Page 8 of Steeped In Problems

“Are you managing this place now?” Dr. Patel asked, leaning one elbow on the counter. “Or is this just a side gig?”

“Just helping out for a bit,” Kristy lied, bright and easy. “Needed a change of pace. Hospitals are...you know. A lot.”

Nurse Gomez snorted. “A lot is right. We lost three nurses in the last month. One of the new temps they hired passed out during a code. Literal face-plant. You would’ve loved it, Kristy.”

“Is that why you left?” Dr. Patel pressed, brows up. “Staffing’s a mess everywhere, but you were one of the best. Was it the pay? Or the hours?”

Kristy’s foot started tapping under the counter. “It was mostly me,” she told him, hands unclenching, then re-clenching. “Needed to do something different. Something not involving bodily fluids for once.”

That landed a laugh from Nurse Gomez, and even Mike cracked a ghost of a smile. But Dr. Patel just kept looking at her, and Kristy recognized the expression. It was the same one he used on patients who wouldn’t take their meds: concern, but with a side of judgment. It made her glad she didn’t mention that it was all the death that had been the real reason. She couldn’t stomach it anymore.

“Hospital hasn’t been the same without you,” he said, voice low. “You know, if you ever wanted to come back, I could?—”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Kristy cut in a little too fast. “But I kind of like it here. No real emergencies. Less screaming and crying.”

Mike finally looked up. “Do you miss it?” he questioned. “You know. Work that really counts.”

She wanted to say no, that every day here was like a breath she didn’t have to count. She’d forgotten the sting of sanitizer and the buzz of trauma alarms. But the truth was messier, and Mike would probably see right through the lie.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “But I can help people here, too. Just in a different way.”

There was a silence. Not awkward, exactly, but heavy. Nurse Gomez glanced at the pastry display, then pointed. “Is that lemon loaf as good as it looks?”

“Best in the county,” Kristy promised, and she meant it.

She poured their drinks—black coffee for Dr. Patel, oat-milk chai for Gomez, and a giant coffee with four sugars and half-and-half for Mike. She sliced two slabs of lemon loaf, plated them, and slid everything across the counter in record time. She made herself smile and ask how the old unit was doing, but the answers were just more stories of chaos and loss. Not enoughstaff. Not enough time. More kids coming in with frostbite. More overdoses, even in the off-season.

“You made it seem easy,” Nurse Gomez praised, patting Kristy’s hand over the counter. “I don’t think I ever said thanks for all the times you covered for me when I needed to leave early to take care of my kid.”

Kristy blinked. “You don’t have to?—”

“I do,” Gomez insisted, with a finality that made Kristy’s throat go tight.

Dr. Patel nodded but still looked like he was studying a particularly confusing X-ray. “I hope you’re happy here,” he told her, voice warmer now but still tinged with disbelief.

The group took their coffees to a corner table, leaving Kristy to hover by the register, pretending to wipe down a clean countertop. She snuck glances at them every so often, catching them sneaking glances right back.

The next customer was a guy with a Bluetooth headset and zero patience. He snapped his order so fast that she had to ask him to repeat it twice. She smiled through it, but her mind was somewhere else. Every word from her old coworkers replayed on a loop, echoing in the silence after they left.

As soon as they stood and headed for the door, Kristy ducked into the hallway to the break room, pressed her back against the wall, and took a minute to just breathe.

She tried to convince herself she didn’t care what they thought, that it didn’t matter if Dr. Patel saw her as a burnout or a waste. But the feeling sat in her stomach, heavy as a stone, growing colder with every passing second.

A barista’s life was supposed to be simple, she reminded herself. It was supposed to be healing. It wasn’t supposed to bring the ghosts with it.

After a few minutes, she splashed water on her face in the staff bathroom, fluffed her curls, and returned to the counter, smile ready and practiced.

But her foot kept tapping under the bar, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the old life she’d left behind.

Not today, she chastised herself, focus on taking the next order with a smile. But she knew it would always be there, waiting.

By 11:20, the line at Brave Badge had grown teeth. Kristy went into triage mode: two tickets deep, a woman barking for non-dairy caramel, and a guy in cargo shorts requesting “the strongest thing you’ve got.” She cranked out shots, steamed milk, and poured—pour, pour, pour. Daisy hissed and bellowed like an angry cat, which honestly felt appropriate.

Kristy’s head buzzed, but not with caffeine. Every second she wasn’t double-fisting portafilters, her brain spooled back to that stupid hospital run-in. Was she a coward? Had she actually let down the trauma unit? Did they secretly pity her, wearing her ridiculous apron, pretending she was more than a nurse who flamed out?

“Grande, extra-hot, double-vanilla, light whip for Brenda,” she called, slapping the cup onto the pickup bar.

“Make that two,” came a voice from the waiting cluster. The guy ordering wore a Broncos hat and a tourist’s sunburn, but Kristy was too busy trying to remember how to spell “vanilla” to care.

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