Page 19 of The Second Chance Year

The suggestion shouldn’t be as much of a surprise as it is. After all, I worked at Higher Grounds for months, and I was definitely aware that the pastries were subpar. Why didn’t I ever offer to come up with something better?

Probably because I quit baking entirely when Xavier fired me. And I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I wonder if maybe I thought crafting muffins for a coffee shop was a little beneath me after working in high-end restaurant kitchens for most of my career.

I like the idea of helping Zoe out, though, and of having an opportunity to try some new recipes. Still, I hesitate. There are rumors that the executive pastry chef at Xavier’s might be on his way out, in which case, I want that job. Should I be committing to a side project that will take up so much of my time?

“Just think about it,” Zoe says, and I agree that I will.

I’m turning to leave when out of the corner of my eye, I spota familiar pair of glasses and a café Americano. The wearer of the glasses looks up at me.

It’s Jacob, sitting at a table in the back corner of the café, to the left of the stage where a woman with pink hair is playing a song I’ve never heard before. Jacob lifts a hand in greeting, and it would be rude not to at least say hello.

I make my way over, and he stands when I arrive at the table. If he were anyone else, I’d assume they were moving in to hug me, but I know that’s not the case with Jacob. He must generally stand for women, sort of as if we’re in a Victorian-era period drama. I find myself charmed by the politeness of it all, and I wish I’d ordered a pot of Earl Grey instead of this cappuccino.

After we say hello, a beat passes, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Is he going to ask me to sit? Does he not want me to sit? Are we going to stand here the whole time?

Finally, he seems to register the awkwardness, and he waves at the chair opposite of him. “Sorry, I didn’t know if you wanted to stay, or—” He blows out a heavy breath. “Would you like to sit with me?”

I totally cannot read what he wants me to do here, but since I don’t really feel like going home, I pull out a chair and drop into it.

“You’re out late,” I remark.

“Yeah, another deadline, so… caffeine.” He lifts his coffee like he’s toasting.

“The Joshua James film?”

“No, I finished that. This one is a little less glamorous. It’s the soundtrack for a video game.”

I nod. “It must be wild to hear your music all over the place.Just drifting in at the movies, or when Owen’s playing a video game, or when you step on an elevator…”

“Oh no. Hold on right there.” He lifts a hand to stop me. “I donotcompose elevator music.”

“You don’t? But I thought sometimes you wrote that sort of slow, electronic stuff. Like what they play on elevators.”

I’ve pained him here. I can tell by the way he looks at me as if half of him wants to laugh and the other half wants to cry. “Elevator music is bland instrumental arrangements of popular music meant to be listened to passively while you’re shopping for paper towels.”

I consider the music piped in at the grocery store. I’ve never really paid attention to it before, but now I kind of see what he means. “You mean, like, an electronic piano rendition of ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’?”

He’s definitely trying not to laugh now. “Just like that, yes.”

“And that’s not what you do.”

“No.”

He’s an artist, and I realize too late that I’ve probably insulted him. I might feel insulted in a similar situation. “Is this conversation sort of the equivalent of someone asking a pastry chef how she feels about Hostess cupcakes?”

“It is one hundred percent like that. Yes.” He’s smiling, so I know I haven’t really offended him.

Still, I genuinely want to understand. “So, you compose your own original music. But you just do it with a computer program instead of with a piano.”

“I compose with both. I do a lot of mixing and use software for effects, but I also play a bunch of different instruments.”

Onstage, the pink-haired singer starts playing an acousticversion of “Free Fallin’” and a young, bearded guy joins her on piano.

“Do you ever think about getting up there?” I ask.

“Uhhh…” He fiddles with the spoon on the saucer next to his cup. “The singer-songwriter thing really isn’t my vibe.”

“Butcouldyou do that if you wanted to?” I can’t listen to a piano without thinking of the gorgeous song he played in his apartment. I’d love to hear it again, but technically, I’m not supposed to know it exists. With this time loop I’m in, maybe he hasn’t even written it yet. Maybe itdoesn’texist.

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