What the hell am I doing?
Scratching at my overgrown hair, I slump back in the booth with a weary sigh. Every week since the beginning of April, I’ve showed up at that café. First out of curiosity, then out of habit, and now because something in me feels off-kilter when I don’t. With every new week, a piece of me feels a little less lost and a little more connected to the outside world.
Somehow, our coffee meetups have rewired my brain, flooding me with this unexpected sense of drive. An undercurrent of possibility I can’t ignore.
I wouldn’t call it fate, but it feels like something. A cracked door, a thread to pull, a spark waiting for the inevitable matchstick to strike.
A moment later, Annie traipses out from the kitchen with Kenna tight on her heels. I straighten in my seat, watching as they both veer in my direction, Annie fluffing her hair and adjusting her apron as she plasters on a glowing smile and finds my eyes across the diner.
As she nears the table, I’m hit with the scent of sweet maple syrup. A nametag sits crooked on her chest, a tiny mole dots the skin above her upper lip, and stray crumbs cling to her chest-length waves of kaleidoscopic hair. But with those big, pale-blue eyes, long legs, paper-white skin, and watermelon lips, she’s about as pretty as they come.
I’d categorize her as stupidly pretty.
“Hey.”
She studies me with a hint of surprise, reaching into her pocket for a notepad. “What can I get for you?”
Kenna is ushered away to assist another customer, leaving me second-guessing why I came here as I mull over words. “I was thinking about your offer.”
She writes something down, then steals a glance over her shoulder that’s aimed at the kitchen. “Good choice. Highly recommend.”
“To hang out. Write some music together. If you still want to.”
“Mm-hmm.” More scribbling.
“Um.” I follow her gaze toward the kitchen, catching a man’s face peering through the window hole. He vanishes as quickly as he appears. “Listen, if it’s a bad time—”
“Not at all. Kenna said you wanted coffee?” She blinks down at me.
“I feel like we’re having two separate conversations here.”
She traps her bottom lip between her teeth before leaning in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make me stretch my ear. “We are.”
“Okay. Care to loop me in?”
“Order something.”
I peer down at the menu, not actually reading it. “Pancakes?”
“We do have the best.” She jots it down on the paper pad and caps the pen before leveling me with a softer look. “What are you doing at midnight?”
Midnight?
“Uh, sleeping?”
“Bummer.” She shrugs. “I’m kind of a night owl.”
“I can probably rearrange some things.”
“Great.”
I hesitate, but before I can ask her to elaborate, a busser calls out to her.
“Hey, Adams! Chef is looking for you.”
Adams.Must be her last name.
The kitchen doors pop open, and the man from the window hole walks out, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His gaze locks onto me, narrowing, his jaw tightening with something that feels dangerously close to hostility.
