Page 8 of Wish You Would

“I feel like four-day-old meatloaf that got microwaved for too long,” I replied as an elderly couple approached the counter. “Hi,” I said, smiling brightly as I faced them. “How’re you two today?”

Simon snorted, pivoting to get their drink orders started.

The next two hours passed by in a blur of customers and coffee orders. Somehow, I only managed to mess up one order—a record for me—and the dude was surprisingly not a dick about it. It was shaping up to be a not-shitty day, and not-shitty days were the best.

The first lull came on the heels of Simon scoring the phone number of the Timothèe Chalamet lookalike he’d been flirting with for weeks. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Simon spun to face me, his grin rivaling that of a lion after taking down an entire herd of antelope as he held up his phone in victory.

“Congratulations.” I leaned against the counter, laughing as he proceeded to bow and curtsy. “I don’t know how you do it. I can’t even talk to someone I’m interested in, let alone…” I gestured his way, indicating the feat of flirtation I’d just witnessed, shuddering dramatically.

He chuckled. “We’ve been over this,” he sang as he maneuvered around me. “You just gotta do it. Suck it up, resign yourself to possible rejection, and take a chance.”

“Not all of us are blessed with the charm of Flynn Rider and the jawline of a Kennedy,” I shot back. “For some of us, rejection is imminent.”

“You flatter me.” He whirled around me and sashayed through the doorway leading to the back. “Don’t stop.”

I laughed as he vanished around the corner. With my hands busy restocking, my mind fell back to last night. More specifically, to my conversation with Gigi. My stomach somersaulted as I replayed the part where she agreed to introduce me to Halle. My fingers tightened around the stack of Grande paper cups as realization set in: Gigi was going to introduce me to Halle. Which meant I was going to speak to her. After months of pining, months of chickening out.

It was going to happen.

“Crap,” I muttered to no one but myself. Our weekend writers in the corner table looked up from their laptops. I grimace-smiled their way, and ducked my head, letting my hair hide my burning cheeks.

It had to have been sleep deprivation. Why else would I have outed my crush on Halle and asked for an introduction? I must have seemed so tragic, so pitiful. She must have thought I—

I froze as another thought hit me.

Had…had she agreed to a pity introduction?

“Oh, god,” I groaned, cheeks flaming hotter in retroactive humiliation. She totally did. She thought I was pathetic and pitiful and—

“So, I was thinking,” Simon said as he returned, oblivious to my inner meltdown. “What if we did a few practice runs?”

I did my best to tuck any vestiges of panic away and gestured to the cup stacks before me. “I think I’m good.”

“No, silly.” He sailed to the mini fridge to put things away. “You’re obviously giving Anna Kendrick a run for her money with your cup game.” He crouched down and opened the fridge. “I meant with Halle.”

My elbow knocked into the freshly stocked cups as I spun to face him, nearly knocking them over. Stabilizing the stacks, I forced a casualness onto my face that I did not feel. “What do you mean?”

He glanced up. “A little role playing, darling.” As he tucked away the almond and oat milks, he elaborated. “I’ll be Halle, you be your lovely, awkward self. We can run through a few scenarios, rehearse some lines.” Standing, he pushed the fridge shut with the heel of his sneaker. “In nerd speak, study up for the big test.”

I folded my arms across my chest, assessing and absorbing. It wasn’t a bad idea. It wasn’t a perfect idea, either. The thought of practice-flirting with my best friend, though? I shuddered. “No,” I said with a brisk shake of my head. “Thank you, but no.”

Simon looked me over, one perfect brow arching. “You don’t have to look so disgusted. I wasn’t proposing we do anything…physical. Just—” He shuddered, then, too. “Yeah, okay. I get it. Never mind.”

We were saved from any further discussion by the bell jangling over the door. I turned to find my sister, Anya, trudging across the shop. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Simon disappearing in the back and I chuckled to myself.

“Morning,” Anya grumbled when she reached the counter. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of giant black sunglasses, her purple hair scraped back into a messy ponytail. “One gallon of coffee, please.”

I obliged, sliding the largest cup we had across the counter. “Hitting the road?”

She grunted and grabbed the cup. “Chicago.” Moving down the counter, she filled her cup to the brim with our strongest brew. “Be back in about a week.”

Anya was a successful and prolific comic book artist, and she spent weeks, sometimes months at a time on the road, touring comic book conventions. For years, she didn’t have a home base, unless you counted her Subaru. But now, Port Agnes—and specifically, Gigi’s brother Vaughn—had become her home.

It worked out well that I’d set up shop here, too. Now, we had the chance to nurture the relationship we’d only begun to form. Our history was weird. We didn’t grow up together. Eight years separated us. Eight years and a landfill’s worth of family trauma. But, slowly, we were sorting through that landfill, building a relationship out of the trash we’d been given.

Cup filled, Anya returned to the register, already lifting it to her mouth. “You’re a saint,” she said after a long sip.

“I know,” I said with a dismissive wave. “Brunch when you get back?”

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