1
ELISE
Must be nice being right all the time, Mia. You insufferable oaf.
"Did you want oat milk or almond?" I fight to keep my voice steady as I tamp down espresso grounds because if I don't keep my hands busy, I might just reach over and yank her hair.
"Oh, Elise!" Mia's perfectly glossy lips curve into what a casual observer might mistake for a smile. "I told you ten years ago you wouldn't amount to anything, and look, you're still making coffee."
My hand freezes on the portafilter, its hot metal rim burning my palm. I don't pull away. The pain keeps me from saying what I want to say, which would probably get me fired from my sister's coffee shop.
"I mean, we all have different journeys." Mia's voice drips with honey-coated condescension as she aims her phone at me, panning slowly across the cafe. I see the little red recording light and know I'm being immortalized in her Instagram story. Justmy luck. "Some of us just take longer to find success. Dreams take time, right?"
The espresso machine hisses, matching the sound building in my throat. I want to tell her to fuck off, to stop filming me, to go back to whatever pilates-keto-bullshit influencer collab brought her to this side of town. Instead, I silently prepare her drink, focusing on the swirl of milk, and keeping my emotions in check.
"Oh! Before I forget." She slides a cream-colored envelope across the counter. "Ten-year reunion at James Khan's hotel downtown. You should come—might be good networking. Everyone's path is different." She pauses, her perfectly manicured nail tapping the envelope. "You are coming, right?"
I nod. Just once.
"Great!" She takes her latte without thanking me. "Can't wait to catch up more."
The bell above the door chimes as she leaves, her departure sucking all the oxygen from the room.
I stare at the envelope, coffee grounds still stuck to my fingers. Jane emerges from the back room the moment the door closes.
She wipes her hands on her apron, frowning. "Was that who I think it was?"
"Yep." I pop the 'p' sound, a habit when I'm trying not to scream. "Queen Bee-atch herself."
"What did she want?"
I hold up the reunion invitation. "To remind me I'm a failure."
"Elise—"
"It's fine." I am so not ready for the pep talk. "She's right anyway."
Like, seriously, right?
The email is still open on my phone upstairs. Rejection number seventeen. This literary agent didn't even bother with personalized feedback—just a template that says, in summary: "You are not as talented as you think you are." Five years of writing my horror novel, re-writing, editing, sending out queries, getting nowhere.
The only monster in my story is the publishing industry.
Ugh!
Jane watches me with the careful expression she's perfected since I quit my job at the online news outlet and moved into the studio apartment above her coffee shop. She offered me this barista position as a lifeline while I 'figure things out'. That was eighteen months ago, and I am nowhere close to reaching my dreams now than I was then. Stillfiguring.
"We're low on beans," I say, desperate to change the subject. "I'll do inventory after the rush."
My sister nods, but her eyes say everything she doesn't.
You're better than this. You deserve more. Don't let Mia Snow get to you.
I'm terrible at taking advice, even the silent kind, so I do what I do best—ignore it all.
My phone pingswhile I'm sorting through bean deliveries that evening. I almost ignore it, assuming it's another promotional email or, worse, a social media notification about Mia's latest post. When I finally glance at the screen, James's name lights up my notifications.
James:Elias playing in town next Friday. Got VIP seats. Coming with?
