptops like lifelines. “What can I get you?”
We get through the morning rush without a hitch. I take about a bajillion orders as fast as I can, and even then manage to make enough meaningful conversations to get invited to two parties, a neighborhood knitting club, and a rock-climbing gym.
I’m trying to decide whether or not my sneakers would survive such a feat when Milo appears, seemingly from out of nowhere. He hands me an ID badge that says “Andie” on it, spelled in the precise right way. “In case it wasn’t clear that you were hired,” he says.
I secure it to my apron, beaming. “We’re officially coworkers now.”
“Despite your aversion to my masterpiece,” he says, turning toward the coffee grinder. The gesture is short, but still long enough for me to see the slight way he almost seems to tremble at the movement, like there’s too much energy to contain.
This time I’m the one who reaches out and touches his shoulder. He’s done the same for me twice now, and both times I found such an immediate calm in it that it feels almost instinctive to do the same for him. But the moment I place my hand down—the moment my palm connects with the warmth of his skin, with the unexpected taut muscle of his upper arm—I feel a beat of hesitation so unlike me that I almost forget to speak.
I clear my throat. “Feel free to tell me to buzz off. But what if I had an idea to help with this coffee situation of yours?”
Milo’s lip quirks. “I’d say you’re fighting a losing battle.”
“You’re sure?”
Milo’s shoulder shifts slightly under my hand, the movement of it so subtle that it’s almost like he’s leaning into my touch. “You know what? If you’ve got any ideas, hit me with them. But know if they have anything to do with those wet leaves you call ‘tea,’ you’re fired.”
I beam at his back as he walks off. Eventually the rush passes. Midmorning classes start, and it’s evident that none of us has one on Tuesdays, because we’re all still here cleaning up in the aftermath.
Only once the dust settles does an unwelcome thought start to settle along with it. I try to busy myself with restocking the napkins and plastic cutlery, but all the while I’m replaying all the conversations I’d overhead in my head—other freshmen excited about the ribbon-hunt events, coordinating plans to meet up with one another. They were all so stressed about getting enough of each color. I wanted to join in their excitement, but all I could think about was the impossible task of trying to get ribbons for Connor and for myself.