44: Book Six by Jools Sinclair

shoving his drink across the counter at me.
    I stared at him for a moment, confused.
    “That was supposed to be a soy milk cappuccino. But just taste it.”
    “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, hesitantly. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “That’s not soy milk in there.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing my head. “I must have spaced. I’ll make you another one. On the house.”
    “No,” he said. “I’ll have the other girl make it. You’ve already done enough damage to my day.”
    “But I—”
    “Let me,” Mo said, frustration in her voice. “Just take care of those gingerbread ladies.”
    She took over and the customer drummed noisily on the counter while I finished up the other drinks.
    I tried not to let it get to me, but it did.
    Sometimes when I had days like this, I wondered how I would cut it in the culinary world, if indeed I ever got there. Except for soccer, I hadn’t ever been too good under pressure. What if I ended up leaving out key ingredients? Or using the wrong ones?
    I wasn’t like David. I couldn’t memorize lines, let alone recipes. Since the accident, my memory hadn’t been the same.
    Maybe my career as a chef would be over before it had even started.
    I tried to focus on steaming the milk and not take it all on at once.
    “I’m going for my break,” Mo said, taking her apron off after the angry customer had left. “You think you can handle it out here?”
    “Sure,” I said.
    She stomped off into the back. 
    I tried not to take it personally. In the last few weeks, Mo was even moodier than usual. I couldn’t remember the last time I had even made eye contact with her. She barely said anything to anyone. I knew she had her own life with her own troubles. I knew her band was close to breaking up, despite their relative success.
    We all had our problems.
    I kept flashing back on my vision.
    The look on her face.
    The knife.
     
    ***
     
    The order was a simple one. I had made dozens that day already.
    A pumpkin spice latte.
    “So how’s it going?” he asked.
    The college professor was one of our best customers. He came in often, usually wearing a wool blazer and always ordered the seasonal drinks. He liked to chat. Anytime when he came in, Ellen, if she was working, would get all flustered and frantic. She’d never say anything, but I had the impression she had a major crush on him. 
    “Oh, my day’s been okay,” I said. “How about yours?”
    “Great,” he said. “You can’t beat teaching when it comes to vacation time. Winter break’s the best. Well, if you don’t count summer.”
    He smiled and leaned across the counter. 
    “I’m jealous,” I said. “I wish I got as much time off.”
    I finished frothing the milk and poured it into the cup. I slid it across the bar to him.
    “Order up,” I said.
    “Thanks, Abby,” he said, taking it and setting it down at a table not far from the counter.
    “Enjoy,” I said.
    Unfortunately, that wasn’t the last I saw of him.
    He came back up a couple of minutes later, still smiling, but I knew something was wrong.
    “Sorry, but I think my pumpkin spice latte might be missing something,” he said.
    Mo was back and she grabbed it from him, opened the lid and took a sip, spitting it back out.
    “Jesus H. Macy, Craig. You forgot the pumpkin and the spice. Oh, yeah. And the coffee. It’s just milk. Look.”
    I felt my cheeks grow red as I looked at it.
    “You’re acting like a real spaz today, Craig,” she said.
    “Sorry,” I said to the professor.
    “Not a problem,” he said. “I’m Elliot by the way. Elliot Beverly.”
    “Abby,” I said, feeling like a deflated punching bag and realizing he already knew my name.
    But he didn’t seem the least bit upset, his light eyes sparkling, catching the rays of the sun streaming through the windows. Mo made him a fresh one and handed him a coupon for a freebie. He told me again not to worry about it and left. I watched his BMW pull out of the lot, feeling