From the Ashes by Daisy Harris Read Free Book Online

The guy turned around, ignoring the customer at the front of the line who was holding out his credit card. “Oh my God. What happened?”
    “My landlords started it.” Jesse’s face heated. “They lived downstairs, so the fire rose…”
    The guy at the head of the line sheepishly pulled his credit card back to his belly.
    “That’s horrible.” Jesse’s replacement leaned in to give Jesse a kiss on the cheek and an awkward half-hug.
    “Yeah.” Jesse shrugged, trying to show he was okay. “Lost everything. Spent the night down in SeaTac.”
    Swishy Guy spun around and called over the heads of the crowd, “Hey, everyone?” His voice had a smooth, clear quality that carried out the door. “Jesse here—he works mornings—he lost everything in a fire yesterday. All his clothes, his furniture. Everything.”
    Jesse tried not to smile. Swishy Guy was making the whole thing sound extremely dramatic. The guy had a voice for a telethon, or one of those sad, late-night infomercials.
    “All your tips this morning are going to help get Jesse back on his feet.” He held up the tip jar and did something Jesse couldn’t believe. Swishy Guy, who Jesse still didn’t know the name of, reached into his own back pocket and pulled out a few bills. He dropped his money into the tip jar, as if to show everyone in line what they were expected to do.
    Oh, God. Jesse put a hand in front of his face, hiding the tears that filled his eyes. Shit, he thought he was done getting emotional, but as he watched the guy at the head of the line digging through his pockets for money, and saw the girl behind him doing the same, Jesse couldn’t believe he’d ever felt alone in the big city.
    “Well, shit. I still need you to pull coffee.” Swishy Guy pointed to two paper cups he’d lined up next to the espresso maker. “I’m Henri, by the way.”
    “Nice meeting you. This your first day?” Jesse hoped not. He needed all his shifts.
    Henri yawned as he wrote another drink order on a cup. “Nope.” He plucked a couple muffins and a bagel out of the case under the counter and handed them to a customer. “I used to work here over the summer, but I was the only person programmed in her phone Sharon could talk into taking the shift.”
    “Oh. So, um…you can work in the U.S., then?” Jesse didn’t want to come right out and ask Henri where he was from, but he was curious.
    “Oh yeah. Of course.” He flitted his hand like he was shooing a fly. “I’ve lived here since I was nine. I have a green card.”
    Jesse went back to work. Manning the espresso machine was like meditation. Yank the filter into place, press a button, jerk it free, dump the grinds. Rinse, pour, repeat.
    All the while, Henri chattered happily. Apparently, he was Quebecois, not French. That distinction came with a mess of political and social opinions that were delightfully unlike any of Jesse’s problems.
    Jesse smiled as he listened to Henri talk. He loved everything about his job. The customers were funny, the staff nice. Every day he saw a piercing or a tattoo he’d never imagined before. After growing up in a small town in Eastern Washington, Speedy Coffee felt like working at a carnival.
    At ten forty-five Sharon showed up, looking frazzled. She had an eleven-year-old, an eight-year-old, an ex-husband and a mortgage, the sum total of which seemed to diminish her mental capacity.
    “Oh. Jesse. You came in?” She stopped where she was, coffee cup in one hand and a pile of papers—probably from her kids’ schools—in the other. Sharon wore her bottle-blonde hair in a loose ponytail and had a smudge of lipstick on her teeth. “Are you okay?”
    He thought about the pile of money in the tip jar. Enough to buy him a pack of underwear and a change of clothes, and maybe even a cheap hotel for the night. “Yeah. But, um… I should talk to you about some things.” He flushed, licking his lips from nerves. He’d come to ask for money—from Sharon, who was