“Heyyyy.” Shit. I stretch the word beyond reason to buy time to remember his name.
He bails me out and blows my cover in the same breath. “Pete. You’re Kael, right?”
“Kael,” I repeat, trying to say my own name before he can, to fake a mutual reintroduction.
His smile falters. “Yeah. I said it when you walked in.” Then he recovers, flashing a wide, dopey grin. “Pretty wild seeing you right after last night. I was worried I might not see you again.” There’s a little too much hope in his voice. “Must be fate! What can I get you?”
I grab the table tent advertising a new drink. “Is the MachiUnicorn Spice any good?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll try it anyway,” I say, earning a shrug.
“Cappuccino for me, please,” Jamal adds. The barista acknowledges him without eye contact. “I’ll just be over here… invisible,” Jamal mutters.
“Sorry I left so early,” I say, cutting to the chase and drawing Jamal back toward us instead of the corner table he was anglingfor. “Trying to get a full day in. You know how it is… life of an artist. I did have a great time, though.”
“You’re amazing,” he says, puppy-dog earnest. “Haven’t seen you post in weeks. When are you going to share what you’ve been working on?”
Of course he follows my feed. Art has been the only constant in my life, but the social media version of it still feels like standing naked in a crowded room and inviting everyone to rate my body.
“Oh, yeah.” I glance at Jamal, who doesn’t bother hiding his grin while I squirm. “It’s, uh… under wraps right now.”
“Can’t wait to see. I’d love to get together again. If you’re interested.”
“Yeah, man,” I say. “That would be great. I’ll hit you on Grindy.”
Jamal’s jaw drops.
“Ow!” The barista jerks his hand back from the steam wand. “I meant, like… a date.”
This morning’s picture-perfect fantasy of domestic bliss already faded. A one-night stand is one thing, maybe even a two-nighter, but anything more starts to feel like an anchor. He’d want things, and I’d do them to make him happy, even when I’d rather be in my studio, working. I refuse to get tied to something I never wanted in the first place.
“Yeah, that’s… what I meant too,” I lie. “Sorry, uh… man.”
“Pete,” he repeats, gentle expression vanishing.
“Right.” Oh well. A tiny sigh squeezes my ribs. This would be easier if he’d just shrug it off. “Look, I’m not really into dating. I keep my schedule open—for my art. We’ve got chemistry. So, if you ever want to explore itcasuallyjust hit me up.”
Jamal lets out an audible snort, exiting his eavesdropping position to beeline for the corner table.
“Wow,” Pete mutters over the hiss of steaming milk, then slams the mini-fridge door beneath the counter.
“What?” I ask, daring him to confront my life choices. “Art takes time. Keeping it for myself isn’t a crime.”
“You’ve got, like, forty thousand followers,” he says. “You haven’t posted in weeks. I don’t think you’re a monster. I just feel sorry for you.”
He slides a cappuccino and a multicolored abomination across the counter, sloshing foam onto the saucer.
“Thanks.” I drop a dollar in the tip jar, not that I have any to spare, as a peace offering.
Heading over to Jamal, I hear Pete grumble, “Oh,nowI can afford my rent.”
Heat crawls up my neck and floods my cheeks, a vivid red embarrassment I can’t hide. My skin is a terrible liar. I can’t afford my rent either, at least not on my own.
I slip into the booth across from Jamal, who leans in, smiling. I’m practically glowing while he stays annoyingly cool behind his mirrored shades, somehow carefree even though I know his bank account’s as empty as mine.
“Coffeeanda show,” he whispers. “He thinks you’re a slut.”
