Knife's Edge

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I place some empty mugs on a tray as I clear a recently abandoned table, the clock on the wall ticking away tirelessly as another table of customers filters outside. Ellie calls out for them to have a nice day as they go and, despite her forced cheer, her voice sounds as exhausted as I feel.

My morning got slightly better when Stella returned back from the shops, carrying with her a giant tub of ice cream. More than just the ice cream, she had come back with everything needed for a late morning pamper session. As it turned out, some quality time with my foster mother is exactly what I needed to brighten my mood.

We laughed at each other looking like sunburnt aliens as we plastered on face masks, painted our toenails, and finally curled up on the sofa to watch the corniest movie we could find on Netflix.

Oh, and we ate ice cream – lots and lots of ice cream.

By the time she dropped me at the café for my two o'clock shift, I was able to crack a smile with barely any effort, at all – and I had successfully banished the taste of rancid socks with about a pint of mint-choc-chip. Even so, the rough night's sleep has left me with heavy eyelids and a nasty case of brain fog – understandably so, in my opinion – but what's Ellie's excuse?

"You good?" I ask as I move back behind the counter with my tray of dirty pots, loading them into the dishwasher.

"Huh?" she asks distractedly, lifting her chin up from her hand, her elbow still resting on the counter as she glances over at me. "Oh, yeah. Just bored."

I don't believe her but, before I can call her on the lie, the familiar chime of the door opening distracts us both.

We watch as Lucas and Finn enter the café. They head for their normal table as, coincidentally, the current occupiers seem to suddenly be finished with it. They even move their empties to another table before they leave, and I roll my eyes as I watch them go.

I wait for Ellie to make some comment about how mob-boss the whole scenario is, or pipe up with some inappropriate and completely inaccurate comment about Lucas – but she doesn't. She doesn't even scuttle off like her jeans are on fire as he approaches us at the counter. She simply stares past him, unseeing, to the world beyond the front window as I rattle off the price of two americanos.

Lucas hands me the money and doesn't spare Ellie a glance as he returns to his table.

"Are you sure you're okay, El?" I can't help but ask as I start on the drinks. She seems...off. There's no other word for it.

"Yes," she replies quickly – a little too quickly – and, when she catches the look I give her, she adds, "I promise. I'm all good."

I still don't believe her but I decide not to push the issue further. Ellie's a talker; it's in her blood. She'll tell me what's bothering her eventually, when she wants to.

On a whim, I decide to add a small jug of milk and a handful of sugar packets to the Coleman's tray, along with some spoons. Neither of these two actually prefers their coffee plain (if breakfast last week is anything to go by). My hunch is confirmed when Finn shares a quick, surprised look with Lucas, before he shrugs and picks up the milk. Lucas mutters a quiet, "Thanks".

"How's Andrew?" I'm afraid to ask, worried that they might tell me his entire arm has dropped off and that it's all my fault.

"A complete pain in the ass," Finn replies, rolling his eyes. "But otherwise fine. You would think he's lost a limb, with how much he's complaining. But we got Doc to check him over first thing and he reckons Drew will make a full recovery – as long as no one else tries to play splat the prat with him again."