She breathes a scoff through her lips. “Middle school? Come on. I was drinking my coffee black by seventh grade.”
“Yeah?” I arch a skeptical brow. “What required that much caffeine at age twelve?”
“Uh, have you ever been twelve? That was the hardest shit of my life.”
Our laughs are a little too loud, but it’s just what I need to power me through the rest of these orders. I hope we keep Brooklyn on staff after the holidays.
As I dig out the vegan hot cocoa mix from the back cabinets, my manager’s gravelly voice scatters over the crowd of uncaffeinated hopefuls. “I’ve got two large cold brews with oat milk for Kara!”
If a name could cause an allergic reaction, I’d be reaching for my EpiPen. This morning’s quad shot of espresso gurgles in my stomach as I supervise the two sweaty cups of cold brew, waiting for them to be claimed—which they are, by a thirtysomething woman in a pea coat struggling through the crowd with a stroller. A hiss of air leaks through my teeth, lost beneath the whir of the coffee grinder and some indie version of a Christmas song playing over the newly upgraded sound system. It’s not her. Of course it’s not her. There are only four people I specifically invited today: Kat, Daniel, Ellie, and—
“Hiya, Murph!”
Carol’s familiar, bouncy voice ricochets off the espressomachine and lands between my ears. Speak of the hippie and she shall appear. At the register, her bracelets jingle like sleigh bells with every exaggerated wave. She’s not wearing a coat, just a black turtleneck beneath a teal sparkly poncho, her silver hair braided down her back. “Found ya! That line was somethin’ else, but the place looks unbe-freaking-lievable.”
“Thanks!” When I smile at her, I look past her, searching the line for a familiar flash of white-blonde hair. There isn’t one, and my stomach plunges toward my knees. Do I have any right to feel disappointed?
Carol takes a little too long squinting at the menu before I step in and order for her—one 16-ounce chaicoffski and a plain cake doughnut, made in house. I make her drink, then grab my camera and duck out past the bar under the guise of taking more pictures. It seems rude not to at least say hi, even if she’s short one highly anticipated plus-one.
“Special delivery.” I hand the cup off to my happiest customer, who is already covered in cake doughnut crumbs.
“Thid id unbuhleevabuh,” she manages through an oversize bite before wiping her mouth with her poncho. “And what a turnout. I’d freakin’ kill to have a tenth of these people in my shop in a week.”
My brain instinctually switches into marketing mode, dreaming up wine nights at Monarch or jewelry making classes hosted at Sip. “I think you could pull it off.”
“Maybe with a little help.” Carol crumples the parchment paper from her doughnut and tosses it toward the trash can, missing by a pretty wide margin. I guess poor pitching form is genetic in the Meyers family.
I open my mouth to ask Carol if she knows anything about when Ellie might come by, but I’m instantly interrupted by a screeching toddler and the wet clatter of a mug breaking across our brand new floors. Who the hell gave someone ceramic? Today, of all days?
“I bet they’re gonna need my help with that,” I say with an apologetic wince.
Carol nods. “I gotta get back to the shop anyway. Spent my whole lunch break in line.”
“Maybe I can give you a full tour some other day?”
“Sure, sure. And hey.” Carol hands her cup back to me, freeing up both of her hands to dig through her quilted crossbody bag. She emerges with a slightly bent business card with her name and info printed in Curlz MT. “Take this. Drop me a line with your rates.”
I hand over her drink in exchange for the card. “My rates?”
“For marketing stuff. For any of this.” Carol twirls an index finger toward the ceiling in awhoop-de-doo. “Whatever you did for Sip, I gotta hire you to do the same for Monarch.”
My eyes dart between Carol and my manager, who is just a few steps away at the register. There’s too much noise in here for her to overhear us. “I, uh. You were serious about that?”
“Dead serious. You said there was a big ol’ list of Geneva businesses who wanted your help with marketing, right?” She stretches her arms wide, seemingly indicating the length of this very imaginary list. The demonstration nearly costs her one entire 16-ounce chaicoffski. We narrowly avoid a spill, and before I can invent a lie or come clean on my nonexistentmarketing business, someone shoves a dustpan and broom into my hands. The only reasonable punishment for slacking off: cleanup crew.
“I’ll add you to the list,” I promise her, and she grins like the Cheshire Cat.
“Thanks, Murph. You’re the best.”
I follow Carol toward the door, which coincidentally is also toward the crash site, and she doesn’t leave without giving me an extra tight hug. “Congratulations, sweetie,” she murmurs into my shoulder, then holds me at an arm’s length, taking me in with a wobbly smile. “You have so much to be proud of.”
As she disappears out the door and down the bricks, passing by a line that stretches halfway to her store, I let myself actually believe her.
The rest of my shift blurs toward its end, and as the line of caffeine seekers gets shorter, I start to recognize more of the customers standing in it. My tenth-grade biology teacher orders a decaf latte. One of our usuals grabs his standard drip coffee and tips a ten. Isha Burman’s mom makes an appearance, showing off baby photos to the rest of the line. I point out our regulars to Brooklyn, who quickly assigns each one a code name.Dr. Science. Drip and Tip. Proud Grandma.As I count familiar faces, something warm and certain blooms in my chest. There’s character in this building’s bones that reflects on the community we’ve built. Even with a fancy new espresso machine and a 20 percent higher maximum occupancy, we’re still the same old Sip. Same menu, new floorboards. Same staff plus new hires. Things only change as much as they’re meant to.
“Hey, Murph! Over here!”
For the second time today, a familiar voice plucks me out of my head. On the other side of the pastry case, Daniel and Kat are waving and grinning like lottery winners. Kat holds up her phone to snap a few photos of me on the job, then hands photographer duty off to Daniel so she can be in a few. I guess boyfriends aren’t just good Uber drivers; they make good tripods too.
