Page 2 of Love in Pieces

Unfortunately, my happy place only lasts so long. As quickly as I take a few breaths of fresh air, the reality of quitting my job today replaces those tranquil thoughts. How on Earth am I supposed to quit? I’ve worked at this cafeteria since my freshman year of college, and now I’m finishing my junior year in just a few short weeks. It’s become like a second home because I’m here so much. I picked up a lot of shifts, and I met my best friend Meredith here. We still work together, at least, for now.

As I park my bike in the designated motorcycle parking, the once-vibratory sensation from the engine has meshed with my nerves. I hear a familiar voice when I pull my helmet off.

“Look at that beauty!” Meredith calls, walking up the sidewalk. Her slight Spanish accent clings to each word beautifully. Long curly ringlets of brown hair whip around in the wind.

I can't help but smirk. “It takes work to look this good.”

“Oh, I was talking about the bike, but you look good, too.” She winks and attempts to tame her mane from the wild, spiraling wind.

I roll my eyes at her usual sarcasm and lock my helmet to my bike before shoving the keys into the side pocket of my backpack. If I'm not mistaken, she's wearing the same pair of paint-stained overalls as she did the day we met. She had already been working at the cafeteria for almost a year by the time I started my first day. She trained me. I was quiet most of the day, but I heard her mumble something under her breath, a sarcastic comment about a few of the students who passed through our line. I laughed to myself but then we both cracked up laughing and I knew we would get along from that moment on. Now, sarcasm and coffee are the only things that get us through the workday.

“I thought you started at eight this morning?” I run to catch up with her just before she reaches the glass entry doors.

The denim of her overalls crinkles from dried pottery clay splatters when she reaches to hold a door open and gestures for me to go first. I rarely see her wear anything but overalls. They’ve been every color under the sun, but she doesn’t like to stray far from the comfort of that denim. “I did. I overslept. Randy was not thrilled when I called a half an hour late to apologize.”

Randy is the cafeteria manager. He’s always grumpy and never likes anyone. Why he works so closely with rowdy college kids, I will never understand. “Damn. Well, you’re here now, and by the looks of it, he needs both of us desperately.”

Lines weave from the checkout counters around the main course window almost to the far back wall.

We take empty registers next to each other and log in quickly, barely stripping down to our uniforms before students flood toward us.

“It’s about time,” Randy snaps as he passes behind us, continuing to the other side of the room and disappearing through a staff door.

“Someone forgot their morning coffee,” I insist. Meredith laughs as people slowly make their way through our lines. “Good morning. Cash, card, or Oxly points today?” This phrase rings in my ears on repeat for an hour before the lines die down and I can take a breather. I say the boring phrase so much that it makes it into my dreams at night.

The redeeming part about this job is that I can work on homework if it doesn’t disrupt the flow of students. Five happy people stare back at me from the screen of my laptop. There we stood, me, my mom, my dad, my sister, Cameron, and her husband, Will. Happy, calm, and content on the beach, the ocean crashing behind us in gorgeous light blue waves. The sun shone brightly above us, not a cloud in the sky. We squinted at whichever stranger behind the camera my dad convinced to take the picture. He looked as normal as ever here, but we didn’t know the reality of his health.

I can’t bring myself to change it. I set that picture almost three years ago. Our last family vacation was the summer before my freshman year of college. It’s the last family picture I had with my dad before he died.

A loud group of guys approaches my counter, pulling me from my screen. The guy in front just about slams the blue tray in front of me but continues talking with his friends, his drink almost tipping over.

I sigh before forcing my face to cooperate.

“Good morning,” I beam, trying hard to ignore the rudeness of the situation. I wish his drink had tipped over. “Cash, card, or Oxly points today?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even turn around. His conversation is far more important than the simple, one-word answer I need.

“No, dude. You have to! It’s the last game of the season. Don’t dip out on us now!” he practically yells to the black-haired guy in the back.

Rather than repeating myself and raising my voice, I choose to instead lean back, fold my arms over my chest, and wait for the conversation to end, or for him to realize he’s holding up the line.

“Dante, my baseball career ends after that game,” the other guy says.

“You never know. The scouts may decide you’re the next best thing to hit baseball.” At that point, he whips his head around and makes eye contact with me. “Can you ring me up please?” Attitude drips from his words.

Folding my hands together on the desk, I match my tone to his. “Sir, I already asked you how you were paying, and you proceeded to ignore me. I would love nothing more than to get you all through this line so I can continue my homework, and you can replenish the calories you’ve burned standing here for so long. So, what will it be?”

Someone in the back of the group snorts. Another guy lets out an astonished whistle. The guy in front of me raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hands me his student ID and continues his conversation. I paste a friendly smile on my face. I don’t normally pay attention to the names on the screen, but I make sure to pay attention to this one. “Dante Leroy Jelani” pops up on my screen with a photo. Another one of the best parts of working this job is getting to see everyone’s freshman-year pictures. Oxly University doesn’t change student pictures each year, so you are stuck with whatever you look like on orientation day, and they don’t warn you beforehand that it’s picture day. Everyone always looks like such a baby. We don’t have access to their year or major but based on how he looks now and his comments about scouts earlier, my guess is he’s a senior.

The baseball team here at Oxly has always been good. From what I’ve gathered, they’ve made it into the D1 championship every year for quite a few years now. Baseball memorabilia is plastered everywhere around campus, mostly in the form of posters. They’ve managed to slip some form of it into every building.

I scan his card and attempt to hand it back to him, but he still doesn’t seem to have a care in the world about eating this damn food any time soon.

“Shit, dude! Give the poor girl a break. Take your card and move on. The rest of us want to actually eat our food,” a brown-haired guy pipes up.

I offer a thankful smile as Dante takes his tray to a table in the back of the room. The brown-haired guy approaches and hands me his student ID in one fell swoop. “Thank you ... uh ... Dallas,” I say, checking for his name.

“No problem. Hope your day gets better.” A soft, very captivating smile leaves me forgetting the previous interaction with Dante. And with that, he walks off, joining the rest of his group at the back of the large window-covered room.

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