The fluorescent lights of QuickMart buzz overhead like the thoughts in my brain, constant, irritating, impossible to ignore. My first day of actual employment, and I'm already exhausted before I've even clocked in. Between dodging Mom in the hallways and pretending everything's normal with Sabrina, college is turning into an Olympic sport of avoidance.
After a grueling day of classes, I wolfed down a sad cafeteria sandwich and headed straight to QuickMart. The job might pay minimum wage, but at least it gets me out of the house and away from Mom's increasingly aggressive advances.
I push through the automatic doors, the electronic chime announcing my arrival. The smell hits me immediately, that distinct convenience store cocktail of coffee, processed food, and industrial cleaner that somehow manages to be both nostalgic and depressing.
"Gabe! Right on time!" Debbie calls from behind the counter, her face lighting up when she spots me. She's wearing the standard QuickMart polo, her brown hair pulled back in the same messy bun from yesterday, though today there's a pencil stuck through it at a precarious angle.
"Hey, Debbie," I respond, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice despite feeling like I've been hit by a truck. "I'm ready to learn how to be a QuickMart professional."
She laughs, the sound genuine enough to momentarily lift my mood. "Professional is a stretch, but I'll teach you everything I know." She beckons me behind the counter, pointing to a door marked 'Employees Only.' "There's a locker in the back where you can put your stuff. Your uniform's in there, too."
I follow her directions, finding a small, dingy break room with a row of dented metal lockers along one wall. Mine has a piece of masking tape with "GABE" written in Sharpie stuck to the front. Inside is a red polo shirt with the QuickMart logo emblazoned on the chest, still in its plastic packaging.
I change quickly, the polyester fabric clinging uncomfortably to my skin. When I emerge, Debbie's waiting with a clipboard and a patient smile.
"Look at you! Official QuickMart material," she says, her eyes lingering on my shoulders a beat too long before she clears her throat. "Let's start with the register, shall we?"
The next hour passes in a blur of training, how to ring up items, process returns, check IDs for alcohol and cigarettes, and restock the shelves. Debbie is surprisingly thorough, her clumsiness from yesterday apparently limited to walking, as her hands move with practiced efficiency over the register keys.
"Sorry if I'm going too fast," Debbie says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "My ex-husband always said I talk too much when I'm nervous."
"You're doing fine," I reassure her, trying to keep up with the barrage of information about inventory codes.
She pauses, her fingers hovering over the register. "He said a lot of things, actually." Her voice drops, suddenly fragile around the edges. "That I was too scattered. Too emotional. Not enough of... well, everything."
I glance up from the training manual, caught off guard by the personal turn. Debbie's eyes have gone distant, fixed on something I can't see.
"Anyway," she continues with a forced brightness that doesn't reach her eyes, "let me show you how to process lottery tickets."
As she demonstrates the lottery machine, her wedding ring tan line catches the fluorescent light. I notice how she keeps unconsciously touching that faded mark with her thumb.
"Five years of marriage," she says, following my gaze. "Ended eight months ago. He found someone younger. Someone who could give him children."
Her voice cracks on the last word, and she busies herself with straightening a stack of scratch-offs.
"I'm sorry," I offer lamely, not sure what else to say.
"Don't be. It's fine. I'm fine." She waves dismissively, but her smile trembles at the corners. "Some women just aren't meant to be mothers, I guess. That's what he said when he left."
The raw pain in her voice makes my chest tighten.
"That's bullshit," I say with unexpected heat. "There's more than one way to be a parent. And anyone who leaves over something like that isn't worth keeping anyway."
Debbie looks up, startled by my vehemence, then her expression softens into something grateful.
"There's always adoption," I suggest, leaning against the counter. "Plenty of kids need homes."
Debbie's eyes meet mine, a sad smile playing on her lips. "I'm 37 now, Gabe. Most agencies prefer younger parents, and the waiting lists..." She trails off, shaking her head as she reaches for a box of receipt paper.
As she stretches across the counter, there's a small popping sound followed by her sharp intake of breath. One of the buttons on her QuickMart polo has given up the fight, springing off and skittering across the floor. The gap in her shirt reveals a generous amount of cleavage, her full breasts straining against the fabric.
"These damn shirts," she sighs, looking down at herself with resignation. "If I go one more size up, I'm basically swimming in it."
There's no embarrassment in her voice, just a weary acceptance. She makes no move to cover herself or turn away, it's not like she's exposed indecently, just showing more than the QuickMart employee handbook probably recommends.
I avert my eyes, suddenly finding the candy display intensely interesting. "Do you want me to grab you a safety pin from the office?"
"It's fine," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "Not the first time, won't be the last."
When I risk looking back, I catch her watching me with an expression that makes my heart twist strangely in my chest. It's warm and appreciative. There's something nurturing in her gaze, something that reminds me of simpler times when I was small, and someone looked at me with uncomplicated love.
"You're sweet to worry," she says, her voice softening. "Most young guys would either stare or make some crude joke."
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "My mom raised me better than that."
A customer enters, saving me from further conversation. Debbie straightens her shoulders and plasters on her customer service smile.
"Why don't you handle this one?" she suggests, stepping aside to let me take the register. "I'll be right here if you need help."
The next few hours pass in a steady rhythm of transactions and restocking. Debbie stays close, guiding me through each new challenge with patient instructions and encouraging nods. By the time we hit eleven, I'm starting to feel like I might actually get the hang of this job.
"You're a natural," Debbie tells me as we restock the cooler with energy drinks. "Most new hires take days to memorize the cigarette layout."
"I have a good memory," I reply, oddly pleased by her praise.
She hands me another case of Monster, our fingers brushing briefly. "It's more than that. You're attentive. Present. That's rare these days."
I feel my cheeks warm at her compliment. "Thanks. I'm trying."
As I reach for the next case of energy drinks, my elbow knocks against a precariously balanced stack of Red Bulls. My heart lurches as they start to topple, and I lunge forward with a panicked yelp, arms flailing wildly as I try to catch them. In my desperate attempt to prevent disaster, I somehow manage to smack my head against a shelf while simultaneously tangling my feet together.
The result is spectacular, I'm sprawled half in, half out of the cooler, hugging an armful of energy drinks to my chest like they're precious infants, with one leg awkwardly raised behind me in what must look like the world's most pathetic ballet pose.
"Are you okay?" Debbie asks, concern in her voice.
I look up, mortified, expecting to see judgment or irritation on her face. Instead, her eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly, she's doubled over, laughing so hard she has to brace herself against the cooler door.
"I'm sorry," she gasps between fits of giggles, "but you should see yourself right now. You look like you're trying to save those cans from drowning!"
Her laughter is infectious, deep, and genuine, nothing like the polite chuckles I've heard from her all evening. It's the kind of full-bodied laugh that comes from somewhere real.
"My heroic instincts kicked in," I say, carefully extracting myself from my ridiculous position. "These energy drinks have families waiting for them at home."
This sets her off again, tears now streaming down her face as she tries to compose herself. "Oh God, stop, my stomach hurts," she wheezes, wiping at her eyes.
When she finally catches her breath, there's something different in her expression, a lightness that wasn't there before. "Thanks, Gabe. I needed that laugh. It's been... a while."
I help Debbie return the last of the energy drinks to their rightful places, a strange warmth settling in my chest. Standing here in this fluorescent, lit cooler, surrounded by caffeine and sugar, I realize something unexpected, I'm completely comfortable. My usual anxiety, the constant background noise of self-consciousness that follows me everywhere, has faded to a whisper.
"You know, you're really easy to talk to," I say, surprising myself with the admission.
Debbie looks up, her eyes soft behind those wire-rimmed glasses. "Am I?"
"Yeah. It's weird, I've always had pretty bad social anxiety, but lately..." I trail off, considering the past week. Between navigating the minefield at home with Mom, dating Sabrina, and now working with Debbie, I've been more socially functional than I can remember being in years.
"Maybe you're just growing into yourself," Debbie suggests, closing the cooler door with a soft thud.
"Maybe," I say, though the word feels hollow in my mouth. The truth is messier than that. It's not that I'm "growing into myself" or whatever. My brain is just so completely consumed with the whole Mom situation that everything else feels secondary, like background noise compared to the blaring alarm of my home life. When your mother's trying to seduce you daily, somehow asking a customer if they want their receipt doesn't seem so intimidating anymore.
But I can't exactly tell Debbie that.
"Or maybe I'm just too exhausted to be anxious," I add with a half-smile. "It's been a weird week."
"Could be," Debbie says, leaning against the cooler. Her eyes soften as she studies my face, a gentle concern replacing her earlier amusement. "Is everything okay? You've got this look like you're carrying something heavy."
I hesitate, weighing how much to share. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting strange shadows across her face.
"Just life stuff," I mumble, fidgeting with my nametag.
"You know," she says, her voice dropping to something warm and confidential, "I'm a pretty good listener if you need to talk. Sometimes, it helps to tell someone who's not wrapped up in your situation."
There's something so genuine in her offer that I almost consider it. For a split second, I imagine how it would feel to unload everything. But the moment passes, reality reasserting itself. Some things you just can't share.
"Thanks," I say instead, offering a smile that feels more genuine than I expected. "I appreciate that."
Debbie reaches out, her hand briefly squeezing my shoulder. The touch is comforting in a way that reminds me of mom.
"Anytime, Gabe. I mean it." She adjusts her glasses, which have slipped down her nose again. "When I was going through my divorce, I didn't have anyone to talk to. It makes a difference, having someone in your corner."
The store's electronic bell chimes, announcing a new customer. Debbie straightens up, her professional demeanor sliding back into place like a well-worn mask.
"Back to work," she says with a wink. "I'll take this one. You finish up here."
As she walks away, I find myself watching her go with an unexpected sense of gratitude. There's something steadying about Debbie's presence, like finding solid ground after a week of quicksand.
"I think I'll like it here."