Chapter 13: The Barista Who Stayed
The café was called Kavárna V ulici, which meant "the café on the street," which was either lazy or honest depending on your mood. Jordan had been working there for three weeks, pulling espresso shots and wiping down tables, and he still couldn't decide which.
The pay was shit. The hours were worse. And he'd never been happier in his entire goddamn life.
He lived in the apartment above now—the tiny one with the slanted ceiling and the window that looked out over the cobblestones. The radiator clanked like a dying man. The walls were thin enough that he could hear the café's playlist every morning, the same jazz standards cycling through like a prayer. And every night, without fail, the pianist from the restaurant next door would sit at the upright piano in the alley and play something melancholic, something that drifted through Jordan's open window like smoke.
He'd stopped journaling. Or rather, he'd started journaling differently. Less cataloging, more thinking. Less "today I saw" and more "today I felt."
Today I felt like I might actually be a person.
That was the entry. He'd written it that morning, sitting on the floor because he still didn't have a chair, and he'd stared at the words for a long time before closing the notebook.
---
The email to the university took four minutes to write.
He'd been drafting it for two weeks—not because he didn't know what to say, but because he knew exactly what to say and it terrified him. The words sat in his drafts folder like a grenade with the pin pulled. Every time he opened his laptop, he saw them there. Every time he closed it, he felt them waiting.
He wrote:
I'm not coming back. Not next semester, not next year. I don't know if I'm coming back at all. I'm sorry for wasting your time. I'm not sorry for leaving.
He read it three times. Then he hit send.
The response came six hours later. Short, professional, signed by the dean of students. It wished him luck and reminded him that he could reapply if he changed his mind.
Jordan deleted it without replying.
---
The apartment was a shithole, and he loved it.
Marek, the realtor, had shown him six places in Karlín before this one. Each one had been fine—clean, modern, sensible. Each one had felt like a hotel room. Somewhere you stayed, not somewhere you lived.
"This one's different," Marek had said, fumbling with the keys. "Smaller. Older. The owner died last year, and his daughter just wants someone in it. Cheap rent, but she's picky about who she lets in."
"Why?"
"She doesn't want tourists."
The apartment was on the third floor, above the café, above the noise and the music and the smell of roasting coffee that drifted up through the floorboards. It had one room, one window, one closet, and a kitchenette that was really just a hot plate and a sink. The ceiling sloped so low in one corner that Jordan had to duck to avoid hitting his head.
The floor was wood—real wood, scarred and uneven, worn smooth by decades of footsteps. The walls were covered in maps. Old ones, frayed at the edges, pinned to corkboard that had been screwed directly into the plaster. Maps of Bohemia, of Moravia, of places that no longer existed on any border. Maps of train routes and rivers and mountains that had been renamed three times in the last century.
The window looked out over the street, where a fruit seller was closing up for the night and a couple was arguing in Czech and the pianist from the restaurant was warming up his fingers.
"It's perfect," Jordan said.
Marek looked surprised. "You haven't asked about the plumbing."
"Is the plumbing working?"
"Mostly."
"Then it's perfect."
He signed the lease that afternoon. The woman who owned the building—the dead man's daughter—came by to meet him. She was in her fifties, with gray-streaked hair and eyes that missed nothing.
"You're American," she said.
"Yes."
"You play piano?"
"No."
"Good. The last tenant played piano. Drove everyone crazy." She handed him the keys. "The café downstairs is loud. The restaurant next door is louder. If you can't sleep through noise, you'll be miserable."
"I can sleep through anything."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, and left.
---
Zuzana was already at the café when he came downstairs that evening.
She was behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with the kind of focused aggression that suggested she was annoyed about something. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and her apron was stained with coffee and chocolate and something that might have been blood.
"Congrats," she said, without looking up.
"For what?"
"The apartment. Marek told me." She finally met his eyes. "You're officially a resident."
"I guess so."
"You guess?" She laughed, short and sharp. "You signed a lease, Jordan. You dropped out of school. You're not a tourist anymore."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He didn't answer. She went back to wiping the machine.
They'd been circling each other for weeks—since the night she'd stayed late to help him close, since the first time she'd caught him staring at her mouth and held his gaze until he looked away. She was five years older than him, and she'd lived in Prague her whole life, and she knew every regular by name and order and the precise amount of small talk they could tolerate before it became intrusive.
She was not his type. Or maybe she was exactly his type. He'd stopped being able to tell.
"You want help christening the place?" she asked.
The words hung in the air between them, casual and loaded.
"What do you mean?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be dense, Jordan. It's not a good look on you."
"I'm not being dense. I'm being—"
"Careful?"
"Reasonable."
"Fuck reasonable." She untied her apron and hung it on the hook behind the counter. "I'm off in ten minutes. You want company or not?"
---
The apartment was empty except for the mattress on the floor.
He hadn't bought furniture yet—hadn't bought anything except the mattress, a sleeping bag, and a single lamp that flickered when the radiator kicked on. The maps were still on the walls, the dead man's maps, and he'd spent hours staring at them, trying to imagine the places they showed.
Zuzana walked in and looked around.
"Cozy," she said.
"It's a work in progress."
"It's a shithole." She kicked off her shoes and walked to the window, looking down at the street. "But it's your shithole. That counts for something."
He didn't ask what she meant. He was too busy watching the way the streetlight caught her hair, the way her shirt hung loose over her shoulders, the way she moved like she owned every space she entered.
She turned around. "You just going to stand there?"
"What should I do instead?"
"Anything. Something." She crossed the room and stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her—coffee and sweat and something floral, maybe soap. "You've been staring at me for three weeks. You finally have me alone. So do something."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that had been building for weeks, the kind that started with hunger and ended with teeth. She bit his bottom lip, hard enough to hurt, and he groaned into her mouth and pulled her closer.
"Better," she said, when they broke apart. "Now take off your clothes."
"You first."
"No." She pushed him backward, toward the mattress. "You first. I want to look at you."
He stripped. It was awkward and graceless—he nearly tripped over his own jeans, and his shirt got stuck on his head—but she watched him the whole time, her arms crossed, her eyes dark.
When he was naked, she smiled.
"Not bad, American."
"Thanks."
"Shut up and lie down."
He lay down on the mattress—the mattress with no sheets, no frame, just a thin layer of foam on the wooden floor. It smelled like him now, like his sweat and his skin, and when Zuzana climbed on top of him, she smelled like something new.
She was still dressed. She'd only taken off her shoes.
"Is this fair?" he asked.
"Life's not fair." She straddled his hips, her jeans rough against his bare cock, and leaned down until her mouth was at his ear. "You want fair, go back to America."
He grabbed her hips, pulled her tighter against him. She was warm and solid and real, and he could feel the heat of her through the denim, the way her body responded to his even through the layers.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he said.
"Make me take them off."
He reached for the hem of her shirt, but she caught his wrists and pinned them above his head.
"No," she said. "You don't get to touch. Not yet."
She sat up, still holding his wrists, and looked down at him. The lamp flickered. The radiator clanked. Somewhere below, the pianist was playing something slow and sad, and the music drifted up through the floorboards like a ghost.
She let go of his wrists, but he kept them there, pinned above his head, because she'd told him to and because he wanted to.
She peeled off her shirt.
Her breasts were small and round, her nipples dark and hard. She wore no bra. She unbuttoned her jeans slowly, deliberately, and then slid them down her legs, revealing underwear that was practical and gray and somehow more erotic than lace.
"Your turn," she said.
She pulled off her underwear and straddled him again, and this time there was nothing between them. Her cunt was hot and wet against his cock, grinding against him, and he moaned and bucked up, trying to get inside her.
She laughed. "Eager."
"Fuck you."
"Not yet." She reached down and grabbed his cock, lined it up, and held it there, just at the entrance. "Not until you ask nicely."
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Zuzana. Please fuck me."
She smiled. Then she lowered herself onto him.
She was tight. So tight it made him gasp. She took him inch by inch, her breath hitched, her hands braced on his chest, and when he was fully inside her, she stopped.
"Okay?" she asked.
"Yes. Fuck yes."
"Good."
She started to move.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't slow. She rode him like she'd been waiting for this for weeks—which she had, maybe, and so had he—her hips rolling, her thighs clenching, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He thrust up into her, matching her rhythm, and she leaned down and kissed him, hard, biting his lip until he tasted blood.
"You like that?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Good."
She sat up and rode him harder, her head thrown back, her tits bouncing, and he reached up and grabbed them, pinched her nipples, and she moaned and moved faster.
"Touch me," she said. "I want to come."
He reached down, found her clit, and rubbed it in circles while she rode him. She was slick and swollen and so fucking wet, and every time she moved, he felt her muscles clench around his cock.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
She came with a cry that she tried to muffle with her hand. Her body shook. Her cunt squeezed him like a fist. And Jordan felt his own climax building, a pressure at the base of his spine that he couldn't hold back any longer.
"Come inside me," she said.
"I don't—"
"I'm on the pill. It's fine. Come inside me."
He did.
It was like falling—the whole world collapsing into a single point of pleasure, a release so intense he couldn't breathe. He came in waves, his cock pulsing inside her, and she stayed on top of him, watching his face, a small, satisfied smile on her lips.
When he was done, she rolled off and lay beside him, staring at the ceiling.
The maps. The dead man's maps.
"Okay," she said, after a while. "That was good. Now let's do it again."
---
They did it on the kitchen counter.
The counter was small and cluttered with his meager kitchen supplies—a single pot, a spatula, a box of tea—and Zuzana swept them all to the floor with a clatter. She bent over the counter, her ass in the air, and looked back at him over her shoulder.
"Come on, American. Show me what you've got."
He fucked her from behind, hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips, his balls slapping against her thighs. She braced herself against the wall and pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, and the whole apartment shook with the force of it.
"Harder," she said.
He went harder.
"Pull my hair."
He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled, and she groaned and pushed back against him even harder.
"Fuck," she said. "That's it. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
They fucked until his thighs burned and his knees ached and he was on the verge of coming again. She came first—a shuddering, gasping orgasm that made her go limp against the counter—and then he pulled out and jerked off onto her ass, watching his come spill across her pale skin.
"Fucking hell," she said, breathless. "Okay. That was good too."
---
They did it against the window.
The window was big and old and opened onto the street. It was late enough that no one was around—just the fruit seller's empty cart and the dark shape of the restaurant piano, silent now—and the city lights sprawled below them like a circuit board.
Zuzana pressed her palms against the glass and Jordan fucked her from behind, slow and deep, his mouth on her neck. She was shaking—post-orgasm, or cold, or both—and he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
"Look at me," she said.
He turned her face toward him, and she kissed him over her shoulder, her lips soft and swollen and tasting like him.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
"I know. That's why I'm here."
When she came this time, it was quiet—just a shudder and a sigh—and when he came, he buried his face in her hair and whispered something he'd never said to anyone.
She didn't ask what it was.
---
In the morning, she made him coffee.
She was wearing one of his t-shirts—the one from Dublin, faded and stretched—and she moved around his tiny kitchen like she'd been there for years. She found the mugs he'd bought at a thrift store. She opened the window to let in the cold air. She sat on the floor beside the mattress and handed him a cup.
"Drink it," she said. "You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the café below opening for the morning shift. The smell of fresh bread and roasted coffee drifted up through the floorboards, mixing with the cold air from the window.
"You're not a tourist anymore," Zuzana said.
"I know."
"So stop acting like one." She took a sip of her coffee, met his eyes over the rim of the mug. "You live here now. This is your home. These are your streets. That café is your job. I'm your—"
She stopped.
"What?"
"Nothing." She stood up, brushing off her borrowed shirt. "I have to go. Shift starts in twenty."
"Zuzana—"
"I'll see you downstairs." She walked to the door, then turned around. "Hey, Jordan?"
"Yeah?"
"Welcome to Prague."
She left.
Jordan sat on the floor, drinking his coffee, watching the light change on the maps. The dead man's maps. The streets he now walked every day. The cities he'd never been to and probably never would.
He thought about the sheet music from Eirik, still folded in his backpack. He thought about the bet, and Tessa, and the boy he'd been three months ago—the boy who'd never stayed anywhere longer than a week.
He thought about Zuzana. About the way she'd said "I'm your—" and stopped.
He finished his coffee. He opened his notebook.
Today I felt like I might actually be a person.
He didn't write anything else. He didn't need to.
He stood up, stretched, and got dressed for work.
The café's morning rush hit like a wall—a wall made of steaming milk and impatient Czechs and the espresso machine's angry hiss. Jordan worked the register while Zuzana pulled shots, their movements synchronized from weeks of practice, and neither of them mentioned the night before.
Not when she passed him a croissant for a regular who always ordered two. Not when their fingers brushed over the pastry tongs. Not when she caught his eye and held it for a beat too long, a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
The rain started around noon—a heavy, gray downpour that turned the cobblestones into slick mirrors and drove the tourists into the café like rats seeking shelter. The place filled up fast. Soon every table was taken, and the noise level crept toward chaos.
Jordan wiped down the counter for the fourth time in an hour.
Zuzana appeared beside him, her apron splattered with foam. "You're going to wear a hole in that wood."
"Keeps my hands busy."
"Your hands could be busy doing other things." She said it low enough that only he could hear, and then she walked away to clear a table before he could respond.
His face went hot. He stared at the espresso machine and tried to remember how to breathe.
---
The afternoon crawled.
The rain didn't let up. Neither did the customers. Jordan's feet ached, his back ached, and his brain kept replaying fragments of the night before—Zuzana's hands pinning his wrists, her breath hot against his ear, the way she'd said "I'm your—" and stopped.
He wanted to ask what she'd been about to say. He also wanted to run away before she finished the sentence. Both impulses felt equally strong, equally stupid.
At six, the café finally emptied. Zuzana flipped the sign to CLOSED and locked the door.
"Beer?" she asked.
"God, yes."
They sat at the back table—the one reserved for employees, the one with the wobbly leg and the view of the alley. Zuzana produced two bottles from the mini-fridge and slid one across to him.
They drank in silence for a while. The rain drummed on the roof. The pianist from next door hadn't shown up yet, and the absence felt like a held breath.
"You're weird today," Zuzana said.
"I'm always weird."
"True. But today you're weird in a different way." She tilted her head, studying him. "You're thinking too much. I can see it."
"I'm always thinking too much."
"Also true." She took a long pull from her beer. "So what is it? The apartment? The school thing? Me?"
Jordan set his bottle down. The condensation left a ring on the table, a perfect circle that blurred at the edges.
"You said something last night," he said. "And then you stopped."
"I know."
"What were you going to say?"
She didn't answer right away. She picked at the label on her bottle, peeling it back in strips, and when she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than he'd ever heard it.
"It doesn't matter now."
"Why not?"
"Because I got a call this morning." She looked up at him, and her eyes were different—not hard, not playful, but something else entirely. Something tired. "My grandmother. In Poland. She's sick."
"I'm sorry."
"She has dementia. It's been getting worse for years, but my aunt was taking care of her. Now my aunt has shingles, or something, and she can't do it anymore." Zuzana peeled another strip from the label. "So I have to go."
Jordan felt the floor shift beneath him. Not literally—the apartment didn't move, the café didn't move—but something inside him tilted, and he had to grip the edge of the table to steady himself.
"For how long?"
"I don't know. Months. Maybe longer." She shrugged, a gesture that tried for casual and landed somewhere near exhausted. "My grandmother doesn't speak Czech. Only Polish. I'm the only one who speaks both."
"That's not your responsibility."
"The fuck it isn't." She met his eyes, and there was steel there, beneath the tiredness. "She raised me. When my parents were working, when I was a kid, she was the one who fed me and read to me and taught me how to swear. I owe her."
"I'm not saying you don't. I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." She cut him off, not angry, just tired. "You're saying it's not fair. And you're right. It's not fair. But that doesn't change anything."
---
They finished their beers. Zuzana stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the rain.
"When do you leave?" Jordan asked.
"Tomorrow. The bus goes to Kraków overnight. I'll be there by morning."
"Tomorrow."
"Yes."
He stood up and walked to her. The space between them was small—maybe a foot of air and a table's worth of silence—and he didn't know what to do with his hands.
"I don't want you to go," he said.
"I know."
"I know you have to."
"I know you know."
She turned and faced him. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying—not quite. She looked like someone holding back a wave.
"One more night," she said. "That's all we get. So make it count, American."
---
They didn't make it to the mattress.
The moment the apartment door closed behind them, he pushed her against the wall—not hard, just firm enough to pin her there—and kissed her like it was the last thing he'd ever do. She kissed him back with the same desperate edge, her hands fumbling at his belt, his shirt, his skin.
"Bedroom," she said, between kisses. "No—fuck the bedroom. Here."
"Here?"
"Here." She pulled off her shirt and threw it somewhere behind him. "I want you against the door. I want to remember this."
He lifted her—she was lighter than he expected, all lean muscle and sharp angles—and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her back hit the door with a thud. He fumbled with his jeans, got them down just enough, and then he was inside her, no preamble, no foreplay, just the wet heat of her and the way she gasped against his neck.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, yes."
He fucked her against the door with a rhythm that was nowhere near sustainable—fast, hard, desperate—his hands gripping her ass, her nails digging into his shoulders. The door rattled in its frame. The maps on the walls trembled. Somewhere below, the pianist had started playing, something fast and Spanish, and the music bled through the floorboards like a soundtrack.
"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't.
She came first—a sharp, sudden orgasm that made her whole body clench around him—and he followed a few thrusts later, spilling inside her with a groan that he couldn't have suppressed if he'd tried.
They stayed like that for a moment, still tangled, still breathless.
Then she laughed.
"That was terrible," she said.
"Terrible?"
"Terrible technique. No finesse. All desperation." She grinned at him, and it was the old grin—the teasing one, the one that made him want to strangle her and kiss her in equal measure. "I loved it."
---
They did it again on the kitchen counter.
Not the same position as before—this time she sat on the edge, her legs spread, and he knelt between them, his mouth on her cunt. He licked her slowly, deliberately, tasting himself in the mix of her arousal, and she leaned back on her elbows and watched him with half-lidded eyes.
"You're good at this," she said.
"I've had practice."
"Don't tell me about the other women."
"I won't."
He slid two fingers inside her while he licked her clit, curling them just so, and she moaned and tangled her hands in his hair.
"Right there," she said. "God, don't stop."
He didn't.
She came with her head thrown back and her heels digging into his shoulder blades, and when she was done, she pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips.
"My turn," she said.
She pushed him onto the couch—the couch he'd bought from a thrift store two days ago—and climbed on top of him, sliding down onto his cock with a sigh. She rode him slowly this time, deliberately, rolling her hips in circles that made him grip the cushions and beg.
"Please," he said.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
She smiled down at him. "Not yet."
She kept moving—slow, torturous circles—and he had to close his eyes to keep from losing his mind. She leaned forward, her tits brushing his chest, her breath hot against his ear.
"I'm going to miss this," she whispered.
He opened his eyes. She was looking at him—really looking—and the playfulness was gone, replaced by something raw and open that made his chest hurt.
"Me too," he said.
"Shut up and fuck me."
He grabbed her hips and thrust up into her, hard, and she gasped and grabbed the back of the couch for balance. They fucked like that—fast and rough and messy—until she came again and he followed, and afterward she collapsed on top of him, her breath warm against his neck.
---
The third time was different.
They were on the mattress by then—both of them exhausted, both of them unwilling to admit that the night was almost over. The rain had stopped. The pianist had stopped. The city was quiet, and the apartment was quiet, and the whole world felt like it was holding its breath.
Zuzana lay on her back. Jordan lay beside her, tracing the tattoo on her hip—the sparrow, the one for her grandmother.
"She's not going to recognize me," Zuzana said.
"What?"
"My grandmother. By the time I get there, she might not know who I am." She stared at the ceiling. "That's the worst part. Not the dying. The forgetting."
"I'm sorry."
"Stop saying that."
"Okay."
She turned on her side and faced him. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry, and she looked smaller than she ever had—not diminished, exactly, but reduced to something essential. Something real.
"I wasn't going to say it," she said. "Last night. When I stopped myself."
"Say what?"
"That you're mine." She held his gaze. "That's what I was going to say. 'I'm your barista, I'm your boss, I'm your—' and then I stopped, because I didn't know what word came next. And I still don't."
Jordan didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.
"Fuck me," she said. "One more time. And don't be gentle."
He wasn't gentle.
He fucked her on her stomach, his body covering hers, his mouth against her ear. He fucked her with a desperation that bordered on violence, and she took it—all of it—her fingers clawing at the mattress, her voice breaking on every thrust.
"Harder," she said.
He went harder.
"I want to feel it tomorrow. I want to feel it when I'm on the bus. I want to remember."
He grabbed her hips and pulled her up, changing the angle, and she cried out—not pain, not quite pleasure, something that lived in the space between them.
"Come inside me," she said. "I want to feel you."
He came with a broken sound that might have been her name.
---
Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweaty and exhausted and unwilling to move.
"I'll send you the address," she said. "In Poland. If you want."
"I want."
"It's a small town. Nothing to do. No cafés. No maps on the walls."
"I don't care."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed—soft, sad, real.
"You're a strange man, Jordan Whitfield."
"I know."
"I'm going to miss you."
"I know."
She kissed his shoulder. The rain had stopped. The city was quiet. And somewhere, in the dark, the world kept turning.
---
In the morning, she was gone.
Not gone-gone—her backpack was still by the door, her coffee mug still on the counter—but she wasn't in the bed. Jordan found her at the window, looking out at the street.
"Bus leaves in two hours," she said.
"I know."
"I didn't want to wake you."
"I know."
She turned around. She was dressed—jeans, sweater, the coat she'd worn the first night they met. She looked like a traveler. She looked like someone who was leaving.
"Come here," she said.
He walked to her. She reached up and touched his face—just her fingers, light against his cheek.
"You're going to be okay," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're not a tourist anymore." She smiled. "You live here now. This is your home. And I'll come back. Eventually."
"Promise?"
She didn't answer. She kissed him instead—soft, slow, the kind of kiss that said goodbye without saying anything at all.
Then she grabbed her backpack and walked out the door.
Jordan stood at the window and watched her go. She walked down the street, past the fruit seller's cart, past the café, past the restaurant where the pianist would play that night. She didn't look back.
He stayed there for a long time after she disappeared.
The apartment was quiet. The maps watched him from the walls. The city went on without her—trains running, rivers flowing, people living their lives in languages he was only beginning to understand.
He opened his notebook.
I live here now.
That was all he wrote.