Page 1 of The Relationship Clause

CHAPTER 1

JUNIE

My phone vibrates twice, and I sneak it out of the pocket of my stretchiest, most comfortable black yoga pants. Stretchy pants were an absolute must today.

If it were up to me, I’d be home wearing no pants, bundled up in a blanket, watching reruns of Gilmore Girls.

Unfortunately, the choice of pants or no pants is a luxury only the rich or remote workers can afford. I, however, am just a lowly barista making barely above minimum wage.

By the way, if you ever get the pleasure of having a near-death experience and then get the chance to return to work quickly after, don’t. Just don’t.

As it stands, I have no choice. Yay me.

After a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure my boss isn’t around, I check my messages.

Kiera: Girl. I’m DYING for an update. Is he there yet?

Kiera: GIF of Mr. Bean waiting in a field.

I smirk at the image from my best friend.

Junie: No, he isn’t here. Quit texting me while I’m at work.

Kiera: Fine. But try to get a picture of him this time.

Junie: You know that’s not going to happen. He would totally notice and awkwardness would ensue. Now stop texting me.

Kiera: Yeah, yeah, but you know, if you can’t make anything happen with this mystery man, you’re going to let me set you up with someone.

Kiera: Also, how’s your first day back?

Junie: GIF of Dwight Schrute saying “I’m not dead.”

Kiera: Hugs. Okay, I’ll stop texting. But I love your face, bestie.

Junie: Yeah, yeah, right back at ya.

“Um, hello? Junie? Did you hear me? I said one large blonde roast, please?”

My attention snaps to the woman holding out her credit card. She’s a regular, and I recognize her immediately with her dark hair graying at the temples and pulled back into a low bun. I should know her name, but thanks to my recent absence from work and the current brain malfunction I’m having, I can’t remember what it is for the life of me.

“Gotcha covered,” Pete says from over my shoulder. He hands the woman her coffee and takes the card, gently nudging me to the side with his hip.

I smile apologetically. “Sorry. Haven’t quite gotten my head back in the game yet.”

Both Pete and the woman—Margie, from the name on her cup—give me sympathetic looks. “Bless your heart, honey,” she says in her thick, southern accent. “I’m glad to see you back and in good health.” Then she stuffs a bill in the tip jar and rushes out the door.

There is a rare lull in the regular hustle of Monday morning. Several patrons sit in booths or at tables, surrounded by coffee-themed art hanging on the walls, but no new customers line up. Pete turns and throws his hand towel over his shoulder, giving me a serious look.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Need to take a break?” His eyes dip down, scanning the front of my apron, and I know what he’s thinking before he even says it. “Maybe you should—”

“No.” I whip around and grab the blender. “I don’t need to go home. I need to work, which is why I’m here.”

“So you say…” He rubs his neck and his eyebrows pinch together in that fatherly look of concern I’ve come to appreciate. I’ve only worked at Pete’s Perk Up for four months, but I can already say Pete is, hands down, my favorite boss ever, and that’s saying something, since I’ve had about, oh, twenty-ish bosses in my twenty-six years.

Yeah, my resume is a hot mess.

Such a hot mess that I’ve started to struggle finding new jobs, which is something that never used to be a problem for me. But now, employers take a look at my history, and suddenly, it’s a red flag. Why bother hiring and training someone they know will quit a few months later?

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