Tuesday is an early practice day, and it's an absolute effort to drag myself out of bed. I practically crawl into the bathroom to get ready, dozing off a few times as I do my morning routine. When I get downstairs, mom's getting ready in the bathroom.

     "You got in late last night," she says, poking her head out to look at me. I'm standing in the kitchen in the dark, filling a bowl of cereal.

     "Yeah, I was going to tell you, but you were asleep when I got in. I got a job."

     She steps out of the bathroom, holding her curling iron. I don't know why she curls her hair since she ends up pulling it back into a bun, anyway. It's the same thing with how she dresses for work. She always wears slacks and a blouse, even though she changes into scrubs.

     "Really? That's fantastic. Where at?"

     I lean against the counter and continue shoveling cereal into my mouth. Between spoonfuls I say, "You know the building that used to be that yoga place? Yeah, this guy Dres is opening his own coffee pastry shop. His mom told me last night that he makes gourmet cupcakes."

     "Dres?" she asks curiously.

     "Well, Dresden," I answer with a shrug.

     She doesn't look that pleased. "And what will you be doing?" Her words are all insinuation, gesticulating at my lack of artistry in both baking and coffee making. Ruin one batch of coffee and suddenly you can't make coffee. I mean, I can't but it's not for want of trying.

     "I'm helping him and his mom get the place together to open. And then I'll be like a cashier/barista/server, I guess." I finish my cereal, and start to set it in the sink but can already hear my mom snapping at me for it, so I quickly rinse it before sticking it in the dishwasher.

     "What are your hours? Are you not going to be around for dinner anymore?"

     I hesitate, knowing this is going to bother her. Dinners the one meal we can count on to have together. She makes a point of being home in time for it. "Yeahhhhh...I won't be around for dinner during the week. I work after swim every day until ten-ish." I add hopefully, "But I'm off Saturday nights and Sundays all day."

     I lift my duffle bag onto the kitchen table, opening it to double-check that I have everything for practice to distract myself from my mom's disappointed gaze.

     She says, "I'll talk to Brenda, and see if I can work later during the week and have Saturdays and Sundays off."

     I want to tell her she doesn't have to do that but I know she's already decided she will. I like spending time with my mom more than I'm sure a lot of kids my age care to admit. For the longest it's just been us, and I appreciate that more than I probably tell her.

     "Okay, sounds good. I gotta' get going or I'm going to be late." I zip my bag, throwing it over my shoulder before I start towards the door.

     Moms still in the hallway outside the bathroom; she sets her curling iron down on one of the decorative tables in the hall where we mostly keep a slew of papers and old, unopened mail. I roll my eyes as she pulls me into a hug and kisses my head.

     "I'm proud of you, getting a job." She lets me go. "Drive smart and safe."

     I breathe a laugh. "Yes mom. Have a nice day at work."

     "I love you," she calls back just as I leave.

     Swim practice lets out a little before seven, giving me roughly two hours before my classes. On a normal day, I'd drag myself to one of the school lounges, find a couch or chair to slump over in and sleep until I had to go to class. Instead, I rush through my shower and change back into my jeans and the grey crew-neck sweater I'd worn into practice so I can haul ass to work. I get the feeling my new boss isn't someone who takes being late lightly.

     I barely have my converses on my feet before I'm sliding into my car and heading up the street to the store. This early in the morning, there's an abundance of street parking. I get a spot right outside and put two quarters into the meter before heading in.

     Dres is on the floor, shifting a marble table but promptly stops at the sound of the bell above the door, looking over towards me.

     He doesn't say anything and I'm not sure what to say so I go with, "Uh, hey." He stares at me funny, so I continue, "Cool tables." Still no response so I try again, "They're really..." I trail searching for any kind of word. He stares expectantly. I let out a breath as I mumble, "Cool."

     He raises one eyebrow slowly, blinks even slower and then nods his head in the direction of the doorway. "Come on." Then he walks out. I follow, trying to remain close but not step on his heels.

     He takes me into the hallway but before we get to the kitchen, he makes a sharp right, where there's two all-gender bathrooms and a door with "Employee's Only" written on it. Dres opens the door, and holds it for me.

     "You can leave your stuff in here, jacket or backpack or whatever. And you clock in," he walks over to the wall, and points to a small machine, "here. Take one of the cards, write your name on it, punch in when you get here and out when you leave."

     He hands me a card and a pen. There's a small, square table across the room so I walk over, setting the card on it so I can write my name properly. I walk back over to him when I'm finished and put the card into the top of the machine. It sucks it in and then slides it back out. Dres reaches for it, sticking it back in a slot on the wall.

     "Questions?" he asks fixing his stare on me.

     I shift, trying to find somewhere else to look. I focus on the fridge behind him because it kind of looks like I'm staring at him only I'm not because he has really pretty eyes, which is a strange thing to think about someone, particularly your boss. I'm trying to decide if they're really green or grey.

     Then I remember he asked me if I had any questions. "Uh-yuh, yeah, uhm, when do we open?"

     His lip quirks and it's too much, staring at his lips, that I drag my gaze elsewhere. To his neck that is covered in tattoos, which are doing nothing to mask the muscle. How someone can have that much neck muscle is beyond me.

     "Monday," he says definitively. He nods his head to the door, adding, "Come on. I need your help putting something up."

     I head back out into the main room, completely aware of Dres behind me. Even more aware that these are my least favorite jeans that do absolutely nothing for my ass. Learning how to do my own laundry has never been more enticing till now. 

     When we're back in the main room, he heads up the stairs onto the second level.

     I'm not sure if I'm supposed to follow, so I don't. He must have been here early because he's put out furniture that I don't recall seeing yesterday.

     There are these round white marble tables on the main floor, paired with dark leather chairs. Flanking the entryway on both sides are leather armchairs and small, glass coffee tables. I think most of the furniture is thrifted because while similar they aren't exact matches and it gives off a hipster homely vibe that'll hit with all the millennials in town.

     The place is just sophisticated enough to appeal to the older crowd but it's open floor and industrial accents make it Instagram-worthy, which is all you really need these days. Grace took me to a brunch spot in the city that had the most limited menu, things like avo toast and poached eggs, but it didn't matter because with its baby pink and mint green walls and furniture it was an insta hot spot.

     Those places tend to feel forced, making the concerted effort to pull in influencers and bloggers. I don't think that's the case for Dres. This feels like it may just be his style. Minimalist but still edgy.

     "Calvin," Dres calls and I jump before jogging up the couple of stairs to meet him.

     "Sorry," I say quickly. "I was just – I really like what you've done with the place, so far." He doesn't say anything. He grunts though and I think that maybe that's how he says thank you. "You can call me Cas, by the way."

     "Here. Take these outside." He shoves a power drill at me and then a box of screws.  I scramble, not wanting to drop any of it. "Can you carry this too?" He nods to the large wooden banner-type-thing. I guess you could call it a banner, or like a sign. Or maybe just a large plank of wood.

     It's dark brown with bits of lightness, distressed and worn like it's surfed through a thousand oceans. Written in bold, white letters is 'PRIVATE WESTON' and underneath it says 'coffee & cake'. 

     That must be what he's calling this place. I grab the big slab of wood and tuck it under my arm. It's heavier than I thought it would be but I hold onto it tightly. Dropping it isn't an option. Not when my boss is standing not two feet away giving me a judgmental look like he doesn't think I can handle it. I don't want to embarrass myself in front of him either. I don't know why I care about Dres's opinion of me, but I do.

     "Alright, head outside. I'll meet you out there."

     I nod once before turning and heading back down to the main floor. When I'm outside, I set the sign on the ground, and try to catch my breath. Heavy ass plank of wood.

     Dres surfaces a moment later carrying two metal ladders, one under each arm. He's not breaking a sweat. So my boss is Thor.

     He sets one ladder down to the right and the other one in the center, directly in front of the door. He climbs up the ladder and then looks down at me.

     "Hand me it," he says nodding to the banner. I lift it up and hold it as he takes it from me and attempts to balance it on the wall above the storefront. He shifts it upwards a bit and I lose focus, fixating on his arms. The muscles pull taut from the force of holding up the plank of wood. He wears tee shirts well; it clings to his shoulders, his chest, and then falls around his stomach, which I'm sure is just as muscular as the rest of him.

     Dres interrupts my thoughts, asking, "Is it straight?"

     I blush, even though he thankfully doesn't catch me staring. "Uh, uhm, I'm not sure. I think the left side is too high. Or maybe...it isn't? Sorry, I'm not really good at telling if things are straight."

     Or people.

     I wonder if Dres is straight. Probably, he is. Most people are. Not that it should matter. He's my boss. He's not datable. Not that I'm thinking of dating him. He's not even my type.

     "Come up here and hold it. I'll have a look."

     I hesitate before climbing up the other side of the ladder. It wobbles under my weight but stays put. Dres is still holding the sign up against the wall. I reach up but I'm not as tall as him and have to take another step up the ladder.

     This puts my face in a dauntingly close proximity to Dres's face. His expression is empty, and I stare back, fixed in his gaze, as I reach up and, fumbling, find the sign, holding it up.

     "You got it?" he asks and his breath hits my lips. Saliva builds in my mouth. I'm too busy swallowing to respond and just barely manage a nod.

     He steps back down the ladder and looks up at me. "Shift the left side down a bit." I move my hand, allowing the sign to fall a bit, and try to keep my balance at the same time. "Yeah, yeah that's good. Okay, hold it steady. I'm going to drill it in."

     He picks up the power drill and the box of screws before climbing up the opposite side of the ladder. He places the box on top of the ladder and then reaches up to where my hands are, taking the drill with him as he gets to work.

     I have to focus on everything but Dres to keep my arms steady.

     He puts a few nails into the middle before climbing down the ladder and walking over to the right side. He's behind me now so I can't see him but I hear the drill and know he's nailing in the other side.

     I have a thought suddenly, and ask, "Hey, where's your m—uh, Dolores today?" Somehow, I don't see him responding well to me referring to her as his mother, even though, she, you know, is.

     He's off the ladder and dragging it past me to the other side when he responds, "She's at the store picking up kitchen supplies." He says it in this dry tone like he doesn't exactly agree with or understand his mother's choice to go shopping for kitchen supplies.

     I think of something else to say but I feel like I've given Dres the opportunity to say something himself. I hope he's not one of those people who getting to talk is like pulling teeth. But he pretty much seems like one of those people.

     He's drilling in the left side of the sign when he asks, "So you didn't have anything better to do before school?"

    "Like what?" I ask, thinking his question serious. His tone is serious.

     "Like sleep?" he responds incredulously. 

     I give an awkward laugh. My arms are starting to get tired. "Well I have swim practice at five-thirty so I was getting up early anyway. Figured I might as well make the gap between my classes productive."

     Although, I guess, I could nap at school. But making money is more important than sleep. Who really needs sleep anyway?

     He makes a sound, thoughtful maybe, like he's considering my words. I think it's my turn to ask something. I can't think of anything. Silently, he finishes his work; I can finally let go of the sign and return my arms by my sides. They're sore from the strain. I climb down the ladder and look up at the storefront.

     Dres comes up beside me, looking up, too, at his work — our work.

     "Why Private Weston?" I ask, genuinely curious.

     Dres visibly stiffens, and his voice is back to that cool detachment I thought we were finally getting past when he snaps, "Don't worry about it."