Page 80 of Absolute Certainty
A customer stepped forward, a teenage boy named Lucas. He only wanted an iced tea.
There was one other person waiting afterward. He’d leave her for Gillian.
What was the point of writing and directing and fighting to create when he couldn’t even captain the ache perpetually docked in his chest? What was the point of working at this dead-end job when he was miserable here, and he could be miserable elsewhere—in Philly, closer to Eloise at least? What was the point of chasing some silly childish dream to make movies because they were there for him when he was desperate and lonely and sad and needed an escape? What was he trying to accomplish, and if he hadn’t already, shouldn’t he consider it a sign that it wasn’t in the cards for him?
Fuck all of this. Fuck the dreams. Fuck the hope. Fuck the pain.
He’d never been scared of the dark because he’d only ever known darkness. Light and joy were only ever around for three months out of the year—in the summer, when Eloise was with him. Sometimes, on the weekends, when he’d visit her.
Nora walked out behind him; the lines had been miraculously cleared. Two seconds of reprieve. It was all thanks to Gillian, Dahlia, and Harrison holding down the fort.
“Gillian, you can take your fifteen,” Nora started, then she turned to him. “I heard you yelling out here, but I was on the phone. Jesus, Jay. I get that some people deserve it, but you have to try to keep your cool.”
“Thatwasme keeping my cool. Consider it a miracle I didn’t curse him out,” he argued.
An exasperated exhale left her lips. What was he exhausting her, too? There was actually no point to any of this. On this day, of all days, it felt like a huge fucking sign. It was time to go.
Another disappointing thing to call his mom about.Hey, so I know today usually marks a tough anniversary for you since it’s the day Grandpa died. And that asshole who should’ve been your loving husband simultaneously hospitalized you, but I also quit my job because I’m not man enough to make a name for myself.
The tightness in his chest wouldn’t let up. He was done. He was out. He was too damn tired and too damn weak.
Shaking her head at him, Nora turned, walking back into the breakroom. Jay opened his mouth to call out after her and say the words, but the shop’s bell chimed.
And then he heard her voice—herlaugh.
Drawing his eyes to where Sahar had just walked in, Jay breathed again. Big brown eyes and wavy, long brown hair falling freely, she had on an oversized rust and orange plaid coat.
Sahar stopped mid-conversation and looked right at him—the tail-end of her laugh still dangling at the edge of her voice. “Hi, Jay.”
Sunshine. Sunshine. Sunshine.
It’d been a dark, gray morning. It’d been a horrible afternoon. It’d probably be a godawful night. But none of it mattered. Not at this second.
Not when his name falling from her lips sounded like solace.
Salvation, serenity, sweet, sweet sunlight.
Fuck.
Swallowing, he conjured a smile for her. “Hey, Sahar, Willa—the usual?”
“Hi,” Willa waved.
Sahar answered for them. “Yes, please. You alright?”
He knew that was the British way of greeting, but a part of him still felt like she cared. Like she sincerely wanted to know. Like she wasn’t just being polite. The smile on her face, still big and bright—sunlight.
This was how it always was with Sahar—she always acknowledged him. The other baristas, too, buttheywere the ones who bonded over football and video games.
He let out a low sigh. “Typical Sunday,” he replied candidly.
She gave him an empathetic pout. It was the most adorable thing. “Ah, I’m sorry, mate. I hope the day eases up.”
“Thanks,” he said, the slight quiver in his voice still present. He hoped she didn’t catch it.
But she must’ve because her eyes held a bewildering gaze. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she smiled instead. They moved to the other side of the counter after they’d paid.
Maybe he’d stick around for a little while longer here.
