Young, doe-eyed, twenty-five year old Isabella Diana Evans arrived at her Starbucks barista job at promptly seven o'clock on a freezing Tuesday morning in December. Known affectionately to her friends, family and peers as a mixture of "Bella", "Bell" and "Izzie", she was a five-foot-six stunner with shoulder length dishwater blonde hair and slanted bangs. She was beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way, with an upturned button nose and perfect lips that were always curved into a smile. Freckles were spattered over the upper part of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, giving her that "farm-girl" appearance.
Isabella worked at Starbucks to supplement her income while she went to college. She had one year to go before her music production courses were over. An aspiring singer-songwriter, she wanted to be a versatile, one-woman music machine. With her last year steadily approaching, Isabella was still unsure about just how she was going to get her foot in the door.
Starbucks was a job she enjoyed. Isabella liked to meet people, and she enjoyed the people she worked with. She was fairly well-liked at her job; she kept her head down, didn't gossip and had bundles of energy to spare. Two of her coworkers in the afternoon and evening shifts were even in a band with her, playing jazzy rock. Her drive and ambition consumed her, though it bothered her parents that she hadn't found somebody to settle down with. It bothered Isabella to an extent, but she was the type that could put on a brave front and disguise what she was thinking and feeling. She considered it a gift.
On that morning, Starbucks was relatively empty, with the exception of a person or two sitting at tables and reading the newspaper. Bursting through the front door, Isabella was thankful to be out of the cold, rubbing her hands together for warmth as she made her way around the barista's counter. Pulling the elastic band off of her right wrist, Isabella put her hair up in a high bun and put on her cap. Behind the counter, her coworkers were puttering around, working on mixing smoothies and baking scones for impatient business women who didn't understand that they opened at seven and machines had to warm up. Then again, it was Mari's turn this morning to open up fifteen minutes early and she hadn't.
Once in the back, her co-worker Mari Thornton was hot on her heels. She was a young gossip, a high school dropout. She was a pretty girl with curly, mousy brown hair and big brown eyes that were even wider when she was excited.
"Oh, my God, Bella - he's here again!"
"Of course he's here again," Isabella replied, sliding on her green work apron and tying it tight. She made an effort to keep her voice hushed. "He's been here every morning for the past two years." Mari rolled her eyes at Isabella's disinterested and left her to go flirt with their co-worker Tristan Erickson. Isabella shook her head. Mari was paying too much attention to one man's routine.
Isabella started seeing him around after he had left WWE television. Her brother Trey told her he had been fired by the Nexus and that was the last he'd seen of the guy. Isabella was surprised to hear it; she always thought wrestling was fake. He showed up every morning at opening and sat in the same spot, staying for a few hours to watch the world outside pass him by. Then he would leave. Word around town was that he was very hostile. People made an effort to stay away from him these days. Trey had told her that he used to have the reputation of being easily approachable, and very unflappable. Those days were gone, though.
When he had started coming to Starbucks, he had started out as an immaculate guy. He always wore jerseys and long denim shorts, with his hair trimmed and his face cleanly shaven. Gradually, he quit caring - it was very obvious to Isabella - as his hair became longish and a five o'clock shadow began to spread across his face like a forest fire before it turned into a full-fledged beard. Some of the teenagers liked to whisper and snicker that he looked like a hobo, something that Isabella always found unbelievably cruel. It was obvious he was in pain. Mari and her co-worker Johanna Crandon liked to pass judgment, whispering and gossiping about the man who sat in silence at the back table. Isabella was fascinated by him.
She knew there was something tragic and dark going on inside of his head. It showed in the way he dressed, in the slump in his shoulders. He was a man crushed by staggering defeat. It pained her to watch him fall apart; her empathy meter skyrocketed whenever he came around. This morning, he looked especially lost, twirling something between his fingers. His shoulders were slumped in sorrow. Her father was like that once a year when the anniversary of her grandfather's death approached. Isabella wondered if he had suffered a devastating loss in his family.
Thinking quickly, Isabella grabbed a cranberry lemon scone and put it on a small glass plate. It took her a minute or two of internal debate before she decided to go over to him. He was a big mountain of a man, though he'd lost a little bit of weight in the past two years. Isabella thought he was carved out of stone. She had never seen such a big man up close before. Plus, even with the mountains of facial fuzz grown on his face, she thought he was kind of cute.
When she finally felt courageous, Isabella walked softly towards him. He had his back to her, and she could see ear-bud headphones in his ears. His music was loud, pumping a heavy hip-hop bass. She felt apprehensive to approach him, just because of the rumours about his hostile attitude. She wasn't sure if it was her paranoia, but she could feel the hostility radiating from him like an all-consuming aura.
He sensed her behind him, and he pulled out his ear-buds, turning to face her. There was pain and hostility in his eyes. The emotions were so evident that it almost crippled Isabella.
Her hands were shaking. "Hi there," she said, her voice barely above a squeak. His blue eyes narrowed at her in suspicion. "You come in here every morning, and I thought it would be nice to give you a scone…" She stopped. The rage burned hotly in his eyes. It stopped her mid-sentence. She could smell the whiskey permeating from his every pore. The smell of whiskey reminded Isabella of her grandfather, who drank to forget his stint in Vietnam. It made her stomach churn.
"Do I look like a fucking charity case?" he snarled. His voice was a deep growl, very deep in his throat. Isabella was taken aback by his harsh language. She blushed in embarrassment. An elderly couple three tables over turned their attention to them. Isabella wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole because every set of eyes were on her. They were sensing an impending meltdown.
"No!" she assured him softly, hoping that her soft tone would be enough to diffuse the situation. She was regretting that she approached him. Unfortunately for Isabella Evans, soft words and a kind heart weren't going to be enough to quell a broken and drunken John Cena. "I was just trying to be nice…"
"I don't need your fucking charity!" he shouted. Everybody definitely heard that. Isabella crossed her arms over her chest and sucked in a shaky breath. Her hands shook, rocking the plate in her hand back and forth. "Why can't everybody just mind their own fucking business?"
He stood, knocking his chair back. Isabella jumped, shrieking, startled. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he stormed out into the cold December morning. Isabella's face was bright red.
She stared momentarily at the door and rushed out after him. Everybody was chattering about what had just happened, and Isabella wanted to make sure he knew she didn't mean to offend him. Outside, he was already climbing into his truck, a burgundy Ford F150.
"Hey!" she shouted. He stopped for a second, turning to her. Shaking his head in disgust, he turned to climb into his truck. "What is your problem? I was just trying to be nice!"
"I don't need anybody to be nice - I need to be left alone!" he fired back.
"Yeah, because that certainly seems to be helping you," she fired back. He scowled, a devilish sneer.
"Mind your own fucking business - you don't know me."
"Who would want to?" Isabella regretted it the instant it came out of her mouth. He revved up the truck and she felt her frustration throb. She wondered if he would be back in the morning. Sure, he was a creature of habit, but had she driven him away with a scone? Her shoulders curved in defeat as she went back into Starbucks. He peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing. When she re-entered the store, all eyes were on her and she was sure she could have died of embarrassment. It was hard to ignore the sympathetic stares. Johanna had already cleaned his table and threw out the scone. Isabella went to take five in the back and wait for everyone to leave.
Out back, she saw his truck parked in front of the liquor store across the road. She certainly wasn't going to chase him down for round two. But if he showed up in the morning, she was definitely going to demand an apology.