The Coffee Girl

I was always the kind of girl who knew what she wanted. I had left my home at the right bold age of 18, found a not-so-perfect job to maintain a steady pay check, and attended college in hopes of becoming a journalist in the future. But now, as I paced my apartment back and forth and back again, I was lost. With only the soft pitter-patter of my bare feet against the floor reminding me that this was all real, thoughts of Patrick and Jonathan couldn’t help running through my head.

I barely knew them; that was a key factor to keep in mind. But things had escalated to a point where I couldn’t very well forget them. I had, after all, found Patrick drunk outside of my work and had to drive him to Jonathan’s apartment. And all the things Patrick told me—all the things he could never tell Jonathan—how could I just cut off all communication after that?

The answer was simple; I couldn’t. The only thing I could do right now was befriend Patrick, even if it meant pissing Jonathan off even more.

I shuffled around my semi-clean kitchen, searching for the thermos I knew I had shoved somewhere after the summer camping trip last year. For some reason, I could never bring myself to finish washing the dishes and putting away the cutlery that was now piling up in my sink. So, I was left knocking over plates and poking my fingers on forks a fair amount of times. After sucking my bleeding thumb and pulling the thermos out of the bottom drawer without any consideration as to what would fall if I did, I began collecting all the ingredients I would need to make the hangover cure I had learned as a teen. I was ashamed to say that it was a family recipe, but it worked like a charm and this was what Patrick needed. I could only imagine the splitting headache he had after almost downing the entire bottle of vodka and the hell Jonathan was probably giving him for ditching the others and getting drunk.

After mixing together the odd ingredients, I quickly slipped on a green hoodie, jeans, and my converse, before grabbing my band and the thermos and heading out the door. The entire car ride to Jonathan’s apartment the little voice inside my head (that strangely sounded like the rhythmic chorus of a Beatles song) insisted on repeating what a bad idea this was.

Jonathan is going to kill you.

You’ll never hear the end of this.

You might as well just turn around now because he’s not going to let you in, not after what happened.

I swiftly told it to shut up, earning a frightened look from the driver next to me. Talking to yourself was a sign of genius, not insanity. Nobody ever seemed to get that.

With my hand tightly gripping the thermos to the point where my knuckles had turned white, I knocked on Jonathan’s apartment door. It wasn’t too hard to find considering there was only one person named Toews living in the building. I waited in the silence of the hall; my eyes roaming the elaborate setting of paintings and modern-esque lights. The sound of locks was heard from the other side of the door, then Jonathan opened it, still in only his pyjama pants. Now, however, his eyes were read and puffy, too much so for 1 in the afternoon. It was obvious he hadn’t gotten much sleep.

He raised a fist and rubbed one eye, stifling a yawn. “What are you doing here?” he inquired, furrowing his brow. “How did you know which door was mine?”

I suddenly felt like a stalker.

“It’s listed downstairs under your last name,” I replied smoothly. I wasn’t going to let him know that anything he said or did fazed me.

“But how did you get in? You need a key card.” His face was still firmly stuck in a disbelieving frown, as though I had nothing better to do with my time than track down his apartment and sneak my way in. Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Toews.

“Some lady let me in,” I said, nonchalantly. “Said she liked my necklace and we talked about the entire ride up to your floor.” Jonathan pursed his lips, obviously not finding it as amusing as I did, and then ran his hand through his light brown bed head. “I brought Patrick something for the inevitable hangover he has,” I said in a lower, more serious tone. I wanted to make it clear that I was there for Patrick and not just to annoy Jonathan.

He stared down at me for a moment; his eyes flickering from my face to the thermos then back to my face again, as though not knowing what to make of it. He licked his lips. “Why do you care so much?” he finally said.

The question had caught me off guard. Why did I care so much? I didn’t really know Patrick and Jonathan’s attitude was the last thing I needed in my life right now. But there was something else that kept me firmly in front of Jonathan, not willing to leave. Something about the vulnerability in Patrick’s eyes when I found him on the curb that reminded me of my childhood.

I let my head fall slightly and my hair followed, creating a dark curtain around my face. “My—uh—my mom was an alcoholic.” The reply had come out more depressing than I had hoped. “Spent most of her days face down on the washroom floor.” I looked up and noticed Jonathan’s face change. It wasn’t an expression I recognized, but it was definitely better than the scowl he had on a few minutes ago. “I’ve been through this enough to know that I don’t want it happening to anyone else in my life. And despite what you may think, or want, Patrick is part of my life now.”

Jonathan’s eyes remained firmly on me as he mulled something over. His sever expression, the brooding forehead and ever-so-slightly parted lips, would have had Michael Angelo himself rolling around in his grave just to be able to paint Jonathan Toews. To be able to take this moment of handsome contemplation and capture it forever.

One minute passed, then two, and then three before Jonathan said anything. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling as though I was waiting for a judge to make his verdict. Guilty or innocent? Annoying or a friend? This bit of motion seemed to grasp his attention because he straightened up and backed away from the door, opening it wider for me to come in. I let the one side of my mouth shoot up in a half-smile before stepping into what would be classified as a hockey player’s home from then on.

Trophies filled the glass shelves, which in turn lined the grey walls of Jonathan’s apartment. A few posters of movies were hung in glass frames here and there, one of which being Scarface. What was it with guys and Al Pacino? The modern—yet comfortable—living room fluidly broke off into a massive kitchen, which was illuminated by a series of artist’s lights.

This place made my apartment look like a closet.

“I think he’s in the washroom,” Jonathan said, snapping me out of my trance-like state. “He’s been throwing up all morning.”

“Well, I began, “Hopefully what I brought will help with that.”

“Hopefully.”

The sound of the toilet flushing and a few pained groans later, Patrick came stumbling out of the washroom in only his boxers. Any other girl in my position—sandwiched between a shirtless Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane—would have been swooning. I just felt slightly awkward. As though noticing my discomfort, Jonathan moved from behind me and walked into the kitchen where he seemed to be cooking something.

“Calli, what are you doing here?” Patrick asked; the playful smile was clear on his face despite the tired expression he was sporting. “Oh God!” he raised his hands to his face, shielding his eyes. “Your shirt is so bright!”

I looked down at my normal green sweater and chuckled softly.

“I brought you something for that,” I said, raising the thermos. Patrick rubbed his eyes whilst walking towards me. “The hangover headache will be gone in no time.”

He took the thermos from my hands and sniffed the top. “What is it?” His nose scrunched slightly.

I rolled my eyes.” Just drink it.”

Patrick’s face suddenly contorted. “Oh no!” he exclaimed before shoving the thermos back in my hands and rushing into the washroom. I stood in place, dumbstruck.

“I told you he’s been doing that all morning,” Jonathan said from behind me, forcing me to spin around and face him. “Puking his brains out,” he continued. I understood what he meant, but didn’t bother telling him that. The less Jonathan and I conversed, the less we would get on each other’s nerves, and the more peace of mind I would have the rest of the day.

Always thinking ahead.

I stood awkwardly in the same spot, watching him scrape the remnants of scrambled eggs from the smoking frying pan to a plate. While he was doing this, he also had another pan with pancakes going; both scents being overpowered by the burning toast flying out of the toaster. I had to admit, it was nice for Jonathan to go to so much trouble for his friend, especially after all the worrying Patrick had put him through.

“Do you need any help?” I offered, dropping my bag and moving to the bar-like counter surrounding the kitchen. “I’m not so much for the frying, but I can make perfectly toasted bread and a kick-ass pot of coffee. Coffee is definitely needed.” I flashed a meek smile as Jonathan placed the now empty pan back on the oven.

He turned back to me, leaned forward on the counter with his outstretched arms, and furrowed his brow. “Are you hitting on me?” He asked, one eyebrow cocking up in that way I always wished I could master.

I let my mouth slightly fall open, wondering how he could have gotten a sexual advance out of me offering to help.

“Um...when I said ‘a pot of coffee’, I actually meant a pot of coffee,” I replied, trying to equal his almost appalled tone. “You know what,” I picked up my messenger bag and slung it around my shoulders, “I should probably go.” How did things always turn awkward with him? It was driving me crazy. He was driving me crazy.

I looked at Jonathan and noticed the side of his mouth slide up in a crooked smile. Was Captain Asshole actually smiling? Could his heart be made of something other than ice?

“It’s just too easy getting under your skin.”

The answer was, no.

I scoffed at this ridiculous observation and folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t get under my skin.” And just as fast as the smile had appeared, it was gone, leaving behind only the soft crinkle of his forehead.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, turning back around to the stove. I gritted my teeth as I glared at his bare back. How could somebody be so hot and cold in only a matter of seconds?

“I’m leaving the thermos here,” I stated aggressively, “Tell Patrick to call me if he needs anything.” I noticed Jonathan’s head begin turning in my direction, but I just spun around and headed for the door before he managed to say anything else toget under my on my nerves. This kind of stress was usually gained at work because of Malcolm; I didn’t need it in advance too.