The ocean and sky blended together. The sun was still tucked behind San Diego's horizon in the early hours of the morning, and it was the darkest it could ever get along the Silver Strand. For a brief moment in time, the city was enclosed in a void, and the sea and the sky were painted as one. I could drive and drive, and the dark, grey mass was nothing more than color.
The sun was due to rise soon, and once it did, its rays would cast light upon the void and show it for what it really was – a vast ocean resting beneath a vaster sky.
I preferred the gray mass. It was easier to understand.
The only lights on the Silver Strand were a few headlights behind me and a few brake lights in front. We were each headed in the same direction, and we would all be compressed together in a few minutes' time when we reached the gate. The only people traveling this early in the morning were on their way to Coronado Naval Air Station.
I didn't normally drive the Silver Strand to work, as I was usually coming from the east side of the city and used the Coronado Bridge instead; however, I enjoyed the drive along this sliver of land. Sometimes I wondered if I stayed the night at Nick's house mostly because this commute was preferable to my regular one.
Once all the traffic converged, I made sure to pull into the middle lane before the gate. I knew the guards that worked this lane entrance – or rather, I knew their death dates – and so I wouldn't be forced to hear one upon entering. Hearing people's death dates was never bearable, but it was incredibly debilitating in the early hours of the morning. I preferred my surroundings dull and dark, and hearing the day someone was going to die brought a colorful, clean swipe to life – ironic, I was aware. It made life seem real when all I wanted was to exist in my imaginary, gray void.
The gate guard, a woman with creamy skin and crisp blue eyes, took my extended ID, glanced over the image, and then crouched to scan over my face. Our eyes locked, which, if I hadn't already been given her death date, would have been a surefire way I would have heard it. The woman smiled and handed back the plastic card.
"Have a nice day, Ms. Wright," she said.
Taking my foot off the break, I said, "You too." I then zipped down the road towards the east side of the Naval Base.
After pulling into the parking lot, I exited my car to stand along the edge of the San Diego Bay, and I could see the USS Carl Vinson – a massive aircraft carrier – silhouetted against the lights of the city across the water. A gentle breeze washed over my pale skin. After locking my car, I gathered my copper hair and secured it with an elastic tie. Another day, and though it was early, I had been spared hearing any death dates so far. I silently begged whomever was listening that the trend would continue.
The Morning Grind was illuminated from within, and I knew Jackie was already tackling the morning chores. I glanced at my watch, which read five to five. She must have gotten here a while ago, but I wasn't surprised; Jackie was the assistant manager with hopes of running her own store, and it drove her to the highest level of go-getter. I also wasn't complaining. Life on base started early, and I'd soon be up to my eyeballs in coffee orders. Anything she did before opening helped immensely.
Just as expected, the familiar and contrasting smell of soapy cleaner and brewing coffee seeped into my nose as I opened the door. All the chairs had been arranged around tabletops, and when I rounded the corner towards the counter, I spotted Jackie behind the display case glass. Her full, bright pink mouth was pinched and her dark eyes focused as she arranged the many muffins, bagels, and breakfast sandwiches the Morning Grind offered.
"Did you even leave yesterday?" I asked as I moved through the half door leading behind the counter, grabbing my apron from the drawer beneath the register.
Jackie snapped to attention. "Hi, Delia. You're here early."
I rolled my eyes and tied an apron around my waist. "Says the girl who's been here since four-thirty."
Jackie placed the final muffin inside the display case, slipped off her plastic gloves, and bit her vibrant lower lip. "There's just so much to do. Besides, I like being an early bird."
"And one morning you're hoping your worm might just turn into your own shop."
Jackie ran an ebony hand over the many dark braids piled into a heap on top of her head. "A girl can dream." She leaned a hip against the counter. "I hope you're ready to sling some serious coffee. Mondays in a coffee shop on base never cease to amaze me." Jackie glanced at the wood clock hung on the far wall. "Nadia should be here any second."
Nadia worked the bar with me, which was my sole position. I had applied for this job a year ago with the intention of never having to work a register again, and, because of my ample experience from working my last two years of high school at another coffee shop, I had been given what I wanted: to make coffee and have as little close contact with customers as possible. This gave me what I really desired: fewer death dates.
The doorbell chimed and Nadia appeared a moment later. Bags shadowed her eyes, and her usually pristine hair was a dark, tangled mess. She stopped before the counter, arms crossed.
"Jackie, what was the point of hiring someone for the morning shift when she doesn't even work it?" Nadia's hands slapped onto the counter. "I'm dying here. Literally dying. It shouldn't be dark when I get to work. I'm a wakes-up-to-sunshine type person. You know this!"
Jackie and I exchanged glances.
"Which I assume is the reason for your sunny disposition," Jackie stated.
Nadia crossed her arms and huffed. "During normal working hours, yes."
Through a forced laugh, Jackie said, "Oh, just settle down. The new girl – Meghan – just started last week. She needs another full week working with Phoebe before she can be let loose on the morning shift."
Phoebe was The Morning Grind's manager, who I only saw for an hour a day when our shifts intersected. I started at five in the morning and ended at eleven; Phoebe arrived at ten. The new girl, Meghan, didn't turn up until noon, and I wouldn't meet her until she started with me the following week. One more death date I would get to add to my calendar. Hooray.
"Oh," Jackie said suddenly. "I almost forgot. I left the box of cups in my car."
"I'll go get them," I said and stepped out from behind the counter.
"Thanks, Delia." Jackie smiled, tossing me her keys. I then headed for the door and stepped back into the temperate morning. A light breeze drifted over my skin. It smelled pleasantly of the ocean, but not fishy. San Diego was strange in this way. The days were always sunny and seventy degrees, and the sea breeze only ever smelled crisp and salty. People flocked here for a reason.
After I had nabbed the cardboard box full of paper cups from Jackie's sedan, I waddled back to the store and attempted to open the glass door. Maneuvering my foot alongside the bottom corner, I tried to gain enough leverage to prop the door open.
"Here, let me help you with that."
A man with robin's egg blue eyes and graying hair hidden beneath a digital Navy hat was suddenly at my side and holding open the door.
The electric buzzing started immediately. The hairs on my arms charged as the air grew heavy. And then everything stopped. The voice from another dimension channeled through my ears as if summoned:
July second, two-thousand and forty-nine.
The box tumbled from my hands. With a break in eye contact, the air neutralized, and the man stooped to the ground.
"Thank you, sir," I mumbled, as my arms were full once again. Generally, I abided by a strict set of rules when around people. Over the years, I had learned many ways to avoid contact, but so far, I had yet to learn the secret to warding off people when they approached me out of nowhere. Preparing for a death date was key to staying somewhat sane.
"No problem," he said. "Are ya'll open now? I was hoping to get a coffee before boarding."
I nodded and stepped through the open door with the man in tow.
An hour later, the sun had finally come out, and with it, a slew of men and women in uniform, and the line now spanned around the shop's corner. I was in the middle of skimming foam from a latte when Jackie called:
"Delia, after you finish that drink, will you take over the register for a second?" She motioned for the staff room while shifting back and forth, the universal sign of desperately needing a toilet.
I inhaled steeply and slapped a lid on the cup in my hands. "Sure."
Jonathan, the living, breathing example of someone who worked in a coffee shop, had arrived a half an hour previous and was on the other register. Dressed in a flannel I knew came from some secondhand store in Hillcrest, he pushed up his oversized glasses and scratched his unruly scruff, handing me another cup with a drink order. I passed it off to Nadia as I called the name of the person inscribed on the cup in my hands. After placing it on the counter, I sauntered to the register. Jackie granted me an appreciative look before jogging towards the breakroom.
Just as I flicked my gaze up to quickly meet the customer approaching, I instinctively took a couple steps backward to increase the space between us. It was my secret weapon, my only one, the technique I had adopted to avoid death dates. This precaution was needless, however, when I took in the person's appearance: cropped brown hair framing hazel grey eyes that were spaced a little too far apart, and a full bottom lip cocked into a smirk.
"Well, look who it is," the familiar voice snarled, sounding somehow deeper and harsher than I recalled, as if the last two years had not only hardened the edges of his face, but his tone as well.
Through the shock of seeing the person standing before me, my eyes narrowed and lips pinched, and I quickly pressed myself up against the counter to abolish the distance I had so eagerly sought; I didn't need the space.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed.
George Warner – Warner since I had met him years ago – smugly twisted his shoulders to lock his gaze on the shipyard behind him. His hands then rigidly pointed to his chest. As though I had been blind before, I now saw his tall frame enclosed in green Navy digitals with the name "Warner" stitched across his left breast pocket.
I had heard, of course. My boyfriend, Nick, kept in contact with Warner and eagerly told me Warner had enlisted after he graduated high school, a year before Nick enlisted.
Images of Warner filled every corner of my mind. A picture book of memories flashed by, and I was immediately filled with rage.
"You got stationed here?" I demanded, heat crawling to the ends of my limbs.
Another smug smile. "Yeah, what are the chances, huh?" Warner leaned forward. "And what are the chances you're still pouring coffee for minimum wage?"
I, too, leaned forward, challenging him with my own gaze. His eyes were more gray than brown and were only growing stormier. For a split second, between Warner's cloudy eyes and my simmering rage, I remembered I was staring directly into someone else's eyes with only inches separating us. Working off instinct, my body jolted backwards. Warner erupted into a fit of strangled laughter.
"Well, the saying's true, I guess. Some things never change." He crossed his arms, but the arrogant smile remained. Maybe time had finally made it permanent.
Evening out my senses with a deep breath and a shake, I met his gaze once more. His sharp features resembled someone on the verge of breaking the closest object in two. Again, I was reminded of the Warner from high school, always on the brink of losing control. He just needed to hear those words to send him over the edge.
"Guess you're right. Some things don't ever change," I snipped, hoping the jab would be enough of a push to trigger his wrath. I wanted to see him erupt and prove what I knew to be true: Warner himself hadn't changed.
It didn't work. Warner's brows evolved into one, and he released the tightly held arms across his chest. "You gonna take my order then or what, Delia?"
I blew a puff of air and ran a hand over my sure-to-be-wild hair. Every strand, however, was accounted for. "What do you want?"
Warner's mouth curled. "Black coffee. No room."
I huffed and snatched a cup from the stack to my right. "Why didn't you just say so." I then pivoted to the back counter and filled his cup with steaming, dark liquid. "You could have been gone and out of my hair a long time ago." As I slammed the coffee in front of him, a bit sloshed free from the top. "Three-fifty."
Warner threw loose change onto the counter with equal force. Before I could collect the money and send him on his merry way, he drew me in again.
"Hey, Delia, I've been dying to know." Like before, he was leaning over the counter. I followed suit.
"Know what?" I spat.
"Does it bother Nick?"
"Does what bother Nick?"
"You know, that you're the one who could've stopped his best friend from dying."
Warner's eyes were so dilated with the rage storming within that they were entirely black. At the sight, my own rage now morphed into something else. Revulsion. And not only revulsion for Warner, but also for myself. He evoked painful memories, and the energy spent keeping them in their crypt was giving me emotional whiplash. I felt that fresh uneasiness again as I realized how little distance there was between Warner and myself. Shooting myself backwards once more, I rid myself of the contrary hope that I would hear the one death date I knew wasn't going to come.
Warner forced a gruff laugh, snatched his coffee, and stiffly left for the exit. I braced myself against the counter and forced a heavy breath from my lungs.
My entire existence had been tarnished with death dates. With every person came the date they would die. There had only been one exception: George Warner.
xxx
A/N: First chapter down! What do you think? I'm hoping you all hate Warner right now. I know I sure did when I first wrote this! But I promise, as the story progress and Delia and him have more and more interactions, he'll slowly start to redeem himself. So stick with it! And please let me know what you think! I love hearing from you all!