Page 35 of Latte Girl
Dear SoberJordan
Jordan
“Opa GangnamStyle!”
I bolt upright in bed, groping at the bedside table, my eyes still bleary withsleep.
“Fuck,” I croak, after realizing my phone is in my jacket pocket acrosstheroom.
I fall back in bed, throwing a pillow over my head to block out the sound of blaring K-Pop, but it’s no use. Peeling my blankets away, I cringe at the cold air of my apartment and make a dash for the coat rack by my door. I shut the alarm off and breathe a sigh of relief into the silence that fillstheroom.
Ah,Mondays.
Pulling my coat on over my birthday suit, I try to ignore what an image of a crazy person I make as I head over to the kitchen. Denying my own insanity becomes more difficult when I’m confronted with the sticky notes still plastered to every cupboard door andappliance.
After getting back from the disaster that was Flirtini Friday, I was still buzzing from the three for the road shots I took before leaving the bar. Drunk Jordan decided it would be a great idea to boost sober Jordan’s courage by covering the entire kitchen in sticky notes with ‘Talk to Hailey’ writtenonthem.
I turn on the kettle. There’s one stuck to thehandle.
I pour some oatmeal. There’s one attached tothebox.
I open up the egg carton. There are notes stuffed between alltheeggs.
I didn’t even know I owned this many stickynotes.
I try to ignore the messages and avoid replaying Friday night’s events in my head yet again, but seeing her name written down everywhere I look makes it impossible to block therecollectionsout.
I wasn’t even planning on going, but after being subjected to a deluge of excited texts and emails from my team, I realized that not showing up would be a serious hit to morale I couldn’t affordtorisk.
I spent most of my night standing at the bar looking disinterested while being praised by members of my team for using what they thought was some kind of advanced flirting technique. I was going to spend the rest of the night rooted to the spot, trying to keep up with all the drinks my team insisted on buying for me. Then I sawHailey.
She was walking across the room with another girl. They both looked tipsy, clutching each other’s arms and stumbling in their heels, but it still knocked the wind out of me to see her all dressed up. She managed to look gorgeous in a barista outfit; what she did in a mini dress was enough to induce cardiacarrest.
My first impulse was to go to her right then, say something that would make things right. I couldn’t figure out what that would be though, so instead I moved away from the bar to a couch where I could stay out of sight and brood the rest of theeveningaway.
Things went downhill fromthere.
I rub my eyes, echoes of our disastrous conversation clanging around my mind. Everything comes out wrong around her. I should do what I meant to do a long time ago and leave things as they are. I should stop feeding whatever fire there is between us, let the heat that sears in me whenever I see her burn downtoash.
I know I can’t, though. When I locked eyes with her on the edge of the dance floor, there was a hurt that flashed in her eyes, as brief as a searchlight piercing a storm. I barely registered the fact that she was wrapped around some other guy. All I saw was a woman whose feelings had somehow grown to mean more to me than a few chance meetings and one impulsive kiss could justify, staring at me like I was the last person in the world she wantedtosee.
I wish I could pry her brain open, find the words that would make this all better, but I have noideahow.
I take some cooking oil out of the cupboard. ‘Talk to Hailey’ says the yellow sticky note posted on thebottle.
* * *
I’m goingto talk toHailey.
Drunk Jordan may be a major fuckup— something he’s got in common with sober Jordan— but he knew what he was doing with those sticky notes. The thought of peeling them away one by one, reflecting on what could have been if I’d just followed their simple instruction, has helped me work up enough resolve to go through withmyplan.
‘Plan’ may not be the best term. I’m a few steps away from Dark Brown Coffee Co, and I still don’t have a clue about what I’m going to say. I don’t even know if she’ll bethere.
It’s just after five in the evening. I spent the entire day in my office, twiddling my thumbs and staring at spreadsheets, working up the nerve to comeoverhere.
I arrive at the cafe. The blinds are drawn on all the windows. A sign hanging on the inside of the glass reads ‘Sorry, we’reclosed!’
I pull on the door anyways, and it swings open towards me. A bell dings overhead and a voice from the kitchen calls out, repeating the words onthesign.
