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My pulse races when I hear her words. She’s right. I hadn’t realized it until she said it. I always grab the same, highly coveted high stools by the large café window. I’d set my laptop on the bar countertop and steal glances at people coming and going. In my head, I’d build backstories for them and design new outfits for their lives. The busy mom crossing paths with the PTA president at school drop off and can’t show up in her ratty PJ’s,opting for a comfortable yet stylistic athleisure outfit. The man who rakes the leaves for their elderly neighbor’s driveway before heading to work, wearing breathable cotton stretch business casual slacks that can be paired with a matching blazer for the afterwork cocktail hour.
But I didn’t do any of that today. I knew when I entered the café the most interesting thing I would see would be Devon, so I sat at a table that gave me a direct line of sight to his movements and by doing so, I monopolized a café table meant for four people—Mrs. Whitehead will forgive me.
Stacy’s face scrunches with disgust, the same look she had the first time she chewed black licorice. “What the holy heck?” She stares at her Arnold Palmer as if it contains poison. Devon strikes again.
“Enjoy the Devon show while you can.” I point to the clueless barista, then at her drink. “He won’t last long.”
She slams the drink on the table. “It’s ice, tea, and lemonade. How do you mess that up?”
I lift my backpack from underneath the table and unzip it, holding back the flap so she can see inside. “I met an UberEats driver in the alley around the corner for these bad boys.” I point to the three bottles of Doctor Pepper in my bag. “I felt like I was making a drug deal. Devon may have personally cured me of my latte addiction forever.”
“And no one’s told him how bad he is?” Stacy grabs a soft drink and pops it open in full view.
“Chill,” I say, my eyes ping ponging in Devon’s direction. Luckily, he’s busy with a customer. I grab the drink she brought me. “Take this to the bathroom, pour it out, and fill it with the soda.” I tap on my drink. “That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“Ridiculous,” she mutters and stands. She takes two steps before pausing. I rise to my feet because I’ve seen this lookon her face before. She spins toward me. “He’s the one who damaged Mr. Magic?”
I don’t know where she’s going with her question, but I can tell by the tone of her voice, it’s not a place I should follow.
“And you’ve been paying good money all day for lattes you can’t drink?”
“To be fair, he’s given me his employee discount.”
“But you still put twenty dollars in the tip jar?” I nod. She’s aware of my routine. My daily contribution to the tip jar, to offset the fact that I’m taking up space in the café all day.
She marches to the giant head and scoops it under her arm. “I can’t believe you haven’t spoken up.” I’ve seen this version of Stacy. The I won’t be deterred version who speaks her mind. Stacy would never stand for a recurring unproductive Zoom call every morning. She would never sit quietly at a job for three years, waiting for a shot. “You coming?” Her question is a challenge, and I have no choice but to follow.
“Hey, you!” she shouts toward Devon, approaching the counter just as another customer steps away.
“You’re back already.” Devon gives my sister a sparkling smile. One that fades the moment he sees what she’s holding. His gaze finds me, a look of confusion on his face.
“You damaged my sister’s head. She’s too nice to say anything, but she’s been working on this for a month. You owe her.” If I didn’t know how much of a sweetheart Stacy could be, I’d be scared to death. Which is exactly the expression I read on Devon’s face.
“Of course.” His apologetic words do little to lower the fire in my sister’s eyes. She’s set him up perfectly. For what, I have no idea. “How much…”
“We don’t want your money. Based on how poorly you do your job, something tells me you’re going to need every cent you have.” Stacy speaks as if reading my mind.
“Wait, what?” Devon looks to me for clarification.
I give him a thumbs down symbol. “Your drink game is weak.” I feel bad piling on but if not now, when?
“Really?”
Stacy dismisses his question. “How tall are you?”
“Five eleven.” Devon recites his height as if an everyday inquiry. He looks as if he’s about to volunteer his weight, shoe size, and mother’s maiden name. And that’s when it hits me. How did I not see it earlier? Devon and Michael are about the same size. Height, weight, wingspan. A damn near match.
Stacy has done what she’s always done for me—kicked down a door I’ve been unwilling or unable to open. It’s my turn to do the rest.
“Devon,” I start, and I love how Stacy allows me to take the handoff, stepping back from the counter. “Come see me on your next break. I need your help, and I think I can help you too.”
His back straightens as if he’s assessing me. I want to say more, but I feel the eyes and ears in the café on us. I don’t enjoy being the center of attention. But my sister doesn’t have this issue.
“Dude, she’s propositioning you.” Stacy wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me away from the counter. “She’ll be right over here, and the only answer we’ll accept is yes.”
I stumble backwards, my gaze locked on Devon to gauge his reaction.
Uncertainty floods his face. I can only imagine what he’s thinking. His eyes find me and just like that, it fades away. His tongue swipes across his lower lip, before shooting a grin at my sister. “Pleasure meeting you, Zara’s sister. I’m Devon.”
