3. ALEXI

My palms were moist and my breathing out of control. My nerves were on edge, but it wasn't the type of nervousness that came when I was on a call with an angry customer, and it wasn't the type of anxiety where I couldn't find earplugs to stop myself from hearing the people in the flat having sex.

I liked to know what people wanted from me. I didn't believe people were nice on purpose. And this was twice now, yesterday, and today. It felt like he sought me out, and this time I was being forced to go out with him for lunch.

We were only a couple of minutes from the office building. Warren led the way. He dressed so smartly and he smiled like he meant it. It was comforting when he looked back.

He took me down an alley to a small street lined with stalls and shops.

"This is my favourite place," he said.

The coffee shop, Ferrara's Café seemed empty.

"Where do you want to sit?" he asked, "by the window or near the back?"

I hated quick decisions like this, my hand clutched at the ends of my sweater. It was becoming a little damp in my palms. I told myself it was all for nothing and to go with the flow. Another daily mantra. Nobody ever stuck out when they went with the flow, and I never wanted to stick out.

He took my silence and lead us to the back of the café. "I know it looks empty, but we're beating the rush." He pulled out a chair for me, smiling with a full width of his lips up his cheeks, a dimple in one corner.

I looked away, back at the table after making eye contact.

He sat opposite. "I come here most days."

I placed my hands on the table. My fingers hooked around the ends of my sleeves. "I like the quiet," I told him.

"I usually order a coffee and a baguette. I never finish it, so we can share." His brows raised, his head almost bobbing and weaving as he tried to catch my eye.

"Ok, what—what type?"

"I like ham, or tuna, and they do all types of bread. All made in-house. It's delicious."

Ding. The bell above the door rang. I flinched to look and see more people walk inside. A gaggle of women.

"I don't—I don't mind."

He stood. "I'll go to the counter before the queue forms," he chuckled. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee, yes," I said, "actually—" my tongue froze in my mouth.

He paused, expecting an answer. "You look like a chocolate person, something sweet, right?" he asked with a grin. "What about a mocha?"

Smiling, I couldn't help it. It ached. "Yeah. Please."

"Whipped cream? Sprinkles?"

Trying not to look like a maniac smiling. I nodded. "Please and thank you." Turning my head, I dipped my chin into my shoulder. "Thank you," I repeated once more, quietly.

After a moment of gathering my composure, I caught him staring at me. It sent my stomach to knots. People weren't usually nice. Nobody was nice unless they wanted something. Maybe he was being nice because he saw me upset. Maybe this was all sympathy. I didn't like either option my brain threw out. My brain walls were large enough to catch stray shots of negative thoughts, and something was bound to stick. Something always stuck.

With my hands on the table, I turned them over to see my fingernails. I'd painted them pale blue last night. The edges were already chipped from picking at it. I ordered the colour online. I didn't like to go into shops, so I had to go with what I saw on the website. It was a lot paler in person than it was on the pictures.

I'd forgotten to remove it. I hadn't realised it was still on. The colour matched the new costume I'd bought. It was a powder blue sailor outfit, the top cropped, the shorts tight. They cinched into my waist. It came with fishnets and a sailor hat.

"Right," he said, approaching with a tray in hand.

"Thank you." I grabbed the ends of my sleeves again.

He placed the tray on the table. "Mocha for you, squirty cream, shaved chocolate, and sprinkles. Latte for me, with some superb latte art. I also got a ham and lettuce baguette. Cut down the middle to share." It felt wrong to look at him for this long. "And I treated you to a cream puff, they're delicious."

"I'll pay you back," I immediately said.

He scoffed. "It's my treat."

"Thank you."

"So, we've got coffee, and we've got something to eat. Do you want to talk about your day?"

I didn't know what I wanted. I knew what I didn't want, and that was working there. It made my stomach hurt to think about the people on those calls.

"So?" he prompted, grabbing at a sugar packet from the corner of the tray. "I guess I'll go first. My day was going well, then we had the marketing meeting with Marcus. The owner. He's—" as my eyes crossed over him, he wasn't looking at me this time. "He's a handful, but you can't tell him I said that. I think he listened to one of those motivation podcasts where they're like, act for the job you want and not the job you have. I thought he was going to go all Devil Wears Prada on us at one point."

"Devil Wears Prada," I repeated.

"Yeah," he chuckled, "it's a classic, Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Emily Blunt."

I suppose it wasn't beyond the realm that everyone knew of the film and those iconic scenes. And I guess it made sense for him. He had great fashion sense. I, on the other hand, was reduced to wearing this baggy sweater to hide my wrinkled shirt. It was the only business casual thing I owned that made me feel even the slightest bit comfortable.

"I wanted to quit today," I let out, looking at the cream melting over the side of my cup. "I don't like to talk on the phones, it makes me—" My jaw and back tightened.

"I'm glad you didn't," he said. "I know what anxiety looks like." His voice softened. I felt like he looked directly into my brain. "I've known people who've suffered with it."

"Is that why you asked me for coffee?" I asked, still avoiding eye contact. "It was a nice gesture, but I—"

His hand crossed the length of the table. "I asked you for coffee because I hate spending lunch breaks in that bleak kitchen or at my desk looking through spreadsheets," he said, "plus, you have this—this really delicate way about yourself, and I find that interesting."

Tilting my chin, I looked up at him. I'd never been described like that in person before, in pictures, I'd seen it, the words, the compliments, but to hear it from someone. I wanted to sink from the chair to the floor.

"It's a compliment," he added, but that was obvious. "Plus, you love Totoro. He's my favourite too, so big and squishy looking."

With my lips tight together to stop me from talking, I nodded and hummed.

"You don't have to be shy around me," he continued, "but I don't mind, like I said, I bet you're a great listener."

"Thank you," I mustered.

"And do I have your word that anything I tell you, stays between the two of us?" he asked, his smile picking at that damn dimple on his cheek.

I nodded.

"Great, because I have so many great ideas for the company, and some of them are stupid, but some of them could catapult Fizz to compete with—with—" he snapped his fingers, the sound triggering my throat to clench. "The likes of Coca-Cola and some energy drinks."

I nodded, feeling a little comfort as I reached across to grab the small spoon from the side of the tray. Revealing my hand and blue polished fingernails.

"I love the nails."

"Thank you." I pulled my arm back to scoop at the cream.

After he finished his story about how he got the job, he took a breath, placing his hands on his chest with a sigh. "It's been a whirlwind since," he said, "what about you? How did you get roped into customer service?"

I wished I could've been straight forward with him. He was warm and welcoming, and he put my anxieties at ease, somewhat. "It's not as interesting as your story," I told him.

He tutted. "Well, we should think about getting back," he said. "You barely touched the sandwich; I can get it wrapped for you." He smiled. "But you devoured that cream puff. They're delicious, right?"

Pressing my lips together in a thin line across my face, I nodded. "You don't have to," I mustered.

"No, no, I will."

"Before we—" I started, losing my train of words.

"Go on," he encouraged.

"Please don't tell anyone in customer services that we spoke, I don't want them to think anything weird is happening."

He winked. "I won't tell a soul. But speak up if you feel like you're under water at all."

His words were nice, but I knew I wouldn't be able to speak up the next time an anxiety attack hit. And next time, I might not have been so lucky to have him around to instantly calm me.