1
“Stellaaa!” the lavender-haired barista shouts over Justin Bieber’s regrettable rendition of Little Drummer Boy. “One Butterfly Boba and an oat milk Mermaid Milkiatto for Stella!”
I grab Marianne’s sugar-bomb boba in one hand and frown as I reach for the neon blue drink beside it.
“Um, excuse me,” I try to get the barista’s attention as I examine the crayon-colored froth. “I don’t think this is right. I’m pretty sure I ordered a coffee?”
He makes a point of rolling his eyes before turning back to the register, clearly hedging the bet that I’m not the type to make a public scene about, well,anything. And unfortunately for my tastebuds, he’s right.
Instead, I sigh and cart the offending drinks over to our table, where my best friend is unwrapping herself from seventeen layers of coats.
“Did you milk a smurf?” Marianne asks as I plop into the glittery plastic chair.
“It was the only thing on the menu that had actual espresso in it,” I shrug. “I guess this is what we get for coming to a place called Unicorn Brew.”
“Right,” she says skeptically, surveying the café’s flashing Christmas lights and aggressively maximalist décor. “Why are we here again? Is there a reason we couldn’t just meet at the Mr. Beans on campus?”
I hesitate. As a PhD fellow at Carver University, I rarely have time to see Mer during the week anymore, so we try to squeeze in little coffee dates whenever our schedules align. But she of all people knows that I’d never voluntarily walk into this Gen Z fever dream without just cause, even if I am a sucker for tacky Christmas pop songs.
“I’m… trying to support female-owned businesses?” I answer unconvincingly. In response, she raises a rust-colored eyebrow before lifting the straw out of her glass and spitting a boba ball right at my forehead.
“Hey!”
“Cut the crap, Stella.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I know you’re still hiding from Patrick.”
I wince, wondering if the sound of my ex’s name will ever cease to make my stomach flip. It certainly doesn’t help that I have to spend hours each day looking at my replacement’s engagement ring.
If you think being dumped by someone you work with is humiliating, try sharing an office with his new fiancée.
“Who?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. But I’m not fooling anyone—least of all my best friend. Avoiding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is the reason why I’ve been late to my own classes nine out of ten times this semester. The reason why I’ve barely had the resolve to keep flossing my teeth, let alone wrangle disinterested co-eds. And since he announced his engagementto my colleaguetwo weeks ago, my motivation to dodge the inevitable run-in has only become stronger.
To be clear, I’mnota pick-me girl: I would never let myself fall apart over the redirected affections of a man, even one I dated for over a year. But facing the pitying glances of every professor in the Art department?
I’d rather pull a Van Gogh and cut off my own ear than be subjected tothat.
“I knew it!” Marianne shouts triumphantly. “Be real with me—how many hours have you spent this month trying to avoid that chinless wonder?”
“Fine.”I take a panic sip of my questionably-colored beverage and immediately regret it.“Iamavoiding him. Honestly, I’m avoiding every professor in the department. Do you know how embarrassing it is for him to proposeto Beth afterthree months? There’s yogurt in the office fridge older than their relationship!”
Marianne sighs dramatically.
“Who cares what anyone else thinks?” she asks through a slurp of her drink. “People break up all the time. Honestly, Stell, most of the time it seemed like you barely even liked him.”
“That’s not—" I lower my voice, suddenly conscious that this extremely sophisticated establishment is probably chock full of gossipy undergrads. “That’s not thepoint.He humiliated me, Mer. Carver is mylife. I’ve been eating, sleeping and breathing this program for the last four years. Work is the only thing I’m good at—and now I can’t so much as fill up my water bottle without my colleagues looking at me like I’m some discarded, soggy piece of lettuce!”
I slap my hands against the table for dramatic effect, sending my untouched beverage keening towards Marianne. Fortunately, my less-than stellar reflexes manage to stop the drink before it tips all over Marianne’s lap. Unfortunately, I catch it a little too hard, and a slosh of blue liquid slops out and splatters all over my white blouse.
“Mother f?—”
Marianne claps a hand over my mouth before I can finish the expletive, her eyes darting to several tiny children seated at the table behind us. I guess her pregnancy hormones must already be kicking in, because the Mer I know wouldn’t think twice about scarring a group of first-graders.
I groan as my eyes settle on the wet, blue stain that’s spreading across my shirt.
“Is there any proven correlation between intelligence and clumsiness?” Mer asks as she drops her hand. “Because you seem to be gunning for a prize in both categories.”
Marianne reaches for a wad of napkins from the table next to us and leans over to dab at the stain.
“Of coursethis would happen today,” I whine. “This is my penance for ordering a drink meant forteenagers.”
