But… confusion clouds my head as I think about the way he looked at me in the Uber just now. How his nostrils flared as he talked about me falling to my knees for him, how his eyes darkened as he stared at my mouth. I get the sense his attraction to mehasn’tentirely vanished, and he’s not pleased about it.
Maybe that’s why he’s so hard on me. Raking me over the coals about missing that meeting, despite me apologizing multiple timesandlearning how to use his precious online calendar. He’s acting like designing these studio apartments is the worst thing to ever happen to him.
Personally, I think they’re exciting. My apartment is a fraction of their size, and I love it. With the extra square feet in the Bushwick places, we have the chance to create something unique and interesting.
Despite Aidan’s attitude, I can’t help but feel a little thrill as I stop in at Joe’s Coffee. Without the rules and pressure of college, my mind churns with creative possibilities. Or maybe it’s the chance to design something practical, something real. At school, everything we did felt abstract and performative, more about looking impressive than solving real-world problems. But these studios… these are an opportunity to create cozy, livable spaces for people who don’t have million-dollar budgets.
People like me.
I spy a lone cupcake in the counter cabinet, and my heart deflates. I was hoping to grab a few for later, but this will have to do.
Thinking about cupcakes reminds me of Aidan again, and I sigh as the reality of the situation settles, because I’m not theone designing this project, am I? I’m an assistant, with barely half an architecture degree to my name. Something Aidan was all too happy to mock when he said,And you’ve got a degree in architecture, do you?As if that wasn’t clear enough, he drove the message home by pointing out what is and isn’t my job, pointing out I workforhim, notwithhim.
“You okay?” the barista asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I realize with a start I’ve been standing at the counter, staring into the cupcake cabinet for some time, and my face warms. I glance over my shoulder, relieved to find no one else waiting, and when I turn back, the barista smiles warmly. It’s the same woman who served me last time. Daisy.
I give an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah. Sorry. Just…”
I shift my weight, wanting desperately to talk to someone about this. Eric’s been out at rehearsals for a new play since Wednesday, and the cast ofBrooklyn 99, while hilarious, isn’t so good at listening. Daisy seems kind. Shedidask, and suddenly it all comes spilling out in a rush…
“My father is forcing me to work for this really hot older guy, who I hooked up with before I knew who he was, but now it turns out he’s kind of a jerk and it’s messing with my head.”
A rush of air leaves my lungs as the weight of finally saying it aloud lifts, but when I catch Daisy’s eyebrows hitting the ceiling, mortification floods me.
Shit. Why did I say all that?
“I mean, uh…” I rub my forehead, trying to benormal, for once. “I’ll just take the last cupcake, please.”
Daisy’s face softens into a gentle smile. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll bring it over?”
I exhale, relieved she hasn’t laughed at me, or worse, given me that look I got so much growing up. The one that’s a combination of confusion and disgust, like people couldn’t quitework out what was wrong with me, they just knew they didn’t like it.
“Thanks,” I mumble, waving my card over the machine, then finding a table in the corner. I’m supposed to be back in the office soon, but Aidan can wait a few minutes. He’ll probably be glad I’m not there. His words from the car come back to me,Most women your age are out there making things happen for themselves, not leaning on Daddy to fix their problems, as if I’m some spoiled princess. Is that really what he thinks of me? It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Daisy brings me the cupcake, wrapped in a tiny box with the wordsPoppy’s Pantryon the side, and a steaming cup of something I didn’t order.
“Chamomile tea,” she explains, hovering beside the table. “On the house. Thought… it might help.”
A defeated laugh escapes me. “You don’t have anything stronger?” I joke, and she laughs too, shaking her head.
“No, sorry.”
She hesitates for a second, then motions to the chair opposite, wordlessly asking to join me. I nod.
“So that sounds… complicated,” she murmurs, and I smile grimly.
“It is.” I straighten in my seat, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean to unload that on you, sorry.”
Daisy shrugs. “Hey, I asked.”
“Yeah, but… when people ask if you’re okay, you’re supposed to say you’re fine. It’s like an unspoken rule. Like when someone asks how you are, you’re supposed to say ‘good,’ even if you’re not.”
“I don’t know,” Daisy murmurs, considering this. “It’s kind of nice to be honest, don’t you think? Small talk is so overrated.”
A smile tugs at my lips, despite my shitty morning, and I decide immediately that I like her. I’ve never been a fan of smalltalk myself, finding it more painful than pleasant. Like a trip to the dentist, necessary but ultimately something I’d rather avoid. Usually, I can summon the energy to say what I’m supposed to, to smile when I should, but sometimes I get soexhaustedby it all. Today seems to be one of those days.
“You’re right,” I agree.
