Mom nods. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Jenn said it’s my neighborhood duty.”
I laugh. “Yay! I’ll see you there.”
The LoveBug café opened about a year ago, and I was utterly delighted when it did. In fact, the whole city was delighted. There was a ton of buzz from Toronto blogs and influencers, and the café is still pretty popular with people who want an adorable aesthetic for their social pics. With the pink floral wallpaper, pastel dishes, gold cutlery, andpale pink tables, LoveBug is the onlylove-themed business on the street. It’s such an improvement over Donut Time, the café that always smelled like cigarettes and, despite its name, never actually had any donuts.
LoveBug is owned by husband and wife Ajit Patel and Julie Choi. The design of the café is all Julie, and the menu is all Ajit. The two seem so different until you talk to them and realize they are pretty much the same person. I seriously want to be them when I grow up.
Julie’s wiping a table near the front when I come in, and she gives me a hug. “That bouquet is gorgeous!” she says.
“Stunning, right? Can I take some pictures of it here for my mom’s Insta? I’ll tag LoveBug too.”
“Yeah, absolutely. You’re staying for the BOA meeting, right?”
I nod. “I need to do some schoolwork first.”
“I really hope we actually get something done this time,” Julie says as she goes back to cleaning tables. “Something other than Mrs. Kotch complaining about prices and Grant going on about the bike thefts in the park. I get that bike thefts are a problem, but what can we do about what happens in the park?” Julie finishes wiping the table. “Want a pink chai?” She knows my favorite drink. I love the pink Kashmiri chai latte at LoveBug, not only because of the gorgeous light pink color but the sweet milky cardamom flavor, too.
“Yes, please. And a pistachio biscotti. Can you put it on my tab?”
“Sure thing. I’ll get Charlene to bring it for you.”
I drop my bag onto one of the pale pink café tables. “Who’s Charlene?”
Julie beams. “My new part-timer! You have to see her latte art. She made a perfect Mickey Mouse on a matcha latte yesterday. She’s studying biology at U of T.”
I look over at the counter and see a dark-haired white girl with Ajit. She’s pretty, with wavy hair, and is wearing plum-colored lip gloss and a pink sweatshirt with an illustration of a hamster on it.
“She’s cute,” I say.
“She’slovely. And she’s working outsowell. I didn’t want to hire her at first because she’s vegan—last time I had a vegan barista, they handed someone an egg and bacon sandwich calling it a ‘chicken ovum and pig fat’ sandwich. And they called a latte ‘bovine breast milk and espresso.’ Thankfully, Charlene isn’t judgy.”
I cringe. I’m a vegetarian, but I’m not militant like that. And if I were, I’d never take a job in a café that served animal products.
I grab a table near the window and pull out everything I need: my laptop, my history book, a new romance from the library (because I’ll need a break, of course), and Mom’s bouquet. Charlene brings my chai and cookie, and after about half an hour of taking notes, I decide that’s enough history for now—time for that photo. I pick up the flowers. It’s a self-standing bouquet, which means you can hold it or stand it upright on a surface, and it perfectly matches the aesthetic of this café. I arrange the flowers in front of my pink drink and half-eaten cookie, with the turquoise romance book in the background. When I stand to take a picture for my Instagram, I notice a guy I’d never seen before ordering at the counter.
It isn’t the fact that he’s unfamiliar that makes me take note of him, though.
Nope, it’s because he’s like… capital Ccute.
His skin is brown like mine, and he has longish black hair pushed behind his ears. Plus glasses. Kind of nerdy, but in a cute way. He’s wearing brown cords and a perfectly faded red T-shirt with black bands around the sleeves, and he’s carrying a worn-out canvas messenger bag and a paperback tucked under his arm. When he turns, I see wide-set eyes, a perfect jawline, and full lips.Nice.
And also? I hear Charlene repeat his order back to him—a pink Kashmiri chai latte.
This could be the meet-cute I was waiting for. Maybe the reason I’ve never been in love is because I always go for people who are so different from me. Like Priya is a total overachiever, and I’m clearly not. Before Priya, I was with Noah, who was a complete jock, and before Noah was Dawson, whohatedthe color pink, flowers, or anything he deemed too girlie (except Amber Reynolds’s extremely girlie breasts).
But this pink chai guy? He’s hanging out in LoveBug and drinking Kashmiri chai, so he clearly isn’t allergic to the color pink. He’s got brown skin, so maybe he’s Indian, like me. He’s wearing cords, and I practically live in corduroy. And he loves to read! We have so much in common already.
I’m never afraid of talking to people I don’t know, so I give the guy my most winning smile as he walks toward the tables with his clear mug of pink tea. I’m hoping he’ll take the hint and sit at a table near mine.
Or even better—maybe he’ll ask if he can join me. Maybe make a comment about our matching drinks. And I’ll say something about how pretty the color is on such agray day. Then he’ll ask about the flowers, and I’ll show him the bouquet that matches the café and the tea we’re drinking, and he’ll laugh and ask whether I planned that and if I like gardening, and I’ll tell him that my mother is a florist and I grew up above a flower shop, and he’ll ask where, and I’ll tell him right across the street.…
My perfect meet-cute on Love Street.
My skin is buzzing with excitement, but the guy doesn’t seem to take my psychic hints. He doesn’t even look at me as he takes his chai to a table on the far side of the café. Nowhere near close enough to strike up a conversation.
No problem—maybe I need to work harder to make it happen. I touch the locket containing the fortune on my neck and take the flowers over to the cute guy’s table. His head is down as he reads his book.
“How do you like the pink chai?” I ask.
