Stella and the Boxer

Chapter 1

I knew it was hard for him, for both of them, to have their only daughter grow up and move away. But I also know what it means to them, to be able to send me to college.

I end up having a few minutes upon opening to make myself a cup of tea before my boss strides happily through the front door.

"Good morning, Stella Louise! Rainy Sunday - lovely isn't it?" His full-cheeked smile is so genuine. He shakes the water from his now closed umbrella through the crack of the open door. As it closes, he removes his hat where his short, graying hair has been kept dry.

"It certainly is, Mr. Miller."

"Stella, will you ever call me Doug?" he asks, still grinning. Douglas Miller is the owner of Lighthouse Café, but he works most days, too. He says that he goes stir-crazy at his house, joking that any time that he has off is spent being bossed around the garden by his wife who seems, to everyone else, as sweet as he.

It's quite obvious that Mr. Miller - Doug - really just loves his café. He loves his customers and he loves helping his staff. He is an excellent boss.

On Sundays, it's just the two of us and Jimmy, who is quiet, but an excellent cook.

Customers begin arriving as soon as we open, but we aren't too busy, as I'd expected. Just before ten o'clock, we catch a break and the café is empty. I sit on a stool behind the counter, staring out of the shop's front windows and twirling the curls of my ponytail around my index finger absentmindedly. I am brought out of my daze when I see a familiar figure walking towards the front door.

The boy is wearing nearly all black, as he often does. He is clad in a hoodie, gym shorts, and running shoes. His hood is pulled up, his face cast down beneath it. I assume that his usual, thin headband maintains his hair underneath the fabric of the hoodie. He walks in a slow, steady gait, but his long strides set a quick pace.

The bell rings when he opens the door. He pushes his hood back before shoving his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt again. He keeps his head bowed a bit, but moves his eyes between Mr. Miller and me. The boy hardly smiles. Still, his look is never unpleasant, even when he is giving his concentrated frown.

"Charlie! Nice to see you. Did you go on your usual run this morning, or did the rain keep you in?" Mr. Miller, of course, has gotten to know a bit about the boy, or man - I'm never sure which to call him -- during his regular trips to the café. Mr. Miller has such a way with people. I've not yet had the courage to say anything to the boy besides "Hello, what can I get you?" or a similar social pleasantry, despite how fascinated I am by him.

He speaks in his deep, but quiet voice, "Yes, sir. I never miss a day," and he almost smiles - barely a crooked smirk.

Mr. Miller only gives a quick smile and nod, his bright, brown eyes magnified by his thick reading glasses, before confinuing with his task at the counter behind me.

"Would you like your usual?" I ask.

I bite my lip immediatley after and look down at the cash register. He shouldn't know that I remember his order. Why wouldn't I, though? He gets the same thing every time I work, probably every single day. I would seem ignorant if I didn't remember by now.

His eyes had moved back to the ground as he fished in his pockets for his wallet. But after I speak, he looks to me.

"Um, yes please. Thank you," he says, and hands me the exact amount that he owes. I'm thankful for his precision, because the brief moment of eye contact begs me to focus on other things besides making change.

Haven't I looked into his eyes before? Likely not, I'm not particularly good at making eye contact, and he is particularly intimidating.

His large eyes are so blue, but a deep, dark blue -- a midnight sky.