Chapter 7 - The Worst Apology Ever

The second I step into the bodega, I know I'm in danger.

Not real danger. Not life-threatening. Just the kind of social disaster that could ruin my night and possibly my dignity.

Catherine is already inside, standing by the fridge, very clearly ignoring my existence.

Luis, ever the enabler, clocks me the moment I walk in and immediately smirks.

I sigh. Time to fix this.

I grab my usual iced coffee and head toward the counter, carefully approaching the human landmine that is Catherine.

"Listen," I say, because I'm a reasonable man. "I feel like last night may have gotten a little… out of hand."

Catherine, still staring at the drink fridge, says nothing.

I press on. "I just wanna clear things up."

Slowly—painfully slowly—she turns her head toward me. It is not a friendly turn.

"Oh?" she says, voice flat. "You want to clear up the fact that you've been referring to me as—what was it again?"

Luis snorts from behind the register.

I rub the back of my neck. "Okay, first of all, Devin is a liar."

Catherine raises an eyebrow. "So you're saying you've never called me your 'nightly routine'?"

I pause.

Silence.

Luis is already shaking with laughter.

Catherine crosses her arms. "Go on. Lie to my face."

I clear my throat. "What I meant was, I don't, like, consciously refer to you as that."

Catherine just blinks at me. Like she's watching a slow-motion car crash and can't look away.

I start sweating. Time to pivot.

"Look, if you really think about it," I say, leaning casually against the counter, "a nightly routine is just another way of saying something consistent. Reliable."

Catherine tilts her head.

I nod, committing to the bit. "You're basically just a frequently occurring evening acquaintance."

Silence.

Horrible, crushing silence.

Luis makes a strangled noise before he has to physically turn away from us.

Catherine's expression does not change. She just stares at me like I have personally offended every ancestor she has ever had.

"Frequently occurring," she repeats.

I nod. "Yes."

"Evening acquaintance."

Another nod. "Correct."

She exhales slowly, rubbing her temples like she's debating the consequences of homicide.

Luis, meanwhile, is visibly crying.

I cough. "Okay. Bad phrasing—"

"Wow," Catherine interrupts. "You should write poetry. That was beautiful."

Luis wheezes.

I sigh, grabbing my iced coffee and definitely not making eye contact.

Catherine picks up her tea and turns to Luis, completely ignoring me. "Anyway, Luis, how's your night going?"

Luis, still laughing, shakes his head. "Much better than yours, man."

I take a long sip of my drink. It tastes like regret.