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I pick a straw of hay and grind it between my nervous teeth. “Your argument isn’t as compelling as you think it might be.” I’m a red bull and Gatorade drinker. I studied the Coffee Loft website last night. It was like reading a foreign language. I understand America is shifting away from the hot water and instant coffee of my grandparents’ generation, but this all feels like a massive overcorrection. The YouTube video of the knockoff version of one of their most popular drinks has eight ingredients and takes thirteen steps to concoct. So, yes, my plan today was to hang in the background and watch my co-workers.It was the perfect plan until my agent decided to toss me into the deep end with a backpack filled with weights.
“Stay out of your head. Don’t overthink things. That’s how you nailed the audition. Relax, have fun, and let your talent shine.”
I nod. It’s a speech he’s given me a hundred times. One I know I’ll need to hear a hundred times more. I’m not built that way. I need information. Lots of it. That’s my security blanket because it’s one of the few things that tamper down my anxiety. It’s why I’ve purposefully gone out of my way to take every random class I could find. Everything from clown college—yes, it’s a thing—to underwater basketweaving—okay, I did make that one up, but you get it. I have range. “I’ll try,” I mutter.
“No try, do,” he delivers Yoda’s famous line like the wise mentor he is. “And kid, next time I see you can you bring me something?”
I ignore him calling me kid. I’m twenty-seven years old, but I guess when you’re pushing sixty, anyone under forty seems like a kid to you. “Sure, Marv, what can I get you?”
“Medium, skim milk, two sugars.” Marvin’s laughter is the send-off I need.
“Sure, and thanks to this ridiculous assignment I’ll make sure to spill it in your lap.” Marvin shoots his signature peace sign before disconnecting. It’s his signal to let me know I have everything I need to succeed if I just trust my instinct.
I slip the phone in my back pocket and step onto the curb outside the café.
“I’m going to kill you.” A stressed female voice startles me, and I make the mistake of turning toward it. A giant sky-blue ball of some sort heads right for me. Dark black eyes the size of fists close the distance. “No, no, no.”
I hear the woman’s scream, but all I see is Indiana Jones about to be steamrolled by a boulder and in this picture, I’m playing the part of Indiana. I react on pure instinct.
I spin, twisting my hip, my left foot lifting parallel to the ground—a picture-perfect, Ralph-Macchio-approved sidekick. Crisis averted. I fight the urge to dial my mom and tell her those three years of karate when I was seven years old have finally paid off. Instead, I push back my shoulders and strike a superhero pose. I’m totally ready for the next Avenger’s movie. I wait for the applause, and all I receive is a harsh shove.
A frazzled woman pushes past me, racing toward the dented giant head rolling on the concrete. She lowers the phone in her hand to the ground, knee next to it, scooping up the head in both hands as if it’s the long-lost treasure Jack Sparrow sought. Her shoulders droop, and my anxiety kicks in.
“Shut up.”
My feet halt, and a shiver races through my body. The head is part of a costume of some sort. A mascot head that you’d expect at a sporting event. That’s without the giant dent caused by my kick. I fear I’ve destroyed this woman’s hard work.
She remains lowered to the ground, her back to me. “You’re dead to me. I can’t believe you did this.”
She doesn’t turn to face me, and guilt floods my veins. “I’m sorry.” My soft whisper prompts me to approach the woman. She’s African American, the sun sparkles off the hairspray in her perfectly coifed afro. She’s wearing tight designer yoga pants I’ve seen worn by models and actresses up and down Ventura Boulevard. But her colorful top is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Gold and black stripes on sleeves that don’t quite reach her wrists, an intricate hash of purple and green lines across the back.
“Zara, I’m sorry. I had no choice.” A strange male voice floats up from the ground. Her phone. She wasn’t talking to me this entire time.
She lifts a finger, twisting over her shoulder, holding it in front of me,hold on.It’s the briefest of glances, but it upsets myworld nevertheless. Midnight electric eyes filled with an exciting history twists my anxiety into something warm.
“Your timing sucks. I’m going to remain pissed at you for another forty-eight hours. But I’ll fast forward for thirty seconds and give you a glimpse of what future me will say then.” She pauses, lifting the phone in the palm of her hand. She pushes her shoulders back and waves her hand in front of her face like it’s a windshield wiper, clearing away rain. “I’ll always support you chasing your dreams. Remember it’s not the outcome but the journey. Be true to your heart. And if she doesn’t fall head over heels in love with you, it says more about her than you. You’re gold. Always will be.”
I tug the straps of my backpack, unsure of what to do. I feel like an uninvited guest to a private moment, and I take two small steps back, away from the conversation. She must sense my movement, as her manicured finger raises in my direction once again. I can’t tell whether it’s a gentlehold on for one more secondmove or adon’t go anywhere, I’m not done with you just yetfinger. I pray for the former but fear it’s the latter.
My anxiety returns tenfold, and I spin to escape her orbit. I glance through the giant window of the Coffee Loft. Two women in jogging outfits sit at one of the tables, sipping and chatting. At the table next to them, a mother sits with a kid rocking in a stroller while she gobbles down a morning treat. The shop is calm and quiet, exactly what I need.
A rainbow of color reflects off the glass, and my eyes adjust to the woman behind me, rising to her feet, phone in hand. She takes two steps toward me.
“Now back to our regularly scheduled program. You suck! Next time I see you, I’m going to punch you so hard, you’ll forget whatever her name is.” She’s still on the phone, her brilliant grin giving away the true meaning behind her words.
Her smile is like a burst of sunshine on a cold, cloudy day. Bright, warm, welcoming. The type of radiant smile that makes you want to sign up, regardless of the cost, to get admitted into that special circle of people. She looks this way. She’s breathtaking. I can’t tear my eyes away from her reflection, each second that passes feeling like a stolen treasure. Her electric eyes are like twin stars in the night sky. Her button nose is adorably perfect, and the dimple on her right cheek—no, left, completes the picture-perfect image that should be on the giant screen.
“Love you,” she says, and I swear she’s staring directly at my reflection.
Her dimple dances at me, and my heart races. She’s full-on flirting with me, a stranger, and professing her love to me. I’m packing up my stuff and moving here. I clear my throat and can’t believe I’m about to spin and utter the wordsLove you, too.I take back every word I’ve ever said about those silly rom coms. This can happen. It’s happening to me. My mouth goes dry, my lips part, here goes—everything. Cue the orchestra.
“Call me when you get there.”
Wait, what?My wobbly feet go statue still.Where? I’m here, here already.Duh, she’s finishing her call with her friend. Not me.
She stares at the phone as if she’s about to redial but doesn’t. While she bends down to retrieve the giant head, I pick up my shattered ego. I twist to face her, unsure of how she’ll react.
Her gaze lingers for a moment, a look of introspection and inspection. I’m an actor; I’m used to people staring at me. Judging my performance. My kick was perfect. Even the Russian judge would approve.
