Page 2 of The Relationship Clause

That’s the reason I’m a twenty-six-year-old college graduate working at a coffee shop. It’s also the reason I’m determined to hold on to this job for at least a year, despite the fact that I’m already feeling that itch to run. I’ve got to turn my life and my resume around. I’ve got to show that I’m the kind of employee who can stick around.

The fact that I got this job was nothing short of a miracle. The day I marched in here, determined to get hired, he took one look at me, one look at my resume, and threw it away.

At first, I thought he might be crazy, but it turns out, that’s how Pete is. Always looking more at the soul of a person rather than what’s merely there on paper. It’s probably why his shop is the most frequented coffee place in downtown Greenville, South Carolina. It may not be the most conveniently located, but people line up every morning for his world-class service and his wife’s even more incredible croissants and pastries.

“I don’t know, Junie,” Pete says, rubbing his neck. “I mean, you did have surgery.”

“I’m fine,” I say as I rinse the blender out. “Trust me.” But as I say it, I accidentally knock over a roll of paper towels. Without thinking, I bend to pick it up and immediately regret the decision.

Pain radiates from my stomach. I inhale sharply and clutch the lower-right side of my belly. As soon as the feeling of someone stabbing me subsides, I realize what I’ve done and glance up. Pete is watching me, a mixture of concern and annoyance on his face. Concern for obvious reasons, annoyance because he’s probably figured out by now that I one hundred percent lied about when my doctor said I could come back to work.

“Go home, Junie. Now. I don’t care how much you need the money.” He points to the door as if that makes it final. Ha. Far from it.

“Nope. I’m fine. Cool. Totally cool.”

“Junie.”

“Pete.”

“Junie!”

“Pete!”

We’re at a standstill, my stubbornness on full display. He opens his mouth, probably about to fire me—okay, not really, but he might threaten—when Pete’s niece, Marlee, breezes into the store, late as usual.

“I’m here!” she announces. Then she stands back and lets a gust of January wind inside, plus about five other people. The lull is officially over. I recognize the first man and jump to make his order, but Pete puts a firm hand on my shoulder.

“No,” he says like he’s talking to a disobedient dog. “I may not be able to make you go home, but you will not be making any more coffee.”

I let my jaw drop. “What am I supposed to do then?”

He drags over a stool and sets it down in front of the register. “You’ll sit here and ring people up.”

“But I—”

“No more buts, Junie. Sit or I will fire you.”

I sit. Not because I think he’d actually fire me—at least, I hope he wouldn’t—but because of the look in his eye as he says it. He means business, so I’d rather not test him. Plus, in all honesty, sitting sounds good.

Marlee comes in behind me and clocks in. “Dang, girl. You’re back sooner than I thought you’d be.” She gives me a once-over. Her cool-blue eyes complement her icy-blond hair, which is currently streaked with pink. “Also, you look a little pale and your face seems thinner. Are you sure you should be here?”

I roll my eyes as Pete waves at his niece, as if to say, See?! I’m not the only one who thinks this!

I give an exaggerated sigh. “I’m pale because I’m always pale—came standard with the red hair, in case you were wondering.” Marlee exchanges a look with her uncle, and I hurry on in case they try to gang up on me. “Anyway, yes, I’m back, and I’m bound to this stool. Now go make yourself useful and get Stan over there his coffee and croissant.”

Marlee and Pete are not the last to point out my reappearance at work. Several of my favorite regulars continue to bring it up. Each time they do, it’s like another nail in my “going home early” coffin that I’m sure Pete is building.

The thing is, he doesn’t get how desperately I need the money. I mean, he kind of gets it. Everyone knows hospital stays are expensive. So are antibiotics. A ruptured appendix is murder on the wallet. And the checking account. And the non-existent savings account. I mean, I haven’t gotten the bill yet, but I’m not naive; I know what’s coming.

Unfortunately, that’s just the half of it. While I was throwing money out the window at the hospital—eating five-star meals, sleeping in the finest cotton sheets, and permitting people to save my life—the pipes in my little two-bedroom, one-bathroom fixer-upper decided to burst. I wish I could say the damage was minimal, but that’s not how things go in my life. I had a guy come and assess everything yesterday. The figure he gave me to fix it almost put me back in the hospital.

So, yeah, I’m holding on to my hours here. I’m holding on to them like the kitten in that GIF dangling off a bed sheet for dear life.

Maybe I wouldn’t be in such a dire situation if I could hold on to a job for more than a few months.

The thought brings a scowl to my face. Saying I am my own worst enemy sounds so cliché, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Maybe if I stuck to one job for longer than a few months, I could have a savings account built up for things like medical and home emergencies. Maybe I would have better health insurance.

But I almost can’t help it. I’m not good at sticking around. I’m not good at long-term relationships in any form.

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