What If (If Only.... #2)(8)
“We can also discuss how your mother and I let you f*ck around Europe for over a year without spending a penny of your own and how I called in a very high-profile favor to keep your spot at the university so you wouldn’t have to withdraw. How about we discuss that condo you live in and the truck you drive?” His tone is mockingly pleasant. “We have lots to discuss tonight, son.”
My jaw clenches as I swallow back my defense. Because he’s right. I have no argument. I just have to do what’s next, follow the path someone else set for me. That’s who I am.
“Sure, Dad. I’d love to stay for dinner.”
“Smiles, everyone!” The photographer has the floor.
The giant flash momentarily blinds me, but I know we all got it on one take. We always do.
Dinner. I just have to make it through dinner. Then a drink, or two, or seven. It’s looking like a Scottish whisky kind of night—minus greeting anyone else’s fist with my face. I make a mental note to check my phone for someone willing to join me. Whisky goes great with a late-night phone call.
Chapter Three
Maggie
I tamp the grounds down into the filter and brew, a perfect crema forming atop the espresso shot. The steamed milk is ready to go, and George, a Saturday night regular, waits and watches.
“What’ll it be tonight?” I ask him, hoping he’ll order something simple. Almost at the end of my double shift, my design skills wane as does my energy.
I glance at my row of sticky notes along the back side of the counter and find the one with George’s name, just to get confirmation. I sigh, a satisfied smile taking the place of my worry. Ninety percent of the time, George orders a latte. The notes don’t lie.
“Jeanie would love one of those tulips.” I lift my gaze from George to find Jeanie at their usual table by the window. She winks at me, and I wave. In the time I’ve worked here, they’ve been steady customers, stopping by on Saturday nights after babysitting for their grandchildren. I like the regulars. They’re patient with me as I learn their orders—and write them down so I can remember next time. Plus George and Jeanie are great tippers.
“A tulip for the lady. Absolutely,” I say.
I tilt the mug forward as I pour the milk, watching it sink under the coffee. The volume increases as I lower the pitcher to rest on the rim of the mug. A white circle begins to form on top of the crema, and I lift the pitcher, stopping the flow. With the mug still tilted, the milk stream falls north. I repeat the process two more times, each movement forcing the circle narrower, longer, until the three pours morph into a budding tulip.
“Not bad for the end of a double shift, huh?”
George slides a ten dollar bill across the counter, more than twice what he owes for the drink, but he never asks for change.
He leans closer to me, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Don’t tell her I told you, but Jeanie keeps asking when you’re going to stop working Saturday nights and go out with the other kids your age. Serving coffee to old farts like me and her or the off-campus drunks is no way to spend every Saturday night.”
“Routine works for me,” I say. “Plus, I get to draw for you and Jeanie. Drawing works for me too.”
I smile and look over my shoulder at Miles, who stacks the freshly washed cappuccino mugs on the counter. George follows my glance, first to Miles and then to the framed sketches that line the wall above the coffee supplies. My sketches.
“We do love your drawings, Maggie.”
George’s voice is soft and sincere, but the sigh that follows mirrors my own thoughts. I swallow back the lump in my throat as I stare at my work, moments captured inside a coffee shop: a group of college girls in animated conversation at a sunlit corner table; a young couple with a toddler—locals most likely—looking tired and disheveled but at the same time happy. Then there’s the guy and girl, a first date maybe, sharing a tentative kiss.
All my drawings are fictional, idealized versions of people I see here, images burned in memory where names may escape me—images of a life I might have had if things had gone differently. The art is my therapy, a place to live in moments that aren’t mine though I wish they could be.
Miles turns around, his gaze meeting mine. I don’t give him a chance to ask that all-too-familiar question. How ya doing, Mags? Instead I direct my attention back to George.
“Aren’t you worried about him going out with kids his age?”
George waves me off. “Miles is a grad student. He’s had his fun.”
I shrug. “I like it here. I like spending my Saturday nights with you. Kids my age are overrated.” I laugh at his choice of vocabulary. I’d go back to the kid version of Maggie in a heartbeat. Even the late teen years—I’d do those again. Teen me was so straight-laced, so careful. I did everything right. What did I learn? Careful doesn’t mean shit. Careful didn’t keep me from weeks of intensive care or months of learning to function like a human being again. I’d give anything to go back and tell that naive version of me that a night of reckless abandon—reckless within reason, because I am who I am—would do me some good. I chose careful then. Now? Careful chooses me, though I still manage to mess up. This morning’s bus incident proved that. These days the only way things get out of hand for me on a Saturday night is if the foaming wand gets clogged. Riveting.