Page 3 of Whisked Away
Still, I don’t want my name on an article that trashes someone’s restaurant, no matter how ridiculous it is. Being associated with something so banal is the last thing I need.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do. I’ll need an answer by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
I grab my bag with slick hands, sling it over my aching shoulder, and walk out into the buzzing office space.
“But you hate editing.”
The train rattles, and I save my phone from sliding off the seat where it’s propped to charge before responding to Tish.
“Everyone hates editing.”
“Hmm.” Dishes clatter in the background, and I picture her gathering up mugs in her tea shop, a rag in her other hand swiping away the crumbs from her zodiac cookies.
“I’m pretty sure some editors enjoy their job.”
“Or maybe they all lie.”
A man walks past, an umbrella looped over his arm, banging against every seat as he moves. I shift closer to the window to avoid impact, watching greens blur together outside.
I know Tish is right. Plenty of people love editing. But it’s not for me. It’s tedious, heavy with responsibility, and leaveslittle room for creativity. Managing a team when I can barely manage myself most days feels like a prison sentence. I want to run screaming in the other direction, but I need the money.
My breath fogs the window.
“Or maybe,”—she stretches the word out—“you should see this for what it is. A wake-up call. Smell the organic chai, girl. The tone of your voice says everything.”
“My voice says I’m tired.”
She’s probably standing beneath the twinkle lights and fake moss strung above the counter, giving me side-eye.
“No, it says it’s time to actually follow your heart for once. How long have you wanted to go freelance?”
My eyes shudder closed. Forever. That’s how long. But hustling as an influencer for money only works if you don’t have a mountain of bills and someone else relying on you. I shut the door on the idea of my dessert blog,Tell Me Something Sweet, long ago—though I still stupidly pay for the URL year after year.
Tish’s teasing voice pulls me from my mental spiral. “Drop by the shop. I’ll give you a reading. The leaves know everything.”
I smirk, shaking my head, saying nothing, but her rich laughter tells me she already knows my answer.
Even if I don’t believe in lucky stars, I thank them all for leading me to write a feature on Tish’s cafe,Celestial Sips,four years ago. We disagree on basically everything, but somehow, it works.
The train stops, and I rise, grab my bag, and exit with the crowd.
“That reminds me—have you heard of Ethan Hart?”
Her squeal has me jerking my head back, as if I can escape my headphones.
Shuffling past the dozen others exiting onto the platform, I follow the crowd toward the stairs. My steps are careful onthe too-steep concrete, my impractical shoes proving an even worse choice with every step. By the time I reach the sidewalk and head toward my apartment building, I regret them for the thirtieth time today.
“You mean the hot-as-hell baker with the magical bakery? He’s all over the ClipClop app.”
I kick a piece of gravel, watching it hit the crack in the station’s brick wall. The train pulls away, and the murmurs of the dispersing crowd fade.
“It’s a gimmick,” I say. “It has to be.”
“Or maybe the Universe is asking you to give faith a chance.”
