Chapter three
Lindsay
My favorite café is too loud and somehow not loud enough.
Steam hisses from the espresso machine. Cups clink against saucers. Someone laughs too hard at a corner table, sharp enough to make me flinch.
But that's not the noise I'm worried about.
I choose a seat with my back to the wall, tug my hat lower over my hair. The rhinestones on my crossbody bag catch the afternoon light, scattering tiny rainbows across the wooden tabletop.
I should've left it home. Should've worn something that doesn't announce me.
My phone vibrates again.
I don't even look this time.
Notifications stack up like debris after a storm—mentions, messages, tags, people I haven't spoken to in years.
A high school friend who ghosted me after graduation wants to grab coffee.
A cousin I've met twice needs help with medical bills.
Someone I don't recognize at all just sent a friend request with a three-paragraph message about investment opportunities.
I silence the phone with more force than necessary, then flip it face-down against the scarred wooden table like that simple action will somehow stop the relentless noise inside my head.
The back of my sparkly pink phone case catches the overhead light and throws tiny prisms across my untouched scone.
I tell myself this is temporary.
That if I just stay still long enough, keep my head down and wait it out, the world will eventually move on to the next shiny thing.
Some other person will become the focus of all this greedy curiosity.
It doesn't work that way, though.
I'm starting to understand that now.
The café door chimes again, and I can't help myself. I watch it like I'm expecting trouble.
Every single time that brass bell announces someone new, my shoulders creep up toward my ears and my grip tightens around my coffee mug.
The ceramic is warm against my palms, but it doesn't stop the flutter of anxiety in my chest.
I'm half-expecting cameras to come sweeping in. Or maybe another man in an expensive suit with a business card and a look that says he's already calculated exactly how much I'm worth and what percentage he deserves.
There are all kinds of sharks now. Anyone whose eyes linger too long, whose expression shifts from casual recognition to something sharper, more calculating.
I've become a walking dollar sign, and everyone can see the numbers floating above my head.
***
I ground myself by listing facts.
I have money now. More than I ever imagined. Enough to erase every debt, every tight calculation, every moment of quiet panic over balances and bills.
The woman at the next table glances at me, then looks again, slower this time. Her eyes narrow slightly, like she's trying to place my face.
