Or seven-twenty.
Or seven-thirty.
By eight o'clock, I'd refilled the napkin dispensers twice, wiped down counters that were already clean, and counted the ceiling tiles above the corner booth so many times I could have drawn them from memory.
"He's not coming," Jolie said, not looking up fromWuthering Heights.
"I didn't—I'm not—"
"Thea. You've checked the door seventeen times in the last hour."
"I was just—"
"Looking for him. I know." She finally looked up, and her expression was kind. "Maybe he had somewhere else to be."
"Right. Obviously. He doesn't owe me—I mean, the café—anything. He can eat breakfast wherever he wants."
"Or maybe he's sick."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe he'll come tomorrow."
"Maybe."
But he did come.
Just not at seven-fifteen.
He walked in at eight-forty-seven (I checked), and the café was mostly empty by then, just a couple lingering over coffee in the back, and when I saw him, my carefully rehearsed script evaporated like steam.
He went to the corner booth. Sat down. Looked at his phone with that beautifully brooding expression I'd memorized without meaning to.
And I stood behind the counter with a coffee pot I didn't need and a heart doing something structurally unsound in my chest, and I thought:Okay. This is it. Now or never. Just go over there and talk to him like a normal person.
But my feet wouldn't move.
Jolie kicked me under the counter. Literally. Her sneaker connected with my ankle, and I yelped.
"Ow—"
"Go," she hissed.
"I can't—"
"You can. You've been psyching yourself up for this all morning. Just go."
"What if—"
"Thea." She closed her book with a soft thump. "If you don't go over there right now, I'm going to go over there and tell him you've been mooning over him for a month."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
She would. I knew she would, because Jolie Liang had exactly zero shame and one hundred percent follow-through on her threats.
So I went.
