Page 5 of Steeped In Problems

She caught him watching and flashed a grin. “You want me to clean the patio this morning? It’s not supposed to snow until Thursday, so people might want to sit outside.”

He blinked. That was…proactive. “Yeah. Good. Check for butts in the flowerpots. Some kids have been using them as ashtrays.”

“Will do.” She grabbed the broom and vanished out the side door.

He exhaled just a little. It was strange, the way she made the place seem less like a failure and more like a possibility. Still, he couldn’t let his guard down. Things could change in a second. People left, or worse, they stuck around, and you got used to them, and then they died. He didn’t want that again.

When the clock hit 5:29, the first regular rolled in: old man, heavy jacket, ballcap with a fraying Vietnam ribbon. Kristy wasback inside and started his drink, hands moving with perfect precision.

By 6:10, the line was out the door. Retired cops in denim and fleece, two paramedics still in their jumpsuits, and a trio of high schoolers whose backpacks weighed more than they did. Each one wanted something different—black, cream, almond milk, oat milk, sweetener but never sugar, scone if it was still warm, donut if it wasn’t—and each one wanted it yesterday.

Rhonda showed up late, wearing pajama pants under her apron and a smile that could bounce bullets. “Sorry, Blaze,” she chirped, already elbowing Kristy out of the way at the register. “Car battery’s dead again. That’s what I get for buying a Kia in bear country.”

Kristy just grinned. “You missed the fun. Blaze here already threatened to frisk two of the regulars for jaywalking.”

Tanner shook his head and pretended not to listen. Truth was, the regulars liked getting a rise out of him. It made them feel like things were normal, like he was still the guy who would show up with a calm voice and a flashlight if you called 9-1-1 at two in the morning. He didn’t hate them for it. But he didn’t love it either.

With Rhonda manning the register, Kristy handled the drinks, darting from espresso pull to blender with speed Tanner couldn’t help but admire. The orders stacked up. By 6:30, the ticket rail looked like a ticker tape parade, and the crowd at the pickup bar was three deep.

Tanner knew he needed a floater, someone to bus tables and help when orders piled up. But the cash flow was already tight, and last week’s numbers were down. He did the math in his head and didn’t like the answer. Hiring someone else would have to wait.

Instead, he moved in to help. He was supposed to be the owner, not a deadweight.

He started with the basics—pour-overs and drip. He could do those with minimal knowledge, almost in his sleep, and sometimes did on the nights when his leg ached too bad for real sleep. But the ticket printer betrayed him and spat out specialty drinks like machine-gun fire, and soon, he was staring down a caramel latte avalanche, a triple-shot oat milk concoction, and something called a ‘Flamin’ Sarge’ that Rhonda had invented just to piss him off.

He tried. He really did. He even managed to get through three orders before it happened.

He was lining up a row of cups, left hand steadying the next, right hand on the steam wand. The milk pitcher slipped on a wet ring and tumbled, splattering foam across his shirt and onto the counter. He grabbed for it, but too late. The pitcher hit the floor and rolled.

“You okay, boss?” Kristy asked, eyes sharp.

“Fine,” he growled, forcing it.

He reached for another pitcher, but the rhythm was broken. The next shot, he tamped too hard. The portafilter jammed in the group head, and when he finally freed it, the gasket spat scalding water straight onto the back of his hand. It stung, sharp and mean.

“Dang it,” he muttered.

A mother with a toddler stared at him over the top of her cup. Her lips pressed together so tight they were nearly blue. The toddler, in Spider-Man pajamas, pointed at Tanner and giggled.

He wiped his hand on a towel, bit down on the pain, and tried to keep up. But the mistakes multiplied. By 7:00, he’d ruined two more drinks and had to remake a bagel sandwich after burning it in the toaster oven.

He glanced at the ticket rail. Still too many. The panic started low, a spark in the gut, but it spread fast.

That was when Kristy stepped in. “Blaze, I’ll handle the hot bar. Could you stock the fridge?” She said it easy, like she was asking for help moving a chair.

He nodded, trying not to look relieved. “Yeah. I’ll check on the next delivery, too.”

He ducked out to the storeroom, passing the cooler where Rhonda and Kristy were moving like twin tornadoes. The noise faded as he slipped into the back, and for a moment, he let himself lean against the wall and close his eyes.

Get it together, Blaze, he admonished himself.

He knew why the nerves were getting to him. It was the same every time the shop got busy. The brain would go into overdrive, looking for threats. The body kept waiting for the next disaster—an accident, a call, a burst of gunfire. Here, the worst that could happen was a burned muffin or a customer who thought oat milk was a right, not a privilege. But still, it felt like he was about to screw up something big. He always did.

The break room was barely the size of a closet, and the “office” was a folding table, a laptop, and a battered file cabinet that still had the name of the previous owner stenciled on the side. He walked past it, ignoring the invoices and the bills piled up next to the computer, and headed for the bathroom.

He locked the door, ran cold water over his hand, and studied his reflection in the chipped mirror.

The scar along his jaw looked meaner in the fluorescent light. The skin on his hand was already red and rising. He flexed his fingers. Still good. Still usable.

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