Page 3 of Should Our Hearts Catch Fire
“No need to thank me.” He hesitates before shaking Tony’s hand. It feels wrong, accepting gratitude for displaying the bare minimum of consideration.
“But—”
“You can go,” Ellis cuts in. “Pass whatever you’re working on right now onto another project manager. You have two weeks to wrap everything up.”
With a court nod, Tony takes his leave, stopping in front of the door. “Ellis?”
Ellis suppresses a groan. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry you have to deal with all this.”
Taken aback, Ellis gives an awkward shrug. “Comes with the job.”
“The job kind of sucks.”
The matter-of-fact delivery pulls an unexpected laugh out of him. “Bye, Tony. And good luck.”
“Thanks. Same to you.”
Ellis appreciates the sentiment, even though luck has never been on his side.
He doubts this time will be any different.
Ellis knows he’s overslept when a sunbeam falls over his face, waking him up. The sun is way too high for it to be 6 am. He blindly reaches for his phone, groaning when the screen doesn’t light up. Of-fucking-course he forgot to charge it.
He plugs the phone in and grabs his watch, squinting at the blurred numbers. 8:03.
“Shit.”
He’s not actually late. His day officially starts at nine, but he likes to get there early, and also get a workout in first. All the sitting on his ass for most of the day isn’t good for him. Not to mention that his GP was less than thrilled with the test resultsduring Ellis’ last visit. It was by the skin of his teeth that he avoided getting a prescription to manage his blood pressure. He’ll need to incorporate meditation back into his routine, it would seem. He has yet to figure out how to not fall asleep.
Speaking of not falling asleep…he needs coffee stat, no matter how much his GP protests. No way is he going to give up the one bright thing in his life, cardiovascular diseases be damned. Not that the coffee they serve in his office building is anything to write home about, but it’s decent enough to drink and strong enough to tide him over till the evening. Which is way more than he can say about the coffee served on the rest of the Coast. Why is it such an ordeal to find a café that makes consistently good coffee? How hard can it be? The coffee machine does all the work anyway.
God, he misses Sydney. Misses being able to walk into any café, even in the middle of nowhere, and get a spectacular cup of coffee. But beggars can’t be choosers.
Fifteen minutes later, after grabbing a lightning quick shower and brushing his teeth, he’s already in the car, checking for road work updates. The highways here are such a mess, it’s something new each day. Case in point; Gold Coast Highway lights up with red and orange, as does Sunshine Boulevard. Of-fucking-course this has to happen when he’s (almost) late for work.
He updates the GPS to lead him via alternative routes around the beaches and starts the car.ETA 32 minutes.Well, it will be cutting it close, but he should be fine. At least he has no appointments until ten. Oh yeah, that’s right—another appointment where he’ll have to tell the person he’s letting them go. Why did Amanda think it was a good idea to schedule the meeting for the morning? On the other hand, maybe it’s better to get it over with and focus on other things.
Taking a left turn onto Seagull Avenue, he passes by yet another café. He’s seen several on his way, paying them no mind, but something about this one makes him slow down and take a closer look. Why? He hasn’t a clue. The place looks like nothing special from the outside, and the few tables and chairs lined out front have seen better days. The name alone almost makes him bail. Who the heck names a businessLost and Ground? A serial killer, perhaps.
He pushes onto the gas pedal, passing the café, but only getting as far as the end of the block before a strange feeling in his gut compels him to stop. He’s set on ignoring it—there’s no reason to lose more time stopping for coffee when he has a perfectly adequate café at work. Still, he finds himself glancing into the rearview mirror.
Frustrated, he turns the car around. He pulls up to the curb in front of the café, disregarding the ‘no standing’ sign. He doesn’t have time to look for a parking space. It won’t kill anybody if he stays for a couple of minutes.
Out of curiosity, he googles the place before deciding to go in. The sheer number of high ratings stuns him. Over 500 with an average of 4.9. Yeah, right. He’ll eat his watch if at least half of these haven’t been paid for.
Either way, he’s already here. Might as well go in.
The second he steps inside and spots the queue, he knows he made a mistake. Jesus. Where have all these people come from? This isn’t even the main road.
Just as he’s about to turn around and leave, the divine smell of coffee, sugar, and spices fills his nose, making his mouth water. He blames it on them when his legs carry him further inside, joining the line of people waiting to be served. He triesnot to check the time whenever the line moves inch by slow, miserable inch. Why the fuck is it taking so long?
Once he gets a proper look, he can see why. There’s only one person behind the till and one behind the coffee machine. No wonder the line is moving excruciatingly slow, especially since most people seem to be ordering fancy, diabetes-inducing, basic-bitch drinks that can barely be considered coffee. Who the heck puts whipped cream on a latte?
As the line moves by a couple of feet—fucking finally—Ellis gets a view of the person taking orders. He expects to see some wide-eyed, disheveled kid on the verge of a mental breakdown, but he couldn’t be more wrong.
While the guy behind the counter looks rather young, he’s decidedly not a kid, though he might still get asked for his ID. His hands are flying over the till with surprising speed, incongruous with the time Ellis has spent waiting for his turn. Not only does the guy look perfectly composed; to Ellis’ irritation, he even indulges the customers in some corny small talk. He seems to beenjoyingthe pointless chitchat, Jesus Christ. What a weirdo.