Page 32 of Pretty Heartache

“I’m sorry, hun. It’s closing time.

I’m staring at the bottom of my empty coffee cup before swinging my gaze up to the waitress standing in front of me.

She’s wearing a bright yellow apron, and her braided pigtails rest on either side of her shoulders, draping down the length of her chest. Behind her, the reflection of the streetlights shimmers on the wet, cobblestone sidewalk.

The emptiness in my chest expands when the lights of the coffee shop dim.

“I’m all finished,” I tell her, sliding my empty mug and plate across the table. Crumbs dot the small saucer-sized plate, the remnants of the croissant I munched on over an hour ago.

The waitress sets my bill upside down on the table, but I immediately hand her my card, knowing she’s wanting me to leave so she can close out her drawer for the night.

When she walks away to swipe it, I check my phone as anxiety and sadness fill the emptiness inside. I read back through my messages with my brother, ensuring I hadn’t misread our meetup time and place.

I haven’t seen him since I’ve moved back to Boston, and while he doesn’t live in the country anymore, our visits havebecome scarcer. But with him in town on business, I was happy when he set aside the time to meet with me before heading back home.

But he hasn’t showed.

I spend the next minute trading glances between the window facing the street to my phone. I send Archer another text before giving in and messaging Micah.

Is Archer with you?

Aside from the few times I’ve seen him at his house this week, we haven’t spoken much. Micah has maintained his distance, keeping himself busy with the unusable bedrooms upstairs and the bathroom. Although we haven’t talked much, I’ve noticed him coming over more often and staying longer. Taking a break from work must have triggered his need to work on the house.

Micah quickly responds.

No. He told me he was meeting up with you before heading home.

He was supposed to, but he never came.

After typing my message, I place my phone on the table just as the waitress returns.

She hands me my card with a frown.

“I’m so sorry, but your card was rejected.”

“What?” I ask, sitting up in my seat.

“It was declined,” she repeats, speaking low. The café is completely empty, but her voice is quiet, as if someone might overhear us.

“Oh no.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.” I swallow my shallow breaths and reach for my purse. The waitress stands patiently, but I feel her eyes on me. I dig throughmy purse, hoping I can find another way to pay. I sigh with relief when I find a twenty folded and stuffed in between a few old receipts. I hand it to her. “You can keep the change.”

“Thank you.” She smiles. “Have a great night.”

“You, too.” I force a smile and slide out from behind the table to gather my purse and phone before pushing through the glass door.

The street is dark and desolate. I’m deep in the heart of the city, but this street is littered with residences. Several blocks stand between the livelier side of Boston and me.

My stomach wavers while I decide what to do.

I took a rideshare here, but with my card declined at the coffee shop, I’m not sure I can get one back home.

I’m miles from Cambridge.

I begin walking toward the brighter lights in the distance. Small trees line the brick sidewalk. One after another, I pass house after house. The sky is pitch black and the wind howls through the branches of the trees. The air isn’t as cold as last week, bits of spring finally peeking through, but the eerie quiet causes a shiver to sliver down my spine.

Unlocking my phone, I check my bank account. Since I work freelance modeling, my pay isn’t consistent. Before I left LA, I was working on signing with a modeling agency, and the job I walked out on that day was one that would have helped me achieve that goal.

When I sign in to my account, I stare at the negative balance and feel sick.

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