To Be Loved by the Three I Feared

Avery

“So… is this coffee supposed to taste like that?”

The girl says it while staring into her mug, like it might answer her back.

I stop at the edge of the table and glance down. The coffee looks exactly like it’s looked all night—dark, steaming, minding its own business. She doesn’t look up at me, just keeps frowning into the cup as if she’s personally offended by it.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s coffee.”

She finally lifts her gaze. Perfect hair, glossy lips, the kind of effortless confidence that comes from never having to ask how much something costs. Her friends sit back, watching, one of them already half-smiling like she’s hoping this turns into something worth talking about later.

“Well,” the girl says, tapping the rim with one manicured finger, “it tastes burnt.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice automatically polite. “I can bring you a fresh one.”

“I already had a fresh one.”

I pause, then nod. “I can bring you a full mug from another pot.”

She tilts her head. “Do you guys even clean the machine? Or do you just… keep pouring until it stops working?”

I keep my smile in place. It’s a good one. I’ve had years of practice. “We clean it every night.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “It’s just weird. Coffee shouldn’t taste like this. Like, have you ever been to Starbucks? That's what it should be like.”

I think about all the things coffee shouldn’t taste like, including entitlement, but say none of them. “I’ll bring you another cup. No charge.”

She sighs, like I’ve exhausted her. “Fine. But if it’s bad again, I’m going to have to talk to your manager.”

“Oh no,” I say. "Not the manager threat.”

She squints at me. “Are you being sarcastic?”

I meet her eyes, hold it for just a beat too long. Then give her my best customer service smile. “Of course not.”

I turn away before she can decide whether to argue.

Behind the counter, the smile drops immediately. I lean forward, resting my hands against the edge, and let out a breath I’ve been holding longer than I realized. It comes out as a low, irritated sound—more animal than polite human waitress.

A weight settles against my shoulders. A hand pats my back, slow and exaggerated.

“Why are you making threatening noises?” Ricky asks.

I glance sideways at him. He’s leaning over the counter, all elbows and bad posture, blonde curls falling into his eyes, looking far too entertained by my misery.

“One of my tables thinks diner coffee should taste like $15 Starbucks and trust funds,” I say. “Apparently ours tastes like disappointment and poor neighborhoods.”

He laughs. “That’s nothing.”

I look at him and arch an eyebrow.

“I just watched a toddler shove his straw up his nose,” he says. “Then he leaned forward and tried to drink his chocolate milk through it.”

I stare for a second. “…Did it work?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

The laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, sharp and sudden. I didn't mean to insult a child, but if you're going to go for the straw up the nose, you better put it to use, you know? From the corner booth, a woman’s voice rises, panicked and shrill, followed by a man yelling something about bad ideas and germs. The kid starts crying. Ricky presses his lips together, shoulders shaking.

“I had to walk away,” he says. “For my own safety.”

“Yeah,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Okay. You win.”

I straighten, smoothing my apron, letting the noise of the diner settle back into something manageable. “At least the shift’s almost over.”

“Almost,” he says. “Which is when things usually go wrong.”

His arm stays draped over my shoulders, familiar and easy. “Drinks after?”

I look up at him. Ricky’s always been easy—someone who doesn’t ask questions I don’t want to answer, who understands what it means to be tired and broke and trying anyway. Sometimes we get drinks, sometimes those drinks turn into his couch and his bed, into laughter and warmth and nothing complicated. No promises. No expectations.

I don’t have space for more than that. Not with my translation degree eating every spare moment, not with tuition and rent and the constant math of survival running in the back of my head.

Ricky is all long limbs and restless energy, the kind of skinny-lanky build that somehow still reads athletic, like he could step onto a basketball court and hold his own without trying. He has messy curls that never stay in place and a smile that works on almost everyone. Girls notice him. They always have. He never seems surprised by it, never brags about it either—it’s just something that happens around him.

But with me, he’s different.

He’s gentle in ways most people don’t expect from someone who gets attention so easily. He listens. He checks in. He makes sure I feel wanted, respected, and safe, not just desired. When we end up tangled together in his sheets after too many drinks and too much laughter, he treats me like I matter—like I'm not just another night, but someone worth being careful with.

And that’s why I keep coming back.

So drinks? I can do drinks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’d like that.”

A shadow falls across the counter before he can respond.

Frank stands there, arms crossed, expression carved from permanent irritation. His eyes flick to Ricky’s arm, then back to me. “Are we working,” he asks, “or hanging out?”

“Working,” we say at the same time.

“Table twelve needs refills,” he adds, already turning away. “Less chatting.”

“I’m on it.”

Ricky leans in just long enough to murmur, “Still worth it.”

I shake my head, grab the coffee pot, and head back out onto the floor, the bell above the door jingling as someone else walks in.

I don’t know yet that this is the last normal night of my life. I don’t know that something ancient is already moving, or that the world I understand is about to crack open.

For now, I just pour coffee and keep smiling, believing—like an idiot—that this is all there is.