Page 4 of The First Kind of Love
But on a more realistic note, let’s not forget that you have a full-time job to think about and a family business that you’re trying to save because of how much your two loving, yet workaholic, parents sacrificed for you.
In my family, we follow the unspoken Vietnamese code of conduct, where a strong work ethic reflects a strong conscience. A sense of responsibility.
I’m Deja Brew’s manager, and soon—fingers crossed—I’ll be the sole owner of the business. My parents founded Deja Brew on nothing but a loose-pocketed down payment and an equally risky dream. They’ve nurtured this family-run shop for two and a half decades now, sharing generational recipes with the hoity-toity locals of soul-sucking SoCal. And when I was conceived on a not-so-platonic back seat rendezvous three nights before their wedding, I unknowingly became the inheritor of this quaint little legacy.
Work is…it’s my partner, in simpler terms. I breathe, bleed, and sweat coffee. There’s never a moment when I’m not thinking about my job. I haven’t had a day off in…God, I don’t even knowhowlong. And it’s not just because my parents are getting older and need the help.
My parents worked hard to build Deja Brew and keep us afloat when I was growing up, and I refuse to evenimaginea future where money insecurity plagues my parents’ retirement. Especially since my education ate up their nest egg. Not a day goes by where the guilt doesn’t plague me. I never would’ve chosen a college degree over the well-being of my family, but that choice was made for me, and my parents are the ones (who shouldn’t be) suffering the consequences. Because they went behind my back to pay for everything, I couldn’t have declined their offer even if I wanted to, but I just…I wish I’d known so I could’ve fought harder—could’ve shown them the mistake they were making.
The business was rough when I was younger, until we saw an uptick in sales and lines were out the door. But now payroll is becoming a strain on the finances. Last month we had to lay off three baristas, which broke my mom’s heart.
With the avaricious overflow of big chain coffee shops, our tiny, homemade, hole-in-the-wall shop is about to blink out of existence if we don’t do something to increase revenue. My parents love this place.Ilove this place. It’s an integral part of who I am as a person. Not only do I love having a purpose in life—especially if that purpose involves hospitality—but I’ve always wanted to help people ever since I was a little girl. I saw what poverty did to my family, and if there was a way for me to even be thesmallestsliver of light in someone else’s life, it was a role I’d take in a heartbeat.
My parents put their blood, sweat, and tears into this coffee shop for twenty-plus years, and now it’smylegacy to uphold. Losing it isn’t an option—it’s just not. And maybe somewherein my Fulton-uninfluenced subconscious, giving him an obscure answer was my way of choosing the business over some impromptu, too-good-to-be-true vacation with the man of my dreams.
I thought I had found the man of my dreams once before. Only my life turned into a nightmare when he demanded that I choose between my family’s business and him. Which, as you can imagine, didn’t turn out the way he wanted it to.
I’ve always wanted to feel special,wanted. Don’t get me wrong, my parents treat me like I’m special and hold me in the highest regard, but it’s not the same as being special in the sense of a romantic connection. Sometimes it feels like my parents are obligated to love me because we’re bonded by blood.
I want to be loved by someone for my strengths, my flaws, my past,everything.
“Lo, this is so exciting! I can’t believe you got asked out bytheFulton Cazzarelli!” my best friend, Revlon, squeals with a dreamy bat of her lashes.
I scrub meticulously at an impossible mystery stain, refusing to give her even a hint of satisfaction. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Itsowas! Ooh, what are you going to wear? Where is he taking you? You should definitely pack that sexy one-piece bathing suit.”
Anxiety coats the back of my throat with the sour taste of nausea. “I didn’t agree to go with him. I just said I’d have to see?—”
Revlon sits up like she’s personally offended, and I’m glad our lack of revenue justified an early closing, otherwise she’d attract all kinds of attention with her theatrics. “What do you mean, you ‘didn’t agree to go with him’?!”
I wince, finally surrendering to the discolored blemish staining my workspace. “I can’t just abandon my job, Rev.”
She pouts her bottom lip, disappointment suffusing her expression. “But we’re talking about the guy you’ve liked for four years, Lo.Four.You finally have an excuse to get away from this hippie-infested dump, and you’re not going to take it?”
“I wish I could take it, I do. But I can’t just go off gallivanting whenever some decently attractive man asks me to,” I insist, tossing my dish towel aside and wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. My legs are sore, my feet have sprouted some painful blisters, and this wooden death pit is hotter than Satan’s ball sack.
Revlon deadpans, “Fulton Cazzarelli is more than ‘decently attractive.’”
Touché, Revlon.
“You know what I mean.”
My best friend hops down from the counter, sighs rather exasperatedly, and points at me with both hands. “I know you’re not gonna want to hear this but…”
“Then don’t say it,” I singsong, slipping past her and working my way over to the tables, where I employ the last of my energy to haul the chairs overtop.
I’ve already had this exact talk with her a million times. She makes a comment about how I’m a prisoner of my job, I assure her I’m not, she doesn’t believe me, I change the subject, then we repeat the same conversation every few months.
I don’t have the mental bandwidth to endure one of her appreciated—yet unnecessary—motivational speeches. My bloodstream’s part caffeine, and my eyes burn from keeping them open for so long.
She hovers around me like a pesky fly, her words buzzing in one ear and out the other. “When will you start putting yourself first? I know this job means a lot to you, but surely you can take some time off. You deserve a break. If you keep going on like this, you’ll?—”
“Work myself into an early grave,” I finish for her, situating another chair on the weathered tabletop.
Going through the motions, I make my rounds and clear the floor so I can sweep, stacking chair after chair as deep-seated regret begins to unspool in the tight clutches of my chest. I was perfectly content keeping that regret buried under employee schedules and inventory, alright? But nooo, Revlon had to go and dig it up like she always does just because I don’t live the same life as her—a life full of spontaneity and adventure, unburdened by financial instability.
I’m not imprisoned here, okay? Iliketo work. I’d rather feel productive than waste away a perfectly good Friday night with booze, bad decisions, and men that’ll tap it before inevitably ghosting you.
