Epilogue #2
My name tag says Liss. It’s the version of me I let people see.
The rest is hidden in a lockbox under my bed, wrapped in an old dish towel that still smells faintly of soap from the place I left behind.
I almost never open it. Morning is too early for reminders of who I used to be.
Most days, I pretend it isn’t there at all.
I tug my cuff lower, the fabric rasping over the scar. Always hidden. Customers see latte art and a grin, not the map etched into my wrist.
The first rush barrels in. Navy suits, swinging lanyards, earbuds screwed in like implants. They speak fast, tip in change, vanish.
“Triple shot, almond milk, extra hot,” a man says while his thumbs sprint across his phone. His cologne smells like pine and chemicals.
“On it.” I tamp, lock, pull. Twenty-seven seconds, silky as it falls. Coins clink into the jar, sharp and cold. I pass the cup. He drops a twenty without looking, like generosity works best when you don’t risk eye contact.
“Nonfat capp, extra foam,” says a woman whose heels could start a coup. She squints at the chalkboard. “Your sign is crooked.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“For what?”
“For how we’re all doing our best.” I draw her a leaf into her foam.
A smile cracks her precision. “Cute.” She slides two bills into the jar and clacks away.
Behind her, the yoga girls arrive smelling of eucalyptus.
“Ask for oat milk,” one stage-whispers. “She’ll glare.”
“I don’t glare.” I reach for the carton. “I radiate silent judgment. Totally different.”
They burst out laughing and float off toward their studio.
Normal. Safe. Almost.
I count exits while I steam milk. Alley to the left, tower lobby to the right, sprint to the park if I have to run. Three ways out. Numbers don’t lie, even when people do.
The burner phone buzzes in the drawer, low and angry. I don’t look. Rule one, don’t improvise your way into regret.
A tourist couple appears with a map clutched like a lifeline.
“You have pumpkin spice?” the woman asks.
“It’s April,” I say.
Her face drops. “So…no?”
“Sorry. The season died six months ago.” I hand them two lattes. “Cinnamon will hold your hand through the grief.”
They chuckle, drop too many coins, and wander off in the wrong direction.
The flower guy across the street lifts a bucket of tulips in salute. His knuckles are swollen from years of hauling stems, but he moves like a man who belongs to this block.
Me? I float. Try not to leave footprints.
Working at a cart makes me invisible in a way four walls never could.
Nobody asks for a résumé at a sidewalk stand.
Nobody cares about your past when all they want is caffeine fast enough to beat a red light.
A cart means you belong everywhere and nowhere at once.
Behind this counter I am part of the scenery.
Noticed for a transaction, forgotten the moment the cup leaves my hand.
That’s what makes it safe. Safety is being forgettable. Safety is being background.
A boy in a hoodie hums while he counts quarters into his palm. “Uh, what can I get for this?”
I study the pile. “A small drip and the moral support of a stranger.”
He laughs, relieved. “I have a test.”
“You’ll do fine.” I push the cup across. “If your brain blanks, breathe like you’re smelling fresh cookies.”
“That’s…weirdly helpful.” He grins and bolts.
An office manager with a clipboard orders six drinks in a voice that could make printers behave. I watch her handwriting. Block letters, all caps. Efficient, not precious. She slips a five into the jar.
“You always remember the caramel drizzle.”
“Some promises are sacred.”
Her mouth quivers toward a smile, like it forgot how. “See you tomorrow.”
The rhythm soothes me. Shot, steam, pour, slide. Banter, smile, nod, next. I look like a woman who finds comfort in repetition. I am a woman who finds safety in it.
He comes like he always does. Not the nightmare him. The other one.
Mr. Perfect Order.
He waits even when there’s no line. He carries stillness like a skill.
“Good morning,” he says, voice low and steady.
“Morning. Two sugars, no froth crimes, the way the coffee gods intended?”
“You make it sound like I don’t trust you with variety.”
“Oh, you don’t. You’re afraid of cinnamon. It knows what you did.”
“Cinnamon is reckless. Nutmeg too. People think they know what they’re inviting and then regret it.”
I laugh, and the sound feels like remembering a muscle.
“You’re scarier than almond-milk guy.”
“Almond milk isn’t real milk.” He accepts the cup, fingers brushing mine. “For the record, I considered cinnamon. I just decided against it.”
“You chickened out.”
“I weighed the risks and made an informed decision.”
That smile does a ridiculous thing to my insides.
He steps aside, stirs six turns, tosses the stick, lifts the cup in a little salute. See you, not goodbye. Then he blends into the crowd.
The absence hums. The cart looks the same, I look the same, the street keeps moving. I fuss with lids already straight.
A stroller mom comes juggling baby, bag, phone. The infant studies me with round, solemn eyes. I draw a smiley in the foam.
“Cute,” she says.
“Careful. It spreads.”
She laughs, wheels away, and the air changes. Thinner. Colder.
I check my reflection in the steel. Hair neat. Shirt tidy. Scar hidden. Face…fine. A little pale. Eyes waiting.
That’s when I see him.
Across the street. Half-shadowed by the bus shelter. Tall. Still. Suit cut too sharp for this block. Hands pocketed like fists asleep.
My chest tightens. Just another commuter. A stranger. Cities are full of them. Don’t do this.
I pour milk. Ask a girl what syrup she wants. She says vanilla. I nod like it didn’t echo from underwater.
I look again. Sunlight slices his hair. Dark, slick, too familiar. My neck prickles.
It isn’t him. It can’t be. He doesn’t know this block. Doesn’t know this cart. I changed everything.
A laugh slips, brittle. Paranoid much? Every man in a suit isn’t out to ruin you.
I hand off a mocha, touch the tamper. I glance back like pressing a bruise.
And the bottom drops.
The jaw. The tilt of the head. Balanced on his heels like violence is natural.
Not a stranger. Not imagination. It has to be him. My brother. Except it can’t be. Except it feels like it is.
The tamper slips in my sweaty grip, clattering. Grounds scatter like dirt. I fix a smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “Next,” I call, my voice normal enough. Inside, the floor disappears.
He’s still there. Watching.
“You forgot my cookie.”
The voice cleaves the panic. Too close. Too calm.
Not him. The other him.
Relief knocks me sideways. My knees buckle. I grab a bag, nearly drop it, fingers fumbling like they’ve forgotten their job.
“It’s—” My voice cracks. I cough, try again. “It’s Tuesday. You only get one on Fridays.”
The words tumble out too quick, too many.
He studies me, steady. “Maybe I’m practicing spontaneity.”
I laugh, high, brittle. My hand shakes as I scoop the cookie, bag crinkling loud enough to draw notice if anyone cared. Nobody does. Except him.
“You? Spontaneous? Please. You make spreadsheets about sugar packets.”
That slow smile curves, unbothered by my mess. My pulse steadies for a heartbeat, then the back of my neck prickles again.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Quiet. Real.
I yank my cuff down, force a grin that burns my cheeks. “Fine.” Metallic on my tongue.
He doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go. He drops a bill heavy for what he bought. “If you change your mind about cinnamon.” He vanishes into the crowd.
And the space he leaves isn’t light. It presses heavier than before.
The rest of my shift drags. I wipe counters already clean. Count lids already straight. The burner buzzes twice, then once. I don’t look.
Closing time. I snap the lid onto the crate, twist the padlock, pack everything down in ritual order. Rituals mean tomorrow still exists.
I sling my bag cross-body. The strap digs my collarbone. The zipper tab bites like a tooth.
That’s when I feel it.
He’s there.
Closer now. My side of the street. Leaning against a lamppost twenty yards down, like posing for a portrait someone else should burn.
My body betrays me before I decide anything. Heart hammering, breath shallow, the old ache in my wrist singing like struck metal.
Walk. Don’t run. Running is prey.
My shoes slap too loud on concrete. I order my legs steady, but the urge to bolt tastes like copper.
The tower looms, glass and light. I push through the revolving doors into air too cold, too clean. Copier toner. Disinfectant. The sterile smell of spaces that judge who belongs.
The marble slicks underfoot. The guard glances up, then away. Invisible is my superpower.
The elevator glows gold around the buttons. I jab one. Plastic bites my finger.
The doors open. I dart inside, press close again and again.
Through the narrowing crack I see him slip into the lobby. Eyes locked on me.
The doors seal. The sound clicks in my bones.
Relief slides through me. My forehead presses to the mirror. The air tastes like pennies.
Ding. Two. Ding. Three. Each tone a footstep.
The elevator slows. Too soon.
The doors begin to part. The crack of light widens like a mouth opening. I brace for teeth.
A hand wedges in.
I flinch, knees weak. The doors resist, then yield. Light floods.
Not him.
Mr. Perfect Order.
He steps in, folder under his arm. His gaze sweeps me. Brow furrowed.
“You okay?”
I lie fast. “Yeah. Fine.”
He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. He shifts, solid between me and the doors, steady as steel.
The elevator climbs. My breath evens a fraction. His presence fills the air, not heavy, just…there.
And I wonder how long I can keep pretending I’m only the coffee girl with the crooked chalkboard sign.