Currently Seeking: A Life

It's closing time and the end of Jimmy's first day of work. He's been strangely helpful and although I hate to admit it, he's a good learner. I had to teach him how to use the machines so that he can pour drinks, show him where we keep all the containers for refills, demonstrate how the till works - he picked it all up on the first time. It took me at least a week and a half to get used to everything and I'm kind of envious.

We haven't spoken for most of the day; he's been in the back room washing dishes and mugs and teacups but now that the cafe is officially shut for today, we're both in the front of the shop to tidy up. Cass is lurking somewhere by the counter, turned away from us while she cleans up her own designated area. Jimmy, still wearing his apron in cape-form, puts down the mop that he's been sliding across the floor and stretches his arms above his head. I catch a glimpse of a belly button and the thin trail of hair that boys have, the one that leads down past the waistband of jeans, before he addresses me.

"Do you do this every day?"

I shake my head as I shut the blinds in the windows and glance over my shoulder at him.

"No, I only work weekdays but I'll be here every day for the next two weeks. Abigail - she's the weekend staff - is on an extended holiday in Spain."

"So you get to see me more often than usual. Lucky you, Violet."

I must not roll my eyes. He is Cassandra's nephew. I cannot afford to lose my steady friendship with her or, for that matter, my job over Jimmy.

He's babbling about something but I don't pay attention, just scoop up the remaining cleaning products and throw them in the cupboard near the counter. Cass bids me goodbye as I hang up my apron and pull on my coat. Same routine. Another day down.

"Hey, you walking home? We can drop you off, can't we Cass?" Jimmy says, turning to her imploringly. I find it strange that he uses Cassandra's first name so casually - my family call our relatives by their status: Aunt, Uncle, Grandad, Grandma. I don't know what that says about the relationships in my family or what it says about his.

"Oh, no. That's fine, my - uh - my dad picks me up." I admit, ashamed. I'm ashamed that I'm ashamed. I've never had trouble telling people that my dad picks me up from work before. Jimmy shrugs while I fight the overwhelming embarrassment and I can't believe he's so oblivious to my uneasiness. I just want to get out of here.

I make my excuses to leave quickly and step outside, the March air cool on my face. All I'm thinking about is changing into my pyjamas and burying myself into a cocoon of blankets. I'm still trying to will myself into not being a total idiot about Jimmy knowing that my dad still picks me up in his car, like I'm a teenager at school and not a twenty-two year old at work.

I don't drive, I've never had the time to learn. No wonder I don't get out a lot. It's difficult to make new acquaintances as it is, let alone when your father has to chaperon you to a location and back.

Without so much as a backward glance at the shop, I locate my dad's car, parked in its faithful spot across the road. I can see my father in the drivers seat, a newspaper folded out on his lap, his round glasses on the tip of his nose. I feel a surge of love for him, at this person who embodies comfort and stability, then more shame and guilt about being embarrassed by him. It almost crushes me, feeling all of these things. How do I even function?

"How was work, sweetie?"

I've barely climbed into the car and my dad is already asking me the first of many questions. We have this conversation everyday, over and over. My answers never change but my father still persists to ask. We're like a sad film on repeat, stuck in this loop until something can help jar us out of it. I wonder if anyone else feels as trapped as I do, if they can bear it?

"Fine." I tell him.

"Many customers?"

"Yeah."

"I hope Cass hasn't kept you too busy."

"Nope."

"Who's that running after us?"

"What?"

I cast a glance at my father, to make sure I heard him right. This is not a standard part of the after-work drilling. I squint at the wing-view mirror, trying to discern the blurred shape chasing after our car. The green trainers are disturbingly familiar...

"Oh no..." I mutter under my breath, sinking down into my seat. "Keep driving, don't stop."

My father looks bemused and I think his undying, unconditional love for his eldest child will be enough to make him obey my wishes and screech off into the night, leaving Jimmy in the dust but it isn't and he doesn't. He pulls over and beeps the car horn to let Jimmy know we're waiting. The traitor.

I glare at him.

"What? It looks important." he tells me sheepishly, making a point of avoiding my eye contact when Jimmy raps on my window.

I sigh deeply, composing my face before I wind down the window. Sure enough, there he is, his nose an inch from mine and the ties to that frilly apron still determinedly strapped around his neck. I pray that my dad isn't staring.

I clear my throat. "Yes?"

Jimmy smiles a crooked smile, the breeze fluttering his curls. I make myself focus on that, the natural red shimmering through the brown, until he speaks up again.

"Just wanted to say bye. You left in a hurry."

I furrow my brow, not quite understanding.

"You chased me down, made us stop, because you didn't say goodbye to me?" I say slowly, acutely aware of my dad seated right beside me. Somehow, it felt like he was intruding on a private conversation.

"Yep, thought it a tad rude for me to just let you go without saying it. Anyway, goodbye Violet. Thanks for stopping, Mr - ?"

"Valentine." my dad pipes up from behind me. "No problem."

Jimmy's eyes widen in slow realisation, that ludicrous grin threatening to overtake his whole face.

"Wait - your name. You're called Violet Valentine?"

My eyes dart around nervously and I can't quite seem to make myself meet his gaze.

"Yeah, what's your point?" I say defensively, waiting for the onslaught of wisecracks about my name. I had endless years of teasing throughout school because of it and I am not prepared to face those kind of jokes from Jimmy, with my dad right here with me.

"I have no point. I just like it. Has a nice ring to it." he assures me, the humour in his eyes flitting away for a second, his expression open - vulnerable.

I don't know what to make of this and I don't get the chance to because suddenly, my dad interjects with his story about how they were going to call me Valentina because I was born on Valentine's Day - "What're the odds, eh? We couldn't have planned it better if we tried." - and how they decided against it because they were worried that people may get my first and last names mixed up. Not because they cared about potential bullying at school but because they were worried about the order in which my names are supposed to go.

Jimmy responds appropriately, laughing at all the right moments, telling my father that Cassandra is his aunt and he is working at Time For Tea for the unforeseeable future. I don't even know how this happened. I've known Jimmy for less than a day and he's already wormed his way into being my dad's best buddy?

They talk, back and forth over me, for half an hour until my mother sends a furious text message saying that dinner will be going in the bin if we don't hurry up and then we say goodbye all over again.

Before I wind the window back up, Jimmy shoots a fast wink in my direction, his gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and then he's gone and we're driving down the road again, as if none of it ever occurred.

I barely register my dad mentioning how he thinks 'Jim' is a 'decent bloke' and that we should 'invite him and Cass over sometime'.

I guess Jimmy is the someone, not the something, that is going to jar us out of our lives, whether we want it or not.