"Only if I knew this was how my day was going to end, i would've chosen not to be happy"
EDORA's POV
Crowd was never my thing, and I think that's the main reason why I love working in this little coffee shop. I've always been the one to observe every little detail. As I poured the coffee liquid into the cup for the customer standing opposite me across the counter I watched her lips slowly moved as she spoke to someone on the other end of her phone. I heard my name being called by my boss ms.ciara. The emotions i share with her isnt just a employer to employee feeling, it's something more. The moment I set my eyes on her, I felt a mother to daughter feeling, and that she gave to me.
"Edora" Ciara calls out
"Hii, how was your morning" I reply back with a light hearted question
"It was beautiful love. How did yours go?" She questions
"Well for starters, I am never a morning person" she laughs loudly as I hand over the coffee to the customer
Turning to face Ciara, I sat on a stool beside me
"How's your dad doing" this question isnt new, she cared about everyone including people who wouldn't give a finger.i loved it tho, I wanted to have the kind of heart she had. But with all I've been through, I didn't think it was accomplishable.
"Well, My father is doing very well" I say while winking
"Glad he is love" she saye as she stands up to her feet "I'll be leaving now, my store better remains in a good condition" she says amusingly
"Trust me on that" I say laughing loudly as I watch her exit through the doors of Beachwood cafe
The doors chime settled and a wave of silence settled in, comforting and familiar. I picked up a towel to wipe away the dirt I made earlier on the counter, the smell of bleach overriding the lingering scent of espresso. I liked the quiet; it was the only time I felt truly safe from the noise of Los Angeles.
But the silence always ushered in the difficult thoughts, the ones I kept sealed off with a defense mechanism built years ago. Ciara's question about my dad, and my easy lie that he was 'doing very well' felt heavy on the tongue. I didn't think I could ever accomplish the kind of open, trusting heart Ciara had, not after everything I'd been through.
I was Edora Williams, 22 years old, the quiet, reserved barista who was the breadwinner of her family. But that wasn't who I was supposed to be.
The real shift happened years ago: I lost my mom just months before moving to this city. That was the first time I experienced the real cruelty of the world, and it was the moment I realized that the only safety net I had left was my father, Philip Williams.
I leaned against the counter, staring at the blueprints for the new skylight Ciara wanted installed, a beautiful, complicated design that cast a perfect trapezoid of light on the wooden floor. That was supposed to be my life.
I was supposed to be a college student, maybe studying to be an architect, the girl who saw the beauty in things and wanted to build it. I remembered my high school counselor, praising my precision and my eye for structure. I had sketches, volumes of them, filled with impossible buildings that soared above the smog of LA. But limited funds had killed that dream four years ago, crushing it under the weight of rent and utility bills.
My brain was built for logic and design, but my hands were trained to steam milk and count change. Every day, I was forced to trade the promise of my future for the immediate demands of survival. It was a trade I hated, but one I accepted, because the only thing I feared more than failure was being truly alone.
And the reason I stayed was Pop. The thought of him getting older as the days passed made my heart ache. His health had been fine, truly, but he was 54, and the worry was a constant, dull throb. I felt the pressure of his future, my future, pressing down on my chest.
I watched as a luxury car pull away from the curb outside, the engine a low, confident rumble. The occupants were probably headed to a party, unburdened by the simple, terrifying reality that a single missed shift, could shatter my entire world. They had safety nets woven out of gold threads. I had Pop, and I had this coffee shop. I was fighting for survival in a city that only respected power.
I quickly pulled my phone out. I had meant to text him hours ago. I typed a quick message:
"Home soon, Pop. Need anything?"
I sent it, relieved to see the 'Delivered' notification. Just knowing he was okay and safe at home was the only thing that kept me sane. I put the phone on silent and shoved it deep into my pocket.
The small bell above the door hadn't chimed in over an hour. The evening had bled into that peaceful, final hour of the shift. I closed out the register, counted my meager tips, and started putting the stools back in place, each movement deliberate. Tonight, I was going to splurge and buy him his favorite ginger ale. It was a small thing, but small things were all I could afford. I would protect this life. I had to. He was my only security against the cruelty of the world, and I was his.
The shop was officially sealed up. I flicked the 'Open' sign to 'Closed' and walked toward the employees' room, where my brown leather jacket hung next to Ciara's. It was the final, decisive action of the day. The breadwinning was complete, and I was going home.
As I turned around to leave the employees' room, my phone buzzed in my locker.
I picked it up and saw a no caller ID on my phone.
I clicked on the green button and brought the phone up to my ears, and the words I heard made my heart fall into my stomach.