Chapter Text
Robin Buckley isn’t sure how she still hasn’t been fired yet.
She’s done everything she can to, like she’s following some sort of anti-rulebook. Messed up orders, talked back to customers, held up rush hour lines to make small talk (though it’s entirely one-sided, they never respond back) with any of the cute girls she’s taking the orders of. She doesn’t even call in advance when she can’t show up. The worst thing she’s done, and she really thought this would be the deal-breaker, was when she dipped her hands into an expired pump of mocha. (To satiate that burning thought in the back her head, she swears that’s all it was). So by all accounts, Robin is the antithesis of a good employee. But her manager has never called her in for the inevitable ‘we’re letting you go’ talk, and most of the customers she deals with find her almost endearing.
Her co-worker, and best friend, Steve Harrington is an entirely different story. A model employee, says the introductions from the small handbook that she barely skimmed through, goes through orders like they’re candy, and actually gets phone numbers from the same cute girls that Robin stumble-talks to. Robin thinks that life isn’t fair in this way (she's told him this, of how he gets girls to like him and the inherent heteronormativity behind it), and it’s probably Steve Harrington that is keeping her from getting fired and from getting one rom-com worthy meet-cute.
However, on day 74 of being a See You Latte barista, things change. Nancy Wheeler walks in for the first time. She’s third in line when Robin notices her.
She’s something ripped out of one of those artsy magazines Robin buys on occasion. She’s doe-eyed, scanning the impossibly small print of the menu board (someone who thinks ahead), and her face shifts as she reads through some of the more embarrassing coffee options (expressive, transparent maybe), and she has this habit of biting her lip. Robin can tell that she buys her clothes from the places that Robin’s too scared to go into, and that maybe it’s a sign that she shouldn’t try and use her arsenal of one-liners, but Robin’s good at a lot of things, such as an inability to actively read social cues. (Some of her friends and family call it bravery to be nice.) Judging from the way her shoulders are tense and her brows knit closer in whenever a person in front of her is done ordering, Robin can tell that she kind of needs it. And that she’s never been here before.
So, Robin does her best at being a model employee. “Hi, welcome to See You Latte! I’m Robin, what can I get you?” (Robin hopes that she can’t hear the wobble in her voice or see how her face has flushed considerably.)
“Hi, Robin,” she smiles (holy shit, she just said her name!), “I know that baristas hate it when people do this but do you think I could get your insight on the matcha lemonade?”
Robin freezes. She typically gives this advice to people even though they don’t ask. “Um.” Robin leans in slightly. “Can I let you in on a little secret?”
Nancy leans in, which throws Robin off her rhythm a little more. “Please do.”
“Any of the matcha shit here sucks. Like, it’s abysmal. I have no idea where we get this stuff, but I’m like–sixty percent sure it’s just really refined grass.”
“Matcha’s ground up tea leaves.”
“I know, but it tastes like lawn clippings.”
“How do you know what that tastes like?”
“I was a child with an insatiable sense of curiosity. They wrote that saying after me, curiosity killed the cat.”
She laughs, and it’s a sound so beautiful that Robin wishes it was a tangible thing so she could save it up and keep it in her jacket pockets. “Okay, so if the matcha sucks, what would you get me instead?”
“You…” Robin scans her, from the thick white headband to the uncomfortable-looking Mary Janes, “you seem like you’d like the strawberry acai refresher. If I’m being honest, it’s what I recommend to everyone in the summertime but I seriously think you’d like it.”
“You think I’m a strawberry fan?”
Robin tenses, her eyes go wide. “Please don’t tell me you’re allergic. That would be so shitty of me.”
Nancy laughs. It’s more dim this time. “No. I’ll take it.”
Robin grins. “Great! None of my recommendations actually land. This is honestly kind of a first.” Robin takes out one of the transparent cups used for iced drinks. “Can I get a name for the order?”
“Nancy. Oh, and please make it a small.”
“Okay, small strawberry acai. Pretty name, by the way. It’s unique. You’re probably the first person I’ve met with a name like that”
Nancy smiles. “Thank you. I think it’s an ordinary name, though.”
“I feel like that’s what all people who have unique names say. ‘It’s ordinary’, and it’ll be some name like Anastasia. Like, I’ve never met an Anastasia. Except for the not-Disney princess. Anyways, your order, it’ll be out in five. I stand by that.”
Nancy laughs and Robin feels like this is going to be the best day of work she will ever have. “Alright, thanks. I’ll introduce you to one.”
Robin’s already set on starting her order, scooping out dried strawberry from the designated box. “To one what?”
“An Anastasia. That is, if I ever meet one.” She puts down ten dollars. “Keep the change.”
Robin laughs, and checks the money into the register. And maybe she puts in too many strawberries, but no one’s really checking.
Robin swears that she got the name wrong the first time by accident. (Every time she tells this story, Nancy always insists that she’s lying.) Robin did do it by accident though, she’s got the worst sense of hearing. She thinks it has something to do with the eight years of marching band.
She’s made the lemonade, probably the magnum opus of her barista career. It’s deserved though, the best lemonade for the prettiest girl who’s ever been in See You Latte. She writes the name in the best handwriting she can do. The problem lies in the fact that she writes in Yancey. Robin smiles at this cup of coffee, and maybe she’s thinking too far ahead when she thinks that she would be the best barista in the world if Nancy were her only customer.
Steve interrupts her train of thought. “Are you done with that order?”
Robin glances back and sees a line of five people, all mildly annoyed with the hold-up. “Yeah, yeah, call this one.”
“Cool.” Steve places the order on the counter. “Strawberry acai refresher for Yancey?” The cafe goes pin-drop silent, and here is when Robin realizes that she’s fucked up in some way.
She looks over at Steve. “Do you know any names that rhyme with Yancey?”
“Shit, um. Order for Clancy?”
Robin hisses. “She’s a girl, dumbass.”
“Clancy can’t be a girl’s name?”
“It could be, but like, it’s a pretty name.
“Okay, let me try again. Order for, uh, Nancy?”
And Nancy, who has been staring at Robin with this horrified type of expression, slides out of her chair. She speedwalks from her seat to the counter, utters the smallest ‘thanks’. Her gaze shifts over to Robin and she gestures with her hand to come over here. When another employee whose name she cannot remember comes out of the back to start his shift (which Robin regards as a testament to her awful memory), she remembers that it’s her break.
“My ten starts now. Could you take over for me, please?”
“Sure, Robin.”
Robin smiles. “Thanks, you’re the best.” (He rolls his eyes at this, Robin doesn’t see it.) She comes out from behind the counter and the smile she has turns sheepish as she stands in front of a mildly pissed-off Nancy.
“Yancey?”
“In my defense, I did say it was a unique name. I’ve never met a Yancey.”
“Yancey?”
“I have literally the worst hearing known to man. I did eight years of marching band. That’s eight years of insanely loud instruments and yelling. And four of those years were in middle school, so I really think you should cut me some slack.”
Nancy stares at her. The grip she has on her cup makes Robin worry about it exploding.
“I wrote the name really nice. And I did my best on it, I swear. I’ve literally never cared more about a drink ever so please take that into consideration before you decide that you hate me forever. I can give you the change back if it helps my case.”
“You can keep the change, Robin.”
“Oh, thank God. I’m far too terrified to do math. Could you ease up on the cup? It looks scarily close to exploding and I just got on break. They’re also really sticky.”
Nancy’s grip eases. “Sorry.”
“No, I get it. That’s horrifying to experience. If anything, I should be saying I’m sorry. Which I am. Infinitely. If you ever decide to come back here, I’ll make every order of coffee; on the house. Or lemonade. Or whatever you want, really.”
“You don’t have to do that. You misheard me, it’s embarrassing. I’ll laugh about it one day.”
“Yeah. Maybe I will too.”
Nancy takes a sip of the lemonade. Robin doesn’t miss how her eyes smile, how she’s one of those people whose eyes can smile.
“This is actually really good.”
Robin smiles back. “Yeah. The secret to it is that I put in a pump of raspberry. You can’t tell anyone though.”
Nancy smiles into the cup. “My lips are sealed. I do have one question, though.”
“What’s up?”
“You said eight years of marching band. If you did middle and high school, you’d have done seven.”
“Oh, yeah, I did it my freshman year of college. I was just really used to doing it so I stuck with it. It fucking sucked, though. Like, I’ll wake up sometimes and think about how I woke up at five in the morning. It’s wild shit, I have the highest amount of respect for people who do.”
“You woke up at five?”
“For a whole year! I don’t know where the strength to do it even came from.” Robin glances at the clock. She has two more minutes until her break ends. “Shit.”
“Your break’s over?”
“Yeah, I’ve got two minutes.”
“Aw,” Nancy downs the last of her lemonade, “I’ll see you.” She grins at Robin. Nancy’s smile leaves this almost everlasting impression in heart, even long after she leaves.
Around this time, almost two or just about three, Robin’s favorite customer comes in. What she loves most about Will Byers is that he has a routine, he never tries to switch it up on her. Ever since she started working in customer service, she’s grown to realize how much she loves consistency. Variety, at least not to her, is not the spice of life. Here is what he does.
Will Byers will walk in, sometimes with Mike Wheeler or sometimes with El Hopper. He’ll order first, and he’ll always get some variant of a peach tea lemonade. She’s thankful for this because he’s the only person who orders the peach tea lemonade, so she doesn’t have to throw away all of it. Today is the same as half of the days he comes in, Mike Wheeler walks in behind him.
“Well, if it isn’t the sole peach tea fan in all of Indiana.”
“Am I really?”
“Yeah. I feel like that says a lot about you.”
Will’s brows knit together. “I feel like that has homophobic connotations. I could report you to HR.”
Robin fake pouts. “No, Will! Please don’t report me to HR and get me fired! I love my job so much. In fact, my only passion in life is making iced coffee after iced coffee. Working here does not make me reevaluate how monotonous my life is.”
“I’m sorry, Robin. It’s the way it is. I guess one could say, see you latte.” Mike winces.
“Get out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Even Mike thought that sucked.”
Will turns to look at Mike, who raises his hands in some gesture of surrender. “My foot hurt, for some reason.”
“He’s experiencing bodily pain from that shitty joke, Will.”
“No, I swear, it was a cramp.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. What do you want?”
“Um, I’ll get a caramel macchiato with oatmilk.”
“Why oatmilk?”
“It tastes better.”
“Are you not good enough for real milk, Mike?”
“This is really rich coming from the guy who doesn’t even get coffee from a coffee shop.”
“Coffee makes me feel gross and jittery, you know that.”
“Right. I’ll grab us some seats.”
“Okay.” With that, Mike makes a direct beeline to the same table they always sit at. It’s cute, Robin thinks, how much effort Mike and Eleven put into this routine. Like it’s some great collaborative effort.
“Steve?” Robin calls out to the back.
“Yeah?” He’s tying his apron back on, his break has just ended.
“Could you make Mike’s drink?”
“Sure.”
“Great, thanks.”
Will stands near the part of the counter closest to where they keep the teas. Robin likes to think it’s so he can talk to her.
Robin scoops up ice. “He can’t hear me from here right?”
Will looks over to Mike, who has put on headphones. “No. I think he’s listening to music.”
“Okay, good. Real talk, you want to get with a man who drinks oatmilk? To further add, who drinks oatmilk for the taste?”
Will crosses his arm. “I don’t like him for that reason alone. I can look past it.”
“Compromise is a good thing. That was nice of him, though, to pick out your table.”
“We always sit there.”
“Wouldn’t it suck if he didn’t remember? You’ve only been going here since what–three weeks ago? And only once or twice a week.”
“Well, he’s my best friend.”
Best friends can forget that sort of thing. Do you think Mike would?”
Will pauses to think about this. “Honestly, I think so. Yeah. Can we not talk about me anymore?”
“Alright. Let’s talk about me instead.”
“You’re so modest.”
“Why, thank you. I try. I met this cute girl earlier.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s got this really nice laugh, and the cutest smile to go with it. And get this, she asked me for a recommendation! Me! And she actually ordered it. But I totally fucked it up.”
“How so?”
“I got her name wrong.”
Steve is fitting the lid onto Mike’s cup. “She wrote the name down as Yancey. It’s a shame, that’s the nicest I’ve seen her handwriting.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say. One caramel macchiato with oat milk for Mike.”
Robin realizes then that she’s been done with Will’s lemonade for at least five minutes now. That she’s just been holding it. “Shit.” She passes the cup over to Will. “My bad. One peach tea lemonade for Will.”
Will takes the cup. “Thanks, I gave the money to Steve.” He walks to where they drop off coffee orders and takes Mike’s cup as well.
“That he did,” Steve adds for confirmation (Robin believed Will regardless), “it’s in the register.”
“Mike’s not going to get his caramel macchiato?” Robin smiles when she gets to ‘caramel macchiato’. Adds emphasis to let it be known that she thinks that Mike Wheeler's coffee order is the funniest thing on the planet.
Will shrugs. “He’s got his headphones in. It’s like he goes into a vegetative state when he wears them.”
Today is a good day for Robin. She's called in sick (she's not) and her manager actually believed her this time. She finally has one day where she can go places, and do things. The sole drawback to taking a day off is that time seems to lug itself around. Robin made herself avocado toast (the fancy type with cut-up vegetables and other healthy shit), went out for a walk, looked over her paper for Theory & Practice of Fiction, and went out of her way to make and drink lemon water. And surely, she thinks, the day will be half-over by now. She checks the time and is met with a depressingly blunt: 1:35 P.M.
So, Robin takes to her car. She remembers seeing this plaza on the way to work, and remembers a record shop somewhere in there. When she pulls into the disturbingly empty parking lot (save for maybe three cars as far as she can tell), she sort of regrets wearing her dad's old tweed jacket. It's too hot out for it. Or she just feels that way. She looks up at the lettering, blue and a sleek type of cursive: Nebula's Records. And while she can't help but question who the hell Nebula is (or if it's just a name they thought sounded cool), the homeliness of this store reminds her of her old job at Family Video. It's a moth-lamp situation, she thinks as she steps inside.
"Welcome to Nebula's Records." Some gangly teenage boy who looks like a more sleep-deprived Jack Nicholson greets her.
"Yeah, hi. Do you also sell films here?"
"In the back, yeah."
Robin gives the guy an unreciprocated thumbs-up. "Cool."
She finds herself, maybe fifteen minutes later, arms-deep in the 'W' section of vinyls. She's looking for this one artist, this girl who's got this weak yet melancholy sort of voice. Her music sounds vaguely country, vaguely bedroom-pop. Her first name is weird. Not like 'Yancey' weird, but a name you don't hear everyday. Faith? Too basic. Flame? Too unorthodox, maybe.
"They're out of Faye Webster." Right. Faye. Weird but not childish.
Robin turns to her semi-savior, semi-bearer-of-bad-news. She recognizes her instantly. The perm. The soft eyes, and saccharine smile. Robin grins in return. "Hey, Yancey."