Mr. Miller leaves Jimmy and me to close the café so that he can help his wife to prepare for a dinner party they are hosting for one of their children, a celebration of his promotion. Jimmy and I had been invited, of course. “The more, the merrier,” was definitely Mr. Miller’s battle cry, and everyone was always welcome. But we both declined the invitation politely, neither of us wanting to be an awkward addition to his family time.

Jimmy doesn’t speak much to me, but we work well together and we’re able to close quite quickly. We wish each other a good night before heading off in different directions. As a freshman at Clemson, I live on campus, and although The Lighthouse Café isn’t too far, my parents and I agreed that I wouldn’t walk alone in the dark, ever, so I drive to and from work.

The short drive takes me back to campus in minutes, back to my empty room. I had a roommate at the beginning of the semester, and we got along well. But she missed her boyfriend, who was still a senior in her old high school. After only a month, she transferred to be closer to him.

Even though we’d only known each other for the first month of school, I still miss having someone around. I’ve made lots of friends and acquaintances at school – more acquaintances, I suppose. I know people in my classes and I work with people whom I like, but living completely alone is difficult. Sharing a bathroom with an entire floor of people isn’t easy either, and as I remove my clothes and wrap a soft, lavender towel around my body, I decide that I am not ready to face the evening shower rush yet.

Instead, I sit down on my bed and call my parents. My mom answers first and she asks me about my day. She tells me about her annual plight to grow pumpkins in time to decorate our porch for Thanksgiving, blaming the South Carolina soil for our garden producing only tiny, baby pumpkins. Then, my father takes his turn on the phone. He doesn’t have much to say, but he does add that my mother has tried baking a pie again – blueberry this time – and that I am certainly not missing anything in the way of deserts back home.

My mother is actually an excellent cook, and we give her enough credit, usually. She does have a way though, like with the pumpkins, of insisting that practice really will make perfect. Honestly though, she isn’t a pumpkin farmer, and she definitely is not a pie baker, but we appreciate her pure-will and persistence, my father and I.

Before my father can hang up the phone, I hear my mother insist that she’s forgotten to tell me something.

“Okay. Passing the phone back to your mom, Stella Lou. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you dad,” I say, lying comfortably on my bed. I still don’t want to take a shower.

When my mother gets back on the line, she rambles a while about a “new book that she’s been reading.” I can tell that she’s about to change the subject though, because I can remember her reading the same book about a year ago.

“Okay, now I’m in the kitchen. I just know your dad will think I’m harassing you when I ask this. Stella, have you met any nice boys? I’ve been dying to ask. I’m sorry.” My mother’s small, quick voice chimes through the phone rather pleasantly, but her statement makes my head hurt.

“No, mom. Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, and I giggle a bit but I am so serious.

I think that she senses it too, because she backtracks, “Oh Stella, it’s not that I think you need anyone. I just know how exciting that can be, and I didn’t want to miss out in case you’d met someone special–“ She keeps talking, but I cut her off mentally. Not to be impolite or difficult, of course, but her question gives me an excuse to wonder.

I had been suppressing thoughts of him all day, and now it is as if a floodgate has opened. After he’d told me what he trains for… the fighting … the conversation ended quite abruptly. He seemed to sense the effect that he had on me, and during his goodbye, he seemed to treat me even more carefully.

It's not as though I’ve seen him interact with many other people, but I had a feeling that he was particularly cautious around me. There was some strangeness about it, but it was also very nice. Many guys my age seemed so abrupt and uncomfortable to me; it felt good, reassuring even, to meet someone who seemed gentle and cool. The irony was not lost on me, of course, that someone who appeared so correct and so balanced would also be a boxer.

Is he even my age? He looks to be about twenty, maybe a bit older. He has a very mature body, but his face still has a boyish softness to it that makes me believe he must be young.

“Stella, are you listening?” My mother pulls me out of my daze.

“Yes, sorry.”

“You know, Stella, just because you met one wrong boy doesn’t mean that there isn’t a right one out there.”

Wrong. I almost laugh at the word choice, but laughing wouldn't be inappropriate. "Wrong" is actually a decent choice, I suppose. Oversimplified, but decent.

“I know, mom. You did your part in raising me to be an optimist. I just hide it very well, so people won’t think I’m foolish,” I say, and I’m happy when she laughs.

“I can’t imagine anyone thinking you’re foolish, Stella. You are the smartest person I know, and I’m not always humble about it,” she says, referring to her tendency to brag about me to her friends, and to anyone who will listen, really. “I love you,” she adds.

“I love you too, Mom. Sleep well, and I’ll speak to you soon.”

I decide to have a snack and watch a bit of television in my towel and by the time I go to get in the shower, it’s nearly eleven.

I gather my things and head down the hallway to the restroom. I’ve managed to keep my thoughts idle, but I know that the second I step under the hot water and begin to relax, I’ll start thinking about him again.

I step into one of the small shower stalls and stand as far away as possible when I turn the water on, in an attempt to avoid being splashed by the unheated water that emerges first from the shower head. Just as I settle in, I close my eyes and tilt my head back, and I see a mess of curly brown hair pushed back by a thin headband.

He is looking at the ground; I can see only his eyelashes, nose, and lips in their downcast state, each feature still recognizably beautiful. As his large, dark blue eyes look up and into mine, a perfect smirk graces his face. And once his entire face has turned upwards from the ground, his arms start to move as well. I wasn’t able to see his hands before, but as he brings them nearer to his own face, I see that he is wearing a pair of brown, leather boxing gloves.

In my vision, he doesn’t look scary. His face is sweet and playful; I would not think him to be a professional boxer. It’s his build that gives him away; he is truly a fighter.

I’m thinking about how amusing and embarrassing it is that I am able to conjure up such vivid and accurate mental image of this boy whom I barely know, when suddenly I hear the squeak of the bathroom door, a loud crash, and laugher.

I am instantly frozen and my mind starts to battle itself: one voice screaming that I am okay and to stay calm, and another just screaming. I never make a sound though. Instead, tears well in my grey eyes.

I hate that I allow myself to so quickly feel like a victim.

I live on a floor with only girls, but the laughter and conversation is clearly coming from boys – and they sound drunk. I can hardly understand what they’re saying, and I’m not sure how many there are. Suddenly, one of however many finally realizes that a shower is running, and he shushes the others,

“Someone’s in here,” he says. I am still frozen, and a tear has fallen from each eye, both of them running down my now rosy cheeks.

“Hello!” one of them calls enthusiastically, and for some reason, they all laugh. Five seconds pass, and I persistently tell myself that they are just drunken teenage boys, and likely aren’t a threat. Still, my eyes are watering and my hands begin to shake at my sides.

“We’re sorry,” the boy who shushed says finally, “We’re leaving. Enjoy your shower!” and they all chuckle a bit. I can tell then that they didn’t mean any disrespect by barging into the girls’ room.

Still, I continue to shake in my limbs as I finish my shower and return to my room. I hurry to get ready for bed and scold myself for being so easily frightened. I panic too often, not everyone is out to get me. I make what feels like the millionth promise to myself that I will stop playing victim, and be cautious without being so troubled.

As I lie in bed, I try to calm myself by thinking of things that make me feel safe. I do this often, and I usually think of my parents; or the stream that runs behind our house, and the way that it sounds, particularly when the rain falls into it; or sometimes, I’ll hum my favorite songs. Tonight though, my mind drifts to a quiet boy in brown leather boxing gloves.

***

In addition to Sundays, I also work Tuesdays and Thursdays at Lighthouse Café. Now that I am settled into my classes, I figure I could pick up another day or two of work, but I am considering finding a job that will relate more closely to my major – psychology. I want to keep my job at Lighthouse too, of course. I would miss the people if I left. My co-workers and boss, I mean.

We don’t have much of a dress code; Mr. Miller only ever suggested something simple and comfortable to work in when I started. There were no uniforms, just dark green aprons with the café’s logo. I usually opt for a loose white tee, dark skinny jeans, and either casual boots or sneakers.

On this particuar Tuesday morning, I comb my loose, light auburn curls into a ponytail and put on makeup, paying extra mind to my heavy lashes: curling them and carefully applying mascara. I grab my things and walk quickly to my car. I’m not running late, per se, but I expect I won’t be as early as I usually am.

I park my car in my usual spot on the street, a ways down from the café, and I make my way inside. It’s nine o'clock. I don’t work as early during the week as I do on a Sunday. My coworker and friend, Allie, opens the café on weekdays. I see her when I enter the door, along with Mr. Miller, and they both wave and give me a happy hello.

Allie, a petite blonde who is nearly always in a pleasant mood, is also a student at Clemson – a senior studying sociology. We talk about our weekend, hers being more eventful than mine, since she was able to make a trip home to see her family and boyfriend.

Because of our majors, most of our simple conversations spiral into our ideas of people and why they are how they are, which I love. Today though, I am distracted, and Allie, Mr. Miller and I chat mostly idly.

And in the midst of conversation and business, I watch as the hour drags on, waiting impatiently for ten o'clock to arrive.