Ducking behind the counter, I started making Tanz’s usual coffee.
“What’s that on Mini M’s head?” Tanz asked over the noise of the coffee machine.
I didn’t need to look where she was pointing. “Carrot.”
She frowned for a second. “Oh! He’s the snowman.”
I threw her a wink to say, got it in one. Then I finished frothing the milk to pour the prettiest fucking espresso that had ever graced this Earth.
“Hey Mike, I’ve been meaning to ask …”
Tanz’s voice was unusually serious. I looked up from the coffee to listen properly, but was distracted by a shitshow outside.
A green and yellow car with SWIFT RENTALS splayed across the side of it was having trouble pulling into the empty spot outside Levitate’s front doors. Main Street—so called because “the only street with shops on it” was too depressing a name, even for Woodville—was on a major highway, so even though our town was small, that road was busy.
Tanz followed my distraction, and together we watched the chaos unfold.
The driver had turned what should have been one forward swoop and a neat little reverse into a Hollywood-worthy production. Their hands were frantically moving all over the wheel, and the bonnet of the car stuck out in traffic. Honking cars stacked up behind them.
In general, New Zealanders were pretty chill people. Unless you were a tourist who drove dangerously. And if the obnoxious rental car branding wasn’t enough of a clue in this case, the driver’s inability to parallel park on the left was.
Hot rage swept over the back of my neck.
Here was yet another tourist taking advantage of our country’s lax license transfer rules, thinking that a scenic road trip around a small country didn’t need any research or planning. Visitors were always completely unprepared for our narrow, winding roads, blind corners, and the very important detail that we drove on the left.
I knew for a fact that all SWIFT cars had stickers all over the dash, reminding the tourists to stay left. Still, one of the main contributors to our astronomical road toll in Aotearoa was tourists in rental cars driving on the wrong side of the road. I knew all this data. It had been recited in court when I was a kid. I didn’t remember the actual hearing, but I remembered the judge had a long black cape and my dad cried for months afterward.
Seeing this play out in front of me, I was suddenly and uncharacteristically furious.
“I can’t watch,” Tanya said, wincing. “I have to help them.”
I should have let her, but it was too late, anger was propelling me forward. Just as I threw open Levitate’s double doors, with the big aluminum handles and cheerful bell, the driver got into the park and cut the engine.
I expected the driver to open their door right into angry traffic, but apparently they weren’t completely brainless, because they climbed over the center console and threw open the passenger door. As a mass of brown, glossy hair and long limbs unfurled on the sidewalk and familiar large blue eyes met mine, my jaw dropped.
Surprise overrode my bad-driver-rage.
Hair, so much fucking hair.
I knew she had long brown hair, but I hadn’t realized she was basically 80 percent hair. And tall—how could I have known she was tall when she lived inside my screen? Still, she wasn’t as tall as me. I towered over everyone, (100 percent pure beef, baby).
Lyssa Luxe, New York’s most infamous influencer and my sister’s best friend, was standing outside Café Levitate, blinking up at me like I was some kind of ghost. She shouldn’t be surprised. It was reasonable to find me here in the country where I lived. I, on the other hand, was entitled to shock.
Lyssa Luxe was here in Woodville.
Lyssa Luxe was here. In Woodville!
I suddenly didn’t know what to do with my hands. They were just swinging from the ends of my arms? I’d watched more videos on the @lyssa_luxe account than I would ever admit out loud. In fact, I’d rather die than confess that to anyone. Especially not Lyssa. Or worse, my sister.
I never intended to become one of Lyssa’s most loyal lurkers, it just happened.
I clicked on a video out of curiosity once, around when Caroline first moved in with the bonkers fashion girl, and things snowballed from there. She was weird and interesting, and I never knew what she was going to say next.
But until today, she’d existed as a concept inside my screen, not flesh and blood.
When I’d seen her melting the fuck down on our family call last week, it was natural to make a polite offer of refuge. Anyone would have done the same. Any Kiwi would have anyway: it was the polite thing to do.
I didn’t think she’d actually come.
