Chapter 13: The Manager's Clock
The clock above the espresso machine clicked to 10:47 and Diane tapped her pen against the time sheet clipboard. She didn't look at Ethan. She looked at me.
"Maya," she said, low enough that the two customers at the far table wouldn't hear. "Your ten's been up for six minutes. You need to clock back in or you need to make a decision."
I was still behind the counter with the towel bunched in my left hand. My letter was folded under the edge, just enough white corner showing to remind me it was there. Ethan stood by the condiment station where he'd moved to give Diane space, his hands at his sides, not touching anything that wasn't his.
Diane leaned in a little. Her voice softened. "If you've got a family emergency, I can let you clock out early. No write-up. It'll just be unpaid for the rest of the shift. You'd lose today. That's all. I'm offering, not telling you."
I nodded before I'd actually decided anything. My throat was dry and I could hear the low hum of the display fridge and the rain starting to tick lightly against the big front windows. The overcast light had gone grayer since he'd walked up.
"Thank you," I said. "I know."
She glanced at the line starting to form — one guy in a wet windbreaker shaking off his umbrella — and then back at me. "Take two minutes. I'll cover register. But I need you on or off by ten-fifty, okay? Payroll locks."
She stepped away and took the register, calling out a practiced "What can I get for you?" I stayed where I was. My apron string was cutting into my back where I'd tied it too tight that morning.
I looked down first at the towel in my hand. The terry cloth was damp and warm from my palm, the weave flattened where I'd been clutching it since 10:03. It had been my shield all morning, something to do with my hands when I didn't know what to do with anything else. Then my eyes moved to the corner of the letter, that sharp fold I'd pressed with my thumbnail an hour ago so it would stay.
Then I looked past Ethan, through the black-framed glass door he'd left open a few inches. His duffel was where he'd dropped it on the sidewalk, right beside the bench outside the brick wall. Olive drab, half-zipped, with the dust of Fort Cavazos still on the bottom. It was getting speckled with rain. He hadn't brought it inside. He'd left it out there like he wasn't assuming he'd be staying.
Ethan followed my look, then turned back to me. He didn't step closer.
"Hey," he said quietly. He waited until I met his eyes. "I'm not going to ask you to leave your shift."
I didn't answer right away. I could hear Diane steaming milk, the hiss filling the space where words usually went.
He went on, his voice steady. "If you need to stay and work until close, I'll wait. I can wait on the bench. Or across the street. Wherever you want me to be. I mean that."
That was the part that caught me. He wasn't playing the soldier who'd just gotten home and deserved everything to stop. He was standing in his OCPs with rain starting to spot his shoulders, telling me my job mattered more than his entrance.
"I'd lose the hours," I said, half to myself. "Today's rent money. You know how Diane does it."
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm not asking. I don't want you to choose me because you feel trapped. Like you have to make up for something."
Diane called out an order behind us but neither of us moved. The guy in the windbreaker was watching us now, trying not to.
I thought about the last nine months of counting tips to make the apartment, of telling his mom he'd be gone through the holidays because it was easier than admitting I was already packing a bag in my head. I thought about how easy it would be to stay behind the counter, clock back in, be the reliable worker for four more hours and let the duffel sit in the rain until he got tired and left.
If I clocked back in, I was choosing safety. The familiar. The paycheck I could count. If I clocked out early, I was choosing unpaid hours and a conversation I didn't have a script for, with a man I'd written a letter to instead of talking to.
I unfolded the towel deliberately and laid it flat on the metal counter edge. I smoothed it once with my palm. Then I folded my letter on top of it so it wouldn't blow away.
"I'm not staying because I'm hiding," I said, and my voice was louder than I expected, but clear. "And I'm not going because I'm scared you'll leave again if I don't run now."
Ethan's breathing hitched just enough to notice.
I looked at Diane. "Diane, I'm going to clock out early. Unpaid. I need to step away with my husband."
May you like
Diane gave me a short nod, like she'd been waiting for a complete sentence. "Okay. Clock out at the computer. I'll fix the sheet. Go before you get soaked."
I reached for the time clock punch on the wall behind the counter. My hand hovered over the button, not because I wasn't sure, but because I wanted to feel the weight of pressing it myself.
