Chapter 3 Pay You Back
Holland bit her lower lip, swallowing the words that threatened to spill out. Delays frustrated her, and the woman at the counter was causing exactly that. She checked her watch, noting how the seconds ticked past, each one stretching longer than the last. The soft beep of another card denial made her jaw tighten, an irritation she couldn’t quite shake.
“That’s my last card,” the young woman said, a note of desperation in her voice.
"I'm sorry, miss, but this one's denied too," the barista responded, her tone patient and polite.
Holland observed her for a moment, almost admiring her composure. She knew that patience, in her position, would have worn thin minutes ago. Holland’s eyes roamed over the woman at the counter, wild hair that fell in tousled waves, clothing that seemed to carry the weight of yesterday, maybe the night before. It was the kind of appearance that made her wonder whether the woman had slept at all.
"You see, I... I don't have any money on me, and I really need this coffee," the young woman added, voice playful, trying to soften the denial. "What do we do? How about I stop by later and pay? I swear I will."
"I'm sorry, miss," the barista said again, gently but firmly. "It's against company policy."
"I’ll pay you back, I promise," the woman insisted, rummaging through her wallet. "I don’t know why my cards aren’t working. They have money on them."
Holland had heard enough. Rolling her eyes, she stepped forward and slapped a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter.
"I’ll pay for her coffee," she said in a clipped tone, the words tight in her chest. She turned to the barista, adding, "Can I have a double-shot mocha with extra foam to go, please?"
The woman looked at her, eyes wide and brimming with relief. "Oh my gosh. Thank you! Thank you! You’re a lifesaver! I promise I’ll pay you back…"
"Just take your coffee and leave," Holland interrupted, cutting her off with a firm glance. She turned back to the barista, accepting her order as she silently watched the young woman fumble to get her change. "Keep the change," she said flatly, already shifting her attention to the next item on her mental list.
The barista’s smile was bright and genuine. "Thank you, ma'am. Have a great day!"
Holland gave a curt nod, already stepping past the disheveled woman, whose scoff lingered long enough to catch her attention.
"Ungrateful much?" she muttered under her breath, but she didn’t pause.
The woman muttered something in return, though Holland couldn’t catch it. She froze for a second, debating whether it was worth turning around to address it, but decided against it. Her jaw tightened. Not today. She had neither the energy nor the time to engage in a petty exchange.
Instead, she pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped into the crisp morning air. The faint hum of the city greeted her—cars honking, pedestrians chattering, the occasional bicycle bell ringing somewhere nearby. Holland inhaled deeply, letting the scent of roasted coffee beans and cool asphalt wash over her. She lifted the mocha to her lips and took a careful sip, the rich taste smoothing the edges of her irritation for a fleeting moment.
Even as she walked to her car, the scoff and muttering of the young woman persisted in her mind. Why had someone stood in line, pleading over a cup of coffee she couldn’t pay for? Was it desperation? Irresponsibility? Or a combination of both? Holland shook her head. "Not my problem," she muttered, stepping onto the pavement, heels clicking in rhythm with her brisk pace.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she set her coffee in the cup holder and adjusted the rearview mirror. The warm aroma of mocha filled the car, comforting in a way that almost felt indulgent. As she reversed from the parking spot, her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. She glanced at it but chose to ignore it, hands tightening around the steering wheel as she focused on the road ahead.
Yet, despite herself, the image of the woman at the counter lingered. The wild waves of hair, the tired but striking eyes, the expression that teetered between vulnerability and defiance—she couldn’t place it. The woman was a mess, certainly, but she was also undeniably striking. Holland hated that she noticed it.
"Beautiful? Really, Holland?" she muttered aloud, shaking her head as if trying to physically dislodge the thought.
Still, it was true. Beneath the unkempt exterior, there was something raw, unpolished, and real. All she needed was a shower, some clean clothes, maybe a little attention to herself. Holland’s irritation crept back as she sipped her coffee. Who partied until dawn in the middle of a weekday anyway? It was reckless, childish even.
"Probably rolled out of some club and thought coffee would magically fix her life," she muttered under her breath, a small wry smile tugging at her lips, though it didn’t last. The humor was fleeting.
There was something else in the woman’s demeanor. A subtle desperation woven through her playful tone, the kind of desperation that spoke of nights too long, obligations unmet, and a stubborn will keeping her upright despite it all. Holland let the warmth of her mocha soothe her irritation, her mind sifting through the impressions that stuck like fine dust.
The buzzing of her phone broke through again, demanding attention. Holland groaned softly and reached for it at a red light, catching sight of Mr. Lustrelle’s name flashing across the screen. She wasn’t escaping this meeting, not today. Not unless she wanted to deal with a cascade of consequences she had no energy for.
“Focus, Holland,” she muttered, returning her attention to the road. The image of the woman persisted, uninvited and insistent. She couldn’t shake it, the way it lingered at the edge of her thoughts, nudging her attention toward something she didn’t want to examine.
Maybe it was the look in her eyes. That tenuous grip on herself, a mixture of pride and exhaustion, defiance and desperation. Holland had seen it often in boardrooms, in staff who tried to maintain composure despite everything unraveling around them. But this was different. This was raw, almost unpolished. It unsettled her in a way she didn’t recognize.
"Maybe stop throwing away your life," she muttered under her breath, exasperated with both the thought and herself. Frustration pulsed in her chest. Slapping the steering wheel lightly, she reminded herself, “Not your monkeys, not your circus.”
Yet, as she drove, she noticed the way the morning sunlight reflected off a puddle near the curb, how it scattered shards of gold across the asphalt. She noticed the rhythm of the city, the quiet buzz beneath the noise, the steady flow of lives moving past her, and her thoughts kept circling back. The young woman at the counter, disheveled, frantic, laughing and pleading, had left a mark she didn’t anticipate.
It was unnerving. And yet, Holland couldn’t deny the intrigue that lingered. Even as irritation prickled at her skin, a cautious curiosity threaded its way through her thoughts. She disliked that curiosity. It made her feel… exposed, in a small, inconvenient way.
The city stretched before her in a patchwork of glass and steel, sunlight glinting off windows, casting fleeting shadows across streets lined with people hurrying to offices, cafes, and errands. Holland noticed the little details—the way a man in a tailored suit carried a briefcase with careful attention, the way a cyclist weaved through traffic with practiced ease, the way the wind caught at a scarf and held it aloft like a flag. And in all of it, she carried the memory of the woman’s eyes, the way they had searched for help without admitting vulnerability, the subtle lift of her eyebrows when she realized someone was offering assistance.
Holland shook her head, a faint, ironic smile tugging at her lips. The coffee had been a small gesture, simple, almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of her day. And yet, the impact lingered. Holland realized, reluctantly, that it wasn’t the money or the inconvenience that held her attention—it was the human element, the raw, unpolished need that the woman had exhibited without pretense.
The light turned green, and she eased forward, gripping the wheel with a newfound awareness. There were meetings to attend, emails to answer, decisions to make—but the echo of the morning persisted, a quiet insistence she couldn’t shake. It was irritating. It was distracting. And somehow, against every professional instinct she owned, it was compelling.
Holland took a deep breath, letting the city wash past her. She focused on the road ahead, the rhythmic flow of traffic offering a kind of grounding. The mocha cooled slightly in the cup holder, a reminder of warmth and comfort in small doses, and she allowed herself a quiet thought: perhaps, not every irritation was a nuisance. Some things, inconvenient as they seemed, deserved attention, even if it unsettled her, even if it made her pause.
And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the woman at the counter, the one with wild hair and tired eyes, the one who had begged for a cup of coffee and, in the process, lodged herself uninvited into Holland’s mind.
Holland shook her head again. “Not your circus,” she whispered, but she knew, as she merged onto the main road, that this one would linger longer than most.