ARIA
The ceiling fan groaned above my head, pushing warm air in lazy, uneven circles. Its sound had become the soundtrack of my life half-broken, slow, but still moving. Kind of like me.
The clock blinked 3:27 a.m.
Another night shift done.
I peeled off the motel uniform, my skin smelling faintly of cleaning detergent and cheap perfume from the vending machine air fresheners. The Golden View Motel wasn't golden at all the lights flickered, the guests were mostly truckers or couples sneaking around, and the coffee tasted like burnt toast but it was a job. Three nights a week. Nine p.m. to three a.m.
I worked the front desk, cleaned when the cleaner didn't show up, and pretended not to hear whatever was happening in Room 5.
"Hey, you heading out?" Jake asked, stepping out from the back office with his usual crooked grin. He was taking over my shift the only person at the motel who didn't treat me like I was made of glass.
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "You sure you've got it covered?"
He chuckled. "Go home, Aria. I've survived worse than bored guests and broken vending machines."
Jake had been working here longer than I had, a steady presence in my unpredictable nights. He always walked me to my car before I left, even though the parking lot was lit and the motel was barely a ten-minute drive from home.
"You don't have to"
"Yeah, I do." He tilted his head toward my beat-up little hatchback. "That thing screams 'kidnap me,' and I don't want to read about you in the morning paper."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You're such an optimist."
"Realist," he said, holding the door open for me.
The night air bit at my skin as I stepped outside. My car coughed to life after a few stubborn turns of the key, headlights flickering weakly before holding steady. Not much, but it got me home.
I waved at Jake as he locked the door behind me. "See you Wednesday."
He gave me a lazy salute. "Don't fall asleep at the wheel, superstar."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
As I pulled onto the empty road, the hum of the engine filled the silence. My eyelids felt heavy, but the thought of Dad waiting at home kept me awake. He'd probably stir when I got in, just to make sure I made it back safely. He always did.
Our apartment complex wasn't much to look at cracked paint, squeaky stairs, and a mailbox that hadn't closed properly in months. But it was home. For now.
I unlocked the door quietly. The smell of disinfectant mixed with something softer peppermint tea.
Dad must've tried to make himself a cup before bed again.
He was asleep on the recliner, a blanket tucked around his shoulders, the TV still on a low hum. His skin looked pale under the blue light, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Hey, old man," I whispered, setting my bag down. "Still winning your fight with the TV remote?"
No answer, just a faint snore. I smiled weakly. He was breathing. That was enough.
I moved through the small apartment on autopilot checking his medication box, refilling the humidifier, straightening the stack of hospital papers that always seemed to multiply overnight.
When I finally sat down at the edge of the couch, my body screamed for sleep. But my mind wouldn't stop.
Rent due in four days.
Electricity bill late notice.
Dad's morphine refill still pending approval.
I rubbed my temples and opened my phone. Maybe another job, something daytime this time. I couldn't keep running on three hours of sleep and adrenaline.
Scrolling through listings had become my new insomnia hobby.
Housekeeper. No benefits.
Waitress. Too far.
Receptionist. Requires experience I didn't have.
And then a missed call notification from earlier. Unknown number. Followed by a voicemail.
I pressed play.
"Hello, this is Naomi from The Grind Café. We received your application a while ago. We'd like to offer you a trial shift starting tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. If you're still interested, please confirm by 7 a.m. Thank you."
I blinked.
The Grind Café.
The name tugged at something.
I opened my email and searched for it.
There it was sent three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, when I was half-asleep and half-desperate.
An upscale coffee shop in the wealthiest part of the city. The kind of place that charged ten dollars for a latte and made you feel underdressed just for walking by.
I had never expected a callback. I didn't even remember applying.
But now they wanted me there. Tomorrow.
I glanced at the clock. 4:02 a.m.
Sleep wasn't happening. Not anymore.
By the time the sun pushed through the blinds, I was halfway through making Dad's breakfast oatmeal, soft enough so he wouldn't struggle to swallow.
He stirred when the spoon clinked against the pot.
"Mornin', sweetheart," he rasped, his voice thinner than usual.
"Hey, you're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." He tried to sit up and winced. I hurried over, adjusting his pillow. "You shouldn't be working so hard, Aria."
I smiled, the kind that didn't reach my eyes. "You say that like there's another option."
He frowned. "You're already working nights at that motel. You need rest. You're not made of steel, kiddo."
"I got a second job," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
He blinked. "You what?"
"It's at a coffee shop. Fancy one. Called The Grind. They called this morning. I start tomorrow."
He stared at me, the worry clear in his eyes. "You're already running on fumes, Aria."
"I'm fine." Lie number one of the day. "It's only during the day. I'll sleep when you nap."
He gave me the look the fatherly one that saw right through my nonsense. "Aria, you have to take care of yourself, too."
"I will." Another lie. "Besides, this might actually help us get ahead. Maybe even pay off some of the hospital bills."
He sighed and squeezed my hand. His skin felt papery thin, but his grip was still strong. "You remind me too much of your mother sometimes."
That hurt in a different way.
He smiled faintly. "She'd be proud of you. But promise me something."
"What?"
"When I'm gone.."
"Dad." My voice cracked.
"when I'm gone," he continued softly, "you keep living, okay? Don't give up on your dreams just because life got hard. You were meant for more than survival."
I swallowed hard, staring at the floor. "You're not going anywhere."
He chuckled weakly. "You sound just like her."
Later that afternoon, after Mrs. Evans dropped by to bring soup and gossip, I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop.
She'd offered to check in on Dad during the day while I was gone. Said she'd keep him company and make sure he took his meds. I thanked her until she shooed me away.
Now it was just me, my laptop, and a cracked cup of coffee.
I typed The Grind Café into the search bar.
The screen filled with sleek photos gold-trimmed counters, spotless tables, employees in black aprons and perfect posture. Even the menu looked intimidating.
"What the hell did I sign up for?" I muttered under my breath.
The reviews were brutal.
> 'Service impeccable, as expected for the clientele.'
'Staff well-trained, discreet, professional.'
Yeah, I was doomed.
Still, I clicked through the photos. I could almost smell the coffee through the screen the good kind. The expensive kind.
For a second, I imagined myself there not as a customer, obviously, but as someone who belonged. Someone who wasn't constantly counting coins and calories.
I shut the laptop. Dreams were dangerous. I'd learned that the hard way.
Instead, I checked my blood sugar, prepped Dad's evening meds, and folded laundry that still smelled faintly of antiseptic.
When night finally fell, I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling again.
The fan hummed, spinning in slow circles above me.
Tomorrow was the first step toward something new maybe better, maybe worse, but something.
And for now that was enough.