Beautiful Failure

by Mariah Cole

  I try not to laugh for the rest of the meeting as every person tells some type of hour-long sob story. If it wasn’t for the fact that I only have twenty dollars to my name—or the fact that I’m now subject to random urine tests, I would drive to the liquor store right after this meeting so I could forget all about it.

  As a three hundred pound man begins to whimper about no one loving him, I turn my attention to the only window in the room, where the leaves of a pecan tree are in full bloom. There’s a couple holding hands and walking around it, looking as carefree as can be, and I can’t help but feel that that’s where I really belong.

  Out there.

  When the meeting finally comes to a close, I stand with everyone and murmur the shared mantra: “I am not alone anymore and I will beat my addiction.”

  The second that last word is out of my mouth, I rush to the parking lot and start my car.

  Technically, the judge could’ve suspended my license until my rehab was complete, but since I never actually slid behind the wheel of my car when I was drunk that night, there was nothing that legally warranted that.

  However, she did say that if I get so much as a traffic ticket during the next three months that she would happily take it away.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  I knock my head against the steering wheel with each angry thought. I’m not going to last much longer in Alcoholics Anonymous. I can already feel it.

  Just as I’m about to pull off, Tim steps in front of my car and motions for me to stop.

  I raise my hands up, saying, “What?” and he walks over to my window.

  “Emerald, correct?” he asks.

  “What do you want?”

  He pulls a sheet of paper out of his back pocket and unfolds it. “I think you’re forgetting about the fine details of this arrangement.”

  I give him a blank stare.

  “Okay...” He looks down and reads the paper. “Emerald Anderson will hereby attend state mandated rehab sessions and assist in the preparation and dismissal practices for each aforementioned meeting.”

  I bite my lip and give him one of my seductive glances, hoping it’ll make him forget whatever he has to say for another day.

  It doesn’t.

  “You have to clean up after every session and you need to come three hours early next time to set up and help with the yard duties. This is included as a part of your community service, but it’s also your job. If you fail to do the basics, I’ll have to report you to the court. Are we clear?”

  I grit my teeth. “Crystal.”

  “Good.” He taps the top of my car. “I’ll let it go this time since it’s your first day, but I’ll call the judge if you’re a second late next time.”

  He walks away and I speed off, immediately slowing down to the speed limit once I remember that I’m on thin ice with the law.

  Heading home, I see numerous “Now Hiring” signs in the windows of Blythe’s oldest shopping center. I consider stopping and collecting applications, but I know there’s no point. I’m sure most people in town are aware of what I did last weekend and would be more interested in hearing me explain that than talking to me about employment.

  Grateful that my grandparents aren’t there when I pull into the driveway, I rush up to my room and flop onto the bed.

  High above, on my ceiling, are where my latest wallpaper decorations are staring back at me. There’s only room for three more rejection slips, but I have a feeling I’ll be receiving them by the end of the week...

  Days later, I find myself behind the coffee counter of Starbucks at five in the morning.

  Usually, the smell of coffee excites me, but the sickly sweet smell of espresso shots and mocha is making me nauseous for some reason. What’s more is that this is a Starbucks bistro, so it’s a lot smaller (concentrated) than a normal coffee shop because the main seating area is outside.

  The manager—an overly exuberant man with wisps of gray hair and freckles, has been walking me through the basic steps of coffee preparation since I walked through the door.

  Virginia has coaxed him into hiring me, and even though I need to quickly earn that $8,000 I owe, I’m suddenly wishing that she hadn’t.

  “Always smile.” “The customer is always right.” “Coffee makes everyone happy so you need to look happy.” The manager says in succession; I still haven’t caught his name.

  “Any questions, Em?” He smiles.

  “Emerald,” I politely correct him. “I think I have everything.”

  “Great!” He adjusts my green beret and then he motions to a blonde who’s been watching us the entire morning. “Sarah, make sure you train Emerald to the best of your ability this week.”

  “Will do,” she says and she waits until he goes into the back room. “You’re Virginia Marsh’s granddaughter, right?”

  I nod. I’m not in the mood for conversation.

  “Well, I never see you at church...” She hands me a pair of plastic gloves.

  “I’m taking a break.”

  She laughs and clutches her chest. “A break? You live in a house with Virginia Marsh and she lets you take a break from church? No fucking way...”

  I raise my eyebrow at her cursing.

  “Don’t worry, Emerald.” She smiles. “All of us Blythers aren’t as simple as we seem. You want to get dinner together after we’re done today?”

  I know common protocol is to lie about social outings when you’re not interested, to say something nice like “Oh, I wish I could but I have plans tonight,” but I honestly don’t give a fuck.

  “No. Could you show me how to make the lattes?”

  She looks slightly offended, but she shows me how to make every latte on the menu. Then she walks me through the basic coffees and cold drinks.

  When the first customers arrive, she lets me take the orders and handle the money while she mixes everything.

  I try my best to smile at every customer, but since most of them are engaged in whatever’s happening on their smartphones, I don’t bother looking up by the time its midday.

  “Okay, things are probably going to be slow for the hour or so.” Sarah starts a new pot of specialty coffee. “Do you want to learn how to make the smoothies?”

  “Sure.”

  She takes a carton of bananas out of the fridge, and the bell over the door rings.

  “Get whoever that is will you?” she says. “I’ll set everything up.”

  I turn around and without looking up, I enter my passcode into the register. “Starbucks Bistro. What’s your name and what do you want?”

  “Is that the new greeting now?” A deep voice says. “Did it change recently?”

  “They don’t pay me enough to make conversation. What’s your name and what do you want—Please?”

  “Carter.” He hesitates. “Carter Black. Grande coffee with a hazelnut shot and two sugars.”

  I write “C.B.” on his cup before turning around and making it as quickly as I can.

  When I finish and decide to face him, I’m completely taken aback by how attractive he is.

  His black V-neck shirt is hugging his perfectly chiseled six pack, and his dark jeans are hanging off his hips, exposing a small glimpse of what I can already tell is a perfectly carved V-line. His dirty blond hair is beyond tousled—like he just rolled out of bed seconds ago. And his eyes—his sapphire blue eyes, are currently locked on mine.

  “Are you going to give me my coffee?” He smiles, revealing a set of deep dimples. “Or do they not pay you enough to do that either?”

  “Three dollars and seven cents.”

  He hands me his golden member card, never breaking gaze with me.

  Once I swipe his card, I hand him his coffee and he smiles again.

  “When did you start here?” he asks.

  “Thank you for visiting Starbucks. Have a nice day.”

  He smiles even wider and brings his cup to his lips.

  I’m tempted to tell him to stop staring at me or put him out o
f the store, but he seems like the type that would think I was joking. Then again, the manager did say that some of the regulars like to sip their coffee before leaving, to make sure it’s up to par; If not, we’re supposed to remake it...with a smile.

  An entire minute passes and he’s still looking at me, still savoring that same small sip.

  I sigh. “Is there something wrong with your coffee sir?”

  He moves the cup from his mouth. “It’s a bit bitter.”

  “No, it’s not.” I scoff. “I just made it.”

  “I’m pretty sure it is.” He hands the cup back to me. “Can you add some more sugar please?”

  “There’s a condiment stand on the back wall. You can add it yourself.”

  He raises his eyebrow, looking as if he can’t believe I just said that.

  “Mr. Black, is there something wrong?” Sarah is suddenly at my side, looking back and forth between me and this idiot.

  “Not at all. I was just asking,” he says as he looks at my nametag, “Emerald if she would add some more sugar to my coffee.”

  “Oh! I got it!” Sarah takes the cup and begins to remake it while I glare at him in silent contempt.

  “There you are.” She hands the new cup to him with a smile.

  He takes a slow sip of it and smirks, winking at me. “Much better. Thank you ladies.” He looks at my nametag again before walking out of the store.

  “Is he someone important in town or something?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so.” She shakes her head. “I just know his name is Carter, he’s a regular here in the summer, and—”

  “He has a stick up his ass.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, then.” She shrugs and starts to show me how to make the smoothies. “Pay close attention to this, alright? Oh, and did you really not want to grab dinner after work? Are you out of your bitch mode yet?”

  “No, and I’m not in bitch mode,” I say flatly and she laughs.

  I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a Cartier watch—a four thousand dollar watch on her left wrist, and black Chanel flats. There’s no way she can afford either of those by working here—unless her parents are loaded, and I know they’re not because no one in Blythe is loaded.

  I decide that both items are grade-A knock-offs and that I’ll ask her where I can get them from. But, when she goes on break I notice her Valentino bag and know for a fact that it’s real; I used to have the exact same one.

  How the hell did she get that? And where?

  For the rest of my shift, I try to be as polite as I possibly can to the customers, wondering if there’s some type of employee “designer discount” bonus that I don’t know about.

  By the time I clock out, my back and my feet ache from standing all day. To make matters worse, I’ve subconsciously counted my pay for the past eight hours: Sixty four dollars. Before taxes.

  This shit is for the birds...

  The next day, I find myself face to face with an elderly man who’s been holding up the line for at least ten minutes.

  “Ah...” he says. “What about that soy latte?”

  “There’s no added sugar in that one either.”

  “Hmmm.” He nods, still seemingly transfixed by the menu above. “I just don’t know...Everything looks so good today. I mean, I come here every day, but there’s something about today...”

  “Okay sir.” I try my hardest not to roll my eyes. “Could you step to the side please? I’ll help you whenever you make up your fuck—whenever you make up your mind.”

  He smiles and kindly steps to the right, letting me assist the fifteen other customers that have been waiting behind him. When I’ve served everyone, he tells me that he’s settled on a plain black cup of coffee.

  “You ready to go on your break?” Sarah taps me on the shoulder and I notice she’s wearing a different Cartier watch on her wrist.

  Maybe she’s a drug dealer...I wonder if she needs a new transporter... “I’m more than ready.”

  “Okay. See you in an hour.”

  I press a few buttons on the register and hear a familiar voice.

  “Can I have the same thing I had yesterday?” It’s Carter. “With the right amount of sugar?”

  “You think I actually remember what you had yesterday?” I definitely do, but I refuse to admit it. “Sarah will have to make it for you. I’m on break.”

  I walk away with a smile and feel his eyes watch my every move as I slip into the backroom.

  I grab the warm concoction I made earlier—a French vanilla latte with cinnamon and chocolate shots, and head outside to the patio, taking a table near the back.

  Going on break is always my favorite part of having a job—especially the jobs where they give you a full hour; thirty minutes is never long enough to convince myself not to quit.

  “Is this seat taken?” Carter steps in front of me.

  “Did you not hear me say I was on break? That means I don’t want to be anywhere near customers.”

  “All the other tables are full.”

  I look behind him and see that he’s right.

  As if he thinks that fact makes it okay for him to be my company, he takes a seat across from me. “I’ve never seen you around here before.” He blows on his coffee. “How long have you been living in Blythe?”

  I blink.

  “Do I need to repeat the question?”

  “I don’t share personal information with strangers.”

  “Strangers?”

  “Yes, i.e. people I’ve only seen once or twice, or assholes who like to make my life difficult by not adding sugar to their own coffee.”

  “Are you normally this wound up?”

  “Are you normally this chatty?”

  “Chatty?” He leans forward and brushes a stray hair away from my face. “I’m not chatty. I’m intrigued.” He trails a finger across my cheek before leaning back. “Very intrigued.”

  Silence.

  “If you’re going to ruin my break by talking to me...” I try to think of something because I need to get him away from me for a few seconds. He’s a lot sexier than I remembered. “You could at least buy me a brownie.”

  He smiles and heads inside, giving me a few minutes to breathe. Anyone I’m instantly attracted to is always trouble. Always.

  “You have a very beautiful name, Emerald.” He sits down again and hands me two brownies.

  “Thank you.”

  “I take it that buying you brownies doesn’t make me any less of a stranger?”

  “Excellent guess.”

  “Hmmm.” He watches me take small bites. “Do you like your job here?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. I don’t think customer service is for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Someone like you should never be allowed to work directly with people—or any breathing organisms for that matter.” He’s grinning, and I want to laugh but I keep it inside. “How old are you?” His voice is serious all of a sudden.

  “How old do you want me to be?”

  “Legal.”

  “Do I look like a minor?”

  “No, but it’s always good to double check.”

  “Young girls have been a problem for you in the past?”

  He laughs. “You have a very smart mouth.”

  “Pay me enough and I’ll show you what I can really do with it.”

  He raises his eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  I don’t back down. That’s one of Leah’s old lines—it used to net her an easy four hundred bucks, and I’ve often wondered what would happen if I ever used it.

  “Are you propositioning me to pay you for a blowjob?”

  “Is that what it sounds like?”

  “It does.” He smirks. “It also sounds like you’re full of shit.”

  I blink, and then I burst into laughter. “It was a joke.”

  “So you are a child?”

  I roll my eye
s and stand up. “Whatever. Enjoy your coffee.” I walk away without letting him get another word out.

  Sexy as hell or not, I don’t need an unnecessary distraction; I need to focus on getting out of this city.

  Over the next few weeks, he comes in every day—at the exact same time, ordering the exact same coffee. He always lets his fingers linger against mine for a few extra seconds after I hand him his cup, and he always asks me a random question after he does his customary test sip: “What’s your favorite color?” “Are you having a good day?” “Why haven’t you quit yet?”

  I almost start looking forward to seeing him every day—until he stops coming altogether.

  Chapter 4

  It’s raining again.

  The days of bright sunshine and cloudless skies that I’ve been enjoying at the bistro are no longer here. They’ve been replaced with ominous gray skies, wild winds, and a torrential downpour.

  The bistro is closed until later tonight—when the storm is supposed to pass, but the manager wants me to show up anyway. He says he needs to talk to me one on one about some new employee procedures.

  It takes me a few minutes to realize that I still don’t know his name, so I look it up online before I head out.

  Mr. Wes...Mr. Wes...Mr. Wes...

  As I pull into the parking lot, I notice that there is only one car here: A gray pickup truck.

  I park my car right next to it and pull out my phone—ready to call and ask why no one else is around. Before I can hit the call button, there’s a tapping on my window and I roll it down.

  “Yes?” I see Mr. Wes holding a poncho over his head. “Why is no one else here?”

  “Can I sit inside your car?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He reaches inside my car and pulls the button up to unlock it. Then he slips inside, getting water all over my seat. After he rolls the window up, he turns to face me and sighs. “I’m going to have to let you go, Emerald.”

  “What?”

  “I was running the numbers yesterday. You logged five hundred orders of coffee last week, but the amount of receipts don’t reflect that...I did some investigating and found that you were letting forty percent of the patrons get their coffee for free.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  He clears his throat, clearly taken aback by my language. “You also told ten different customers to ‘fix it your fucking self’ when they asked you to remake their coffee. That’s against company policy. Now,” he says as he shifts in the seat, “I’m really good friends with your grandmother so I won’t tell her about this if you won’t. I’ll put in a good word for you at the soup kitchen or something and tell her you decided to go the volunteer route, or—”