Sort-of Soulmates

Chapter Ten: Alex

I feel so organised, pre-scheduling these to go out. Who knew I could stick to a deadline if I just harnessed the powers of my autism for good? Wild stuff.

Love, Cam

♡

Chapter Ten

Alex

Abigail taped up one final box and said, "Jesus Christ, I think we're done. Luther, where the hell did you get so much stuff? I swear this is a small apartment."

It was, and yet Luther had accumulated a ridiculous amount of stuff over the years, mostly due to the fact that I couldn't see him look at something in a shop and not find a way to buy it. Dylan was right; I should not be responsible for financial decisions by myself.

"Thanks for helping," Luther said, stretching so his back popped. "And thanks for letting me use your car. You're a good egg."

"Thank you," Abigail said, sounding very pleased about being a good egg. "Lexie, are you helping us go over? Cause I think it might be better if we have the back seat free for all this shit."

"I've got the café to run," I shook my head.

Abigail frowned and checked her watch. "I thought you would have closed for the day. Who's down there now?"

"Alex has new staff," Luther said, examining the boxes to clearly try and decide how best to load the car. "Abs, I think we should take the heaviest stuff first, get it in the right places before we do any of the decor."

Abigail groaned, but put her considerable strength into it and picked up one of the heavier boxes. "Let's do it. What are the new staff like, Lexie?"

I almost wasn't sure how to answer that. I had done about fifteen interviews and found two of the least likely people in the world to staff my café. First up was Harold Lexington, a retiree in his sixties who had taken his pension and was bored stiff at home. He had, he told me, smoothing out one hell of a moustache, picked up as many hobbies as he could, including but not limited to ballet, pottery, football, taxidermy, and gardening, and none of them had been as rewarding as work. As a self-confessed workaholic, I understood that on a spiritual level.

Next up was Henrietta Jacobs, a single mother in her late thirties, who was so shy she barely made it through the interview in one piece. She was very kind and very nervous about continuing to work where she currently did, at a bar in town. I had no idea how someone so painfully shy could work at a noisy student bar, but I had confidence she would fare better in a chilled out environment.

"They're... interesting," I said, although that word was woefully inadequate. "I think they'll do well."

When I returned to work, Luther and Abigail noting that they'd probably need three trips before they had moved all of Luther's stuff, Henrietta was making coffees and plating up cakes, and Harold was engaging every customer at the cash register in small talk and pleasant conversation. It seemed to be working well so far.

"The lunch rush starts at around eleven-thirty," I told them, checking the clock on the wall. "I usually start prepping extra pastries around now, for the hungover students, which I'll go and do now. You're both doing excellently, thank you for handling this morning so I could help my brother."

"Not a problem, Mr Rose," Harold said enthusiastically. The man was on the border between Gen X and Baby Boomers, but acted like he was a butler born in 1850. "You get on with your work and we'll handle things out here, won't we, Ms Jacobs?"

Henrietta offered me the tiniest smile, eyes averted, and nodded.

"I know you will," I said, hoping that was accurate, and went through into the kitchen. It felt absolutely bizarre to be in the kitchen without having to be called out at a moment's notice to handle something. Luther had been a great help, but he was only one person, and it was hard to take orders and make them and keep the café clean all at once.