Just like I was allowed to wonder who the hell had told him where I was.
There was Sophie, of course, but she only knew of David as my partner first and then my ex. I couldn't imagine that she'd give him any information. My brother would sooner put David at the bottom of a swamp than speak to him.
Still pacing around my apartment, I send off a few texts,hoping no one will respond with, “Why yes! I did tell your ex exactly where you're living now.”
I glance at the time, just after three in the afternoon. Most folks were an hour behind and likely working, which meant if they did respond, it wouldn't be for at least an hour when people fell into the late afternoon slump and reached for the double dopamine hit of their phone and caffeine.
The second part of that sounded pretty fucking good.
And it would have been great if there were more than half a scoop at the bottom of my coffee bag.
Excellent.
CHAPTER 2
Toni
In theory,Icould put on real people clothes and go to the store, get a five dollar bag of coffee and other groceries I desperately need. Or I could put on real clothes and go get a seven dollar oat milk latte from that coffee shop I've been meaning to visit. Both involve getting dressed. Only one sounds moderately appealing, and it is not the more frugal choice.
Besides, I could get some work done, and given that I haven't left this apartment in a concerning number of days, the coffee shop option forces me to be moderately social. It feels like the universe is saying, “Girl, please go outside.”
Who am I to deny the universe?
My choices seem to be affirmed by the pleasant summer day awaiting me. The late July sun is warm against my exposed shoulders, but compared to the heat I was used to, this was nothing. It strikes me that I might actually enjoy the warmer months for the first time in my life.
When I pull on the door to the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, none of the typical fat girl summer gripes—like chub rub—plague me, and I've barely broken a sweat. Perhaps these are consolation prizes from the universe, considering Ialmost dislocate my shoulder pulling on a locked door with full force.
Behind the counter, a barista, clearly deep into their closing duties—judging by the dim lights inside and the hours on the door indicating in bold font they close at three o’clock—looks up at me.
I grimace and mouth, “Sorry.” The last thing I want them to think is that I’m one of those assholes who has no qualms demanding someone reopen just to make them their triple shot iced latte with oat milk. I’ve worked far too many service jobs in my time to be that person, even if a caffeine headache is already forming behind my eyes.
My quick internet search for alternatives comes up painfully short; most places are already closed or are about to be. I consider telling the universe to soundly go fuck herself. If all she was going to serve me was more bullshit today, I would rather have had mediocre store-bought cold brew delivered and not bothered to put on real pants, er, shorts. Whatever.
The bell behind me jingles. “If you’re hurting for it, the bar across the street uses our beans. It’s a chill place, too,” the barista says, body leaning halfway out the door.
“You’re an actual angel.” A simple thank you just didn’t quite have the gravity I needed to express my gratitude.
They give me a wide smile, pushing a shock of bleach blond hair from their face. “I do what I can. You should come by sometime when we’re actually open, though!”
“I definitely will.”
With a wave, they disappear into a cloud of espresso fumes.
I must have seenTwo Sons when Ben and I walked around looking for a place to eat all those weeks ago.The weathered green paint and gold lettered sign were hard to miss, but if I did, it didn’t leave a lasting impression. Now, it sits across the street like a beacon of caffeinated hope.
While the outside isn't flashy, the wooden booths tucked into the two bay windows look inviting. One is already filled with a group of young men in crimson tees or rugby shirts. Decades of flyers wallpaper the vestibule around empty coat racks, colorful pages announcing everything from cover bands to school fundraisers to pet sitters. I bet if you were to take the time to peel them off, you’d reveal a history of neighborhood happenings worthy of an archive.
Inside, the space is well-worn but lacks the stale beer, sticky floor smell of a questionable dive. Dark wood walls hold pictures of patrons and flyers for bands I don’t recognize, but someone thought were worth a frame. In the far corner, a small stage sits ready for a band to take to the mic at any moment. A gaggle of white-haired men and one older butch are gathered at the end of the shining bar top. They all look to be as much a part of the place as the tin tiles on the ceiling.
It's the kind of place I'd enjoy fading into the background of, spending a few hours people-watching and sketching on a weekend night.
“Grab a seat wherever!” A masculine voice calls out from somewhere, thick Boston accent softening the ‘er’ to an ‘ah.’
The barstools look surprisingly fat-friendly: old, wide, and with a back, not the wannabe chic metal ones that bite into your thighs. I take a spot at the end of the bar opposite the older set, keeping the college guys to my back.
While I wait for the bartender, I begin unloading my laptop and notebooks. Just because I wasn't at a coffee shop didn't mean I couldn't knock out at least a few work-related tasks. Future me would be grateful.
My laptop is slowly dragging itself to consciousness when the same voice that greeted me asks, “What can I get ya?”
