In the blurry reflection of the carafe she saw her smile had slipped. The corners of her mouth ached from maintaining the Cheerful Minimum Wager facade but Tuesday replastered it on as she ducked to grab some napkins. She took just two seconds there, bent beneath the counter, to breathe in, breathe out–then it was show time again.
At least it was the last day she had to pretend to be happy to serve New York City's busy, entitled masses.
She was a little too good at her job, though, the faux smile too wide and splitting a tiny crack in her carefully-applied nude lipstick. The lady she was handing a steaming cup to grimaced in response and looked away, flicking through a wallet, slapping a handful of singles on the counter, and beelining for the door. The clack of her heels on the linoleum was almost as grating as her voice as she tossed a "Keep the change!" over her shoulder.
"Thanks for the generous twenty two cents," Tuesday said under her breath, scooping up the bills and sorting them in the register. Two dimes and two pennies went into the tip jar next, which is split evenly across all of the employees, which was a nice way of saying the already meek donation would be spread even thinner. She had no reason to pitch a fit over that fact though; she'd taken a summer job more for a distraction than an actual monetary need. Her and her aunt weren't rich or anything, but they lived a comfortable life, one that didn't necessitate Tuesday slaving in a coffee shop if it made her truly miserable.
No, she was just displacing her anger from things that were much harder to unravel. The perk of working there was easy access to a caffeine fix, and she briefly considered maybe she needed another espresso shot herself. Or maybe it was a sign she should lay off the stuff entirely.
She was still weighing which side of that mental tug-of-war would prevail when the bell over the door chimed, announcing it was time yet again to stop letting her mind wander. She prepared another signature please-be-nice-I'm-not-paid-enough-for-this-shit smile, but felt it froze halfway in position when she recognized the new arrival.
Old habits had her first reaction to be summoning up an autopilot mantra of, Dear Lord... but the absence of the cross she'd dutifully worn until she'd turned eighteen hung like a noose in its place. No god would take the time to listen to Tuesday Hale's pleas, surely, not after what she'd done.
At least for Carson's mom's sake, though, someone must have been in the mood to answer a prayer or two, because no recognition sparked in her own eyes. No, they were bleary and ringed with shadows, and she wasted no time getting into her order. Tuesday cleared her throat and attempted twice to ask the woman to repeat what she wanted. All the while, she had one foot in the past–a sweat and Axe body spray-scented gym, painted in flashing neon lights and the the hungry silhouette of the flames that were eating him. Him, Carson Lee. She hadn't known his name at the time, and wouldn't bother to find out what it had been for months after his death when the articles covering it were hidden on second and third pages of a search engine search. Now she knew she'd never forget his name, or the long list of others that would follow, for however long she'd be allowed to live.
She wouldn't allow herself to forget. She had them written down in a locked Notes folder, and reread it instead of bible passages every morning and night.
"Quad shot 32 ounce Americano."
A second's hesitation and then the words finally filtered back to Tuesday through the panic in her mind. "Coming right up," she said, and fumbled with the change as she attempted to count it back to Carson's mom. They had similar eyes, not just the muddy color but the flash of impatient anger in them too. She muttered an apology and turned her back on Mrs. Lee to prepare the drink, grateful for the excuse to have a brief moment to hide. Shaking hands made it hard to pour and some coffee splashed on the counter.
In one more minute, Mrs. Lee had her coffee and left, but the panic she'd unearthed from a deep corner Tuesday had finally managed to bury under other boxes of Work and School Prep remained. On trembling legs she ducked into the staff restroom and latched the door before sliding to the tiles, paying no mind to whatever gross stuff she might be sitting in. She couldn't see the floor through the tears. She couldn't feel her legs, her mind off in another place and time–one where she was slow-dancing with a boy who had just set her classmate on fire. Through the layers of shock and denial and all the other horrible shit she'd seen, it hadn't felt all that bad back then. She just remembered feeling... Fuck, she felt safe in his arms, in a killer's arms. Something about the power he so easily held over others but didn't use against her was intoxicating. She wasn't used to being protected, and the way Cyrus had protected her from the bullies...
Damnit. She'd managed to not even think his name for months. It had been a long, hot summer, hotter than any she could remember in her entire life, but it had nothing on the hell she had just thrown herself feet-first into.
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Where was he?
What was he doing?
Did he ever think about her...?
"Stop being pathetic," Tuesday snapped at herself aloud. She really had hit a new level of rock bottom, which just so happened to be the floor of a coffee shop restroom. She'd had prettier views from hell before. Like him–
"Stop," she growled, tugging at her hair like the dull ache it provided could make all the other pain go away. She was a weak, pitiful creature, and even now she would raise hell to see heaven just one more time with him.
But he was gone. He'd left her in the middle of the night, after she'd fallen asleep safe in his arms, and she hadn't seen the bastard since. She hadn't felt safe since.
And above all that mourning, a heartache she didn't know was even possible, was the guilt over feeling it in the first place. That, the guilt, it struck deeper yet, and it was a miracle she wasn't ripped apart and reduced to a catatonic, whimpering pile on that gross restroom floor.
This was her penance. That's what stopped the tremors wracking her body, knowing that pain was hers to bear and she had willingly earned it. She was Atlas, and she was in no position to complain about having to hold up the whole damn world. After all, she was alive, which couldn't be said about a dozen men she'd helped kill. The blood wasn't literally on her hands, but she was an accomplice, and those deaths weighed so much heavier on her conscience than that of her father. At least with the latter she had been protecting herself. But the others?
She allowed those to happen to protect a killer. A killer she loved way more than he could ever return.
Tuesday unlatched the stall and let the tap water turn scalding before splashing it on her face, scrubbing at the mess she'd made of herself. She was normally so composed, so capable in her facade of being a normal, happy teen girl. It's not like she could explain to anyone, beyond her aunt at least, the baggage she was carrying. No, that was an instant psych ward visit waiting to happen.
It didn't matter how many coffees she made, how many entitled and bitter customers she served with a sickenly sweet faux smile. It didn't erase her near-brushes with death, and demons, and shit she couldn't even put a name to.
Someone rapped on the door and Tuesday jolted, splashing water on the mirror. She spared one moment to glare at her reflection before leaving, letting another employee duck in after her, and retook her position behind the counter where a line of customers had formed. The other barista was busy making a cappuccino and Tuesday was forced to don her facade yet again, cheerfully apologizing to the next man in line and asking for his order. The next two hours passed like this, her having a tenuous grasp over the guilt and shame that wanted to knock her knees out from under her. She couldn't stop thinking about the articles over Carson's death–a spontaneous combustion, which no one had really thought possible until the gym incident–and the interview videos that had passed around after with his parents. She couldn't get their faces out of her head, even worse than Carson had looked himself–at least his suffering had ended quickly. The destruction it left behind, though, christ. Those poor people would live with that pain the rest of their lives.
She was locking up when the manager swept through the frontroom to bid everyone goodnight. As the other two employees left out the back, her boss stayed behind, watching Tuesday work with a friendly smile. She refused to think about his name. She was hesitant in general about forming connections with new people now, and she would never see him again after that night anyway. She hoped giving him a brief, half-assed smile in response and heading for the door would be enough interaction, but then he said, "You know, we're going to miss you around here."
Holding back a sigh, Tuesday paused in her beeline for the door and shifted her weight to one foot, ready to bolt at the next opportunity. "Oh, you guys will be fine."
"Sure," he said back with a one-armed shrug, "but you have a sort of... charisma that isn't common, especially not in the service industry. It burns people out pretty fast, but here you are, bright as ever. That's valuable."
It was a small comfort, she supposed, to hear they weren't seeing right through her act. She'd always been told she was kind, bright, generally pleasant to be around, but she hadn't felt that way in a year.
"Anyways," he continued when she offered nothing in response to the praise. "All I'm saying is, don't let anything dull your spark. Okay, Tuesday?"
She gave a stiff nod, shifting her weight to the other foot and taking a single step backward.
He didn't take the hint. Damn extraverts. "Remind me what school you're going to?"
She had never told him. She kept what she could to herself these days. She mumbled the name of the university and he prattled on about how she was going to have so much fun there and make so many friends and– well, she stopped trying to pay attention to it all. Until he said, "Okay, okay, go ahead and scram. Onto bigger and better stuff, kid. You're gonna do great things, I can tell."
That gave her just a second's pause. It didn't sound like he was bullshitting her for politeness's sake.
Maybe her acting was too good. Maybe everyone would just keep seeing her as a good little pastor's daughter, incapable of anything foul, until it was too late.
"Thank you," she said, surprised to hear the genuineness in her own voice. Despite wanting to push everyone away, feeling supported again did feel addicting in a way–which, of course, just made her guilt soar. She didn't deserve good things.
She walked home, taking the longer route with streets that twisted away from the main roads and often were shrouded in total shadow, almost begging for someone to pay her karmic debt. No one bothered her.
Pity. But it would have been almost disappointingly easy. She was Atlas, she reminded herself, and she had to keep holding up the world she'd tried to damn so it could keep on spinning for everyone else.