With a giggle, she peers over at the chalkboard menu hung on a nearby wall. “What’s good here?”
I bolt upright. “Hold on. You’ve never been here?”
“I don’t think so?”
“How are we even friends?”
She arches a pale blond brow. “I didn’t realize it was a requirement.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. It took a few happy hours and late-night hangouts for her sassy side to shine through, but once it did, it never left the party. For that, I’m grateful.
“It is now,” I tell her. “This place is sacred.”
Sophie may be new to the menu, but this place has been a constant in my life for years. I’ve cried into cappuccinos, celebrated Book Nook promotions with pastries, and spent countless hours drinking refill after refill of drip coffee while telling myself “just one more chapter.”
“Okay, okay.” She tugs off her knit beanie. “So what’s good here, O wise one?”
“Everything,” I deadpan. “But their espresso is amazing and they have the only coffee cake in the city that Kennedy says is better than hers.”
We place our orders—a lavender latte for her and a caramel macchiato for me—and catch up as we wait for our drinks. The place is busy but not chaotic, filled with the usual hum of milk steamers, indie music, and quiet conversations.
Once we have drinks in hand, Sophie shifts forward, her eyes on me as she blows on her latte. “How’s work? Still drowning in stacks of books, or have you figured out how to bend time and space yet?”
I laugh. “Not yet, but I’d rather be busy than bored. Work’s…” I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “Fine.”
She arches a skeptical brow. “Just fine?”
I take a sip of my drink, relishing the way it warms me. “It’s good, but that’s nothing new. It’s always good.”
And that’s the truth. I love my job. But lately, things feel a little flat. Predictable in a way that makes me antsy instead of relieved. I go to work, and when I’m not there, I’m reading or scrolling through Bookstagram to find my next book. The only parts of my days that stand out lately are Cole’s calls and texts.
“You need a hobby,” Sophie announces.
A light laugh escapes me. “I’m pretty sure reading is considered a hobby.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Okay, smart-ass. What I mean is anewhobby. Like tennis or rock climbing.”
I cringe good-naturedly. “Aren’t hobbies supposed to be enjoyable, though?”
She smacks the table, causing some of her coffee to spill over the lip of the mug. “You should take a writing class!”
A flutter of excitement I thought had long ago faded lights in my belly, but I do my best to tamp down on it. “I haven’t written in a long time,” I admit, eyes darting around the room as if the ghost of decisions past is going to appear.
Sophie shrugs. “Did you take any creative writing courses in college?”
“One, but the school didn’t offer a degree program.” I finger the edge of my sweater, dropping my focus to it. “I wanted to go to Northwestern or Columbia because they have some of the best creative writing programs in the country, but I had Elliott and Ava to think about, so staying local made more sense. Boston has great schools, thankfully.” I force a smile to my face. “So it’s not like I sacrificed my education or anything.”
“You’re a good sister,” she says gently. “And you’ll be an even better writer once you take that class. That’s the whole point, you know. To improve and all of that jazz. I took a glass-blowing class last year and loved it.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm. When I moved to Boston, I didn’t really know anyone, so I joined a couple of classes to meet people. I’m absolutely shit at manipulating molten glass,butI made a few friends, and it was fun to try something new.”
“So you won’t be opening up an Etsy shop and selling elaborate glass sculptures anytime soon?”
“God, no,” she laughs. “I showed Cameron a vase I made, and he thought it was a bong.”
I choke on my coffee, wincing as it burns the back of my throat. “Sounds interesting.”
