Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Savvy
Rise and Grind Coffee took pretentious coffee culture to new heights. It was all exposed brick and twenty-dollar avocado toast. Their menu board looked like a chemistry experiment gone wrong, with drinks that required a PhD to pronounce. But they served the best-overpriced coffee in Manhattan, which made them the perfect spot for delivering bad news to people who treated their morning order like a TED talk.
I claimed my strategic corner spot—another lesson learned from years of experience. Like real estate, it was location, location, location. The corner table offered clear sight lines to both exits, acoustic privacy from the espresso machine’s screech, and just enough witnesses to prevent anything too dramatic. Plus, the leather banquette meant no risk of pins-and-needles legs at crucial moments.
I’d learned that one the hard way. During my first month on the job, I’d chosen one of those Instagram-worthy cafés where the furniture was designed for photos, not function. Try maintaining professional dignity while your foot’s asleep and you’re perched on a wobbly metal stool that could double as modern art. The client had cried. I’d stumbled when I tried to stand, and we’d both ended up wearing his artisanal cold brew.
Now, I had a mental map of every decent meeting spot in Manhattan. This corner at Rise and Grind Coffee was my favorite—good coffee, better sight lines, and actual chairs designed for sitting. A true professional never lets furniture interfere with their performance.
As I settled into my seat, the morning crowd flowed around me, each table offering a glimpse into relationships at every conceivable stage. A couple by the window was definitely on the rocks—he kept checking his phone under the table while she stirred her coffee like she was trying to create a whirlpool that would sweep her away.
At the bar, a woman in yoga pants was negotiating a drink order with more substitutions than a high-stakes contract while FaceTiming her therapist. It was just another Wednesday in Manhattan, where therapy sessions were less about privacy and more like a badge of status—loud enough for everyone in a ten-foot radius to overhear.
My phone lit up with another group chat.
Maddy
The proposal guy asked if we could train squirrels to carry the ring.
Me
Better than pigeons.
Maddy
That was ONE TIME. And they were doves.
Ivy
For the first time in years, the bride wants me to be in chartreuse. CHARTREUSE. With ruffles. And a bustle.
Me
At least my uniform is reusable. I’ve crushed over a hundred dreams in this same blue blazer. Got to go. Client meeting in five. See you tonight.
I tucked my phone away as the café’s morning rush hit its peak. Nine o’clock approached, and I pulled out my Jennifer Walsh business cards, straightened my blazer, and waited. In exactly three minutes, I would decide if this job called for my sympathetic head tilt or my professional nod of understanding.
The bell above the door chimed. Right on schedule, Navy Suit walked in. His Manhattan blend of confidence and coffee snobbery became the standard issue with an MBA and a trust fund.
It was almost funny how I’d ended up here. After Henry, I’d tried everything to forget—dove into wedding planning with Maddy and Ivy, threw myself into business school applications, and even interviewed at Windsor Weddings. But every happy couple was a mockery, every promise of forever like a time bomb. Then, one day, I overheard a woman at Common Grounds trying to figure out how to end things with her fiancé. The words had tumbled out before I could stop them. “I’ll do it for you.” When I said I would deliver her goodbye, the relief on her face was like looking in a mirror. Somehow, helping others end things cleanly had become my way of giving others what I never got—closure.
I lifted my hand in the practiced Jennifer Walsh gesture—not too eager, just the right amount of corporate polish. “Over here,” I called out. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Navy Suit slid into the seat across from me, all straight white teeth and misplaced confidence. “Jennifer.” He extended his hand. “Thanks for taking the time. My team has put together some projections I think you’ll find impressive.”
He was deep into page three of his market analysis, pitching me hard on projected returns, when I held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there.”
He blinked, surprised, his pen hovering above an annotated chart.
“When your girlfriend asked you to meet me, it was under the guise of a vetted client for an investment proposal.” I leaned in, keeping my voice calm but direct. “But I’m here for something else.”
His brows knit in confusion. “What … what is this about? If not for this, why did Rachel set up this meeting?”
I kept my expression neutral, maintaining a calm professionalism. “Rachel? I know her as client #342.”
The color drained from his face. “Wait … what is this about?”
“She feels that your relationship has run its course. You two are more of a habit than a love match. I’m here to tell you that while she cares about you, she no longer wants to continue the relationship.”
He blinked, clearly caught off guard, so I added gently, “You’re married—to your job. And she’s not looking to play second fiddle to your career. She wants something real, something with balance. And that’s not what she’s experienced with you.”
The words landed like a punch, and he took a sharp breath, gripping his portfolio until his knuckles turned white. “She hired someone to break up with me?”
“Sometimes a little distance provides clarity,” I said, each word polished from repetition. It was the kindest way to deliver the blow.
He stared at me, trying to make sense of it all. “Like … an emotional contractor?” His voice dripped with disbelief.
I’d heard variations of that question a hundred times, but the way he cataloged me like some kind of outsourced feelings manager was almost funny.
“This is insane.” He yanked at his tie as if it were suddenly strangling him. “You … you do this for a living?”
“Yes, I provide a service.” My voice stayed steady even as my heart did its usual twist. “A clean break, delivered with respect.”
He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “Respect? Sending someone else to do your dirty work? That’s not respect—that’s cowardice.”
The word hit like a slap. Cowardice. Was that really what this was? Maybe. But it was still better than unanswered texts, ghosted calls, and the hollow silence where a goodbye should have been. I’d seen the damage that it did—how it could tear someone apart, how it had torn me apart. Henry Kingston and I discussed marriage and babies one day, mapping our future together. And then he was gone, like a chapter ripped out of a book. No goodbye, no explanation. Just silence. Even if this job was messy, at least it was a form of closure people could hold on to—something I’d never gotten.
“She’s packed your things,” I said, choosing my words. “They’ll be with the doorman by noon. She’s asked for no contact.”
He stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor. Several heads turned our way, but I kept my expression neutral. Rule number six: never let them see you sweat.
“You must hate love,” he said, his words laced with resentment.
Then he turned and walked away, his portfolio clutched tightly in his hand.
His words shouldn’t have stung—I’d heard worse. Last week, someone called me a joy-killing succubus, and for a split second, I considered slapping it on my business cards. But this? This was different.
No. I didn’t hate love. I hated what happened when it was abandoned without a goodbye. I hated the unanswered questions, the sleepless nights wondering what went wrong. I hated how silence could carve someone up, leaving them raw and unfinished. I hated how people turned their backs on it, leaving destruction in their wake.
My phone buzzed.
Client #342
Did he take it okay?
I didn’t respond. That wasn’t part of the service. Clean breaks meant clean breaks all around.
The train ride home stretched ahead of me like an emotional gauntlet. At least I had wine night to look forward to. Nothing soothed the ache of other people’s broken hearts quite like watching Maddy brainstorm increasingly absurd proposal ideas and listening to Ivy justify why she needed a crash course in flower arranging by Saturday.
I just had to make it through the crying portion of my commute first.
Joe was waiting at my usual spot, a tissue box in my seat. “Rough one?”
“He called me a contractor for feelings.” I slid into my designated space, the one with the conveniently placed window for staring dramatically at the passing scenery.
“Could be worse. Remember the guy who tried to hire you to break up with his wife?”
“That’s not a thing I do.” I pulled out the first tissue. “Also, pretty sure that’s just called divorce.”
The city fell away behind us as I worked through my post-breakup ritual. Five minutes of actual crying, ten minutes of wondering if I was helping anyone or just spreading misery like an emotional pyramid scheme, and the rest of the ride to put my River Bend face back on.
My phone lit up again.
Maddy
911—Need someone to test the proposal setup. The city denied my permit for releasing doves.
Ivy
They’re still mad about the pigeon incident?
Maddy
THEY WERE DOVES!
Maddy
I need someone to stand in the right spot so I can practice the drones’ timing.
Ivy
NO MORE DRONES.
Maddy
These are different drones! With better GPS!
Me
Like the ones that spelled out “Hairy Mole?” instead of “Marry Me?”
Maddy
I hate you both. Also, is wine night still on?
Me
After today? I’ll need two bottles.
Cork & Crown was bustling when I walked in, the Wednesday night crowd in full swing. Gloria Chen, River Bend’s owner—and Maddy’s mom—spotted me and started pulling my usual bottle before I even reached the bar. With her cozy sweaters, blunt humor, and lifelong ties to River Bend, Gloria was hardly the type you’d expect to own a trendy wine bar, but she somehow made it feel both chic and unpretentious.
“That bad, huh?” Gloria’s gaze settled on my smudged mascara. “And those eyes...” She tilted her head, studying me. “Remember when they were that electric blue? Like summer lightning? Now they’re more overcast—like the sky just before the rain breaks. And your hair...” Her lips curved, just barely. “Used to be that rich chestnut, but now? It’s looking a little like the River Bend mud banks after a flood.”
“My eyes are the same as they’ve always been.” I gripped the glass she had just poured like a lifeline.
Gloria’s expression grew tender. “I’ll send some of my conditioning treatment home with Maddy. I can fix your hair, sweetheart. The rest?” She caught my gaze in the mirrored backsplash and held it there, her voice gentler now. “That sparkle will come back when you’re ready. Must’ve been a rough day.”
I sank onto my usual stool with a long sigh. “Could’ve been worse. At least I didn’t end up wearing his coffee.”
Gloria chuckled and topped off my glass. “On the house. You look like you need it.”
Ivy burst through the door in a swirl of tulle and urgency, her honey-blonde hair escaping its twist to create a halo in the bar’s dim lighting. She was all delicate features and perpetual motion, like one of those Disney princesses come to life—if Disney princesses regularly committed identity fraud for bridezillas. “Does anyone know how to say, ‘I caught the bouquet at your sister’s wedding’ in Swedish?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why would you need to know that?”
She sighed, sliding onto the stool beside me. “Bride’s orders. I’m now her childhood friend from Stockholm, fluent in Swedish, and allergic to shellfish. If they serve two-pound lobsters for dinner and I have to miss it, I’m going to be pissed. Lobster is my favorite.”
Maddy arrived next, juggling what looked suspiciously like drone remote controls. She had her mother’s elegant features and glossy black hair—currently pulled into a messy bun—but where Gloria moved like a gentle stream, Maddy was all crashing waves, her tall frame making the delicate remote controls look like children’s toys in her hands.
“Before either of you say anything, these drones are foolproof. Perfect spelling, zero chance of a mishap.”
“Good to know,” Gloria said, setting out two more glasses with a smirk. “Nothing like last time, then? ”
“Different,” Maddy assured us, setting the controls down. “They’ve got GPS and anti-bird tech—the works.”
Gloria topped off our glasses, then leaned against the bar. “So, Savvy, how many hearts did you crush today?”
“Just one.” I shrugged. “But he didn’t take it well.”
Ivy winced. “Those are the worst. The ones who get all dramatic about it.”
“Or try to make it about you,” Maddy added.
“Or ask for second chances.” Gloria shook her head, chuckling. “Classic mistake.”
Maddy brightened suddenly, reaching for her bag. “Speaking of classic mistakes, what do we think about skywriting? Because I have this new client?—”
“NO,” Ivy and I said in unison.
“You haven’t even heard the whole idea!”
“Does it involve anything that could fall from the sky?” I asked.
“Or spell out unfortunate messages?” Ivy added.
“Or attract birds?” Gloria chimed in.
Maddy deflated. “You all lack vision.”
“And you lack basic pattern recognition,” I pointed out. “Remember the hot air balloon incident?”
“That restraining order was dropped,” she muttered into her wine.
My phone buzzed with a new client alert. Friday, nine a.m. Rise and Grind Coffee again. Tall, blue suit. Another day, another navy suit. In Manhattan, that was about as specific as saying, “He has hair.”
“Another one so soon?” Ivy peered at my screen. “That’s unusual for you.”
“Bills don’t pay themselves.” I tucked my phone away.
“You know what you need?” Maddy set down her glass with the particular emphasis that meant she was about to suggest something terrible. “A website.”
“No.”
“Just hear me out?—”
“Absolutely not.”
“You could call it ‘It’s Not Me, It’s You.com!’”
Ivy choked on her wine. “Or ‘Honeysucker’s Heart Removal Service.’”
“‘Got Ghosted? Ghost Better!’” Gloria offered.
“I hate all of you.” I reached for the bottle. “And I’m not advertising. Word of mouth works just fine.”
“To tomorrow.” Gloria raised her glass one last time. “May your drones fly straight?—”
“They will!” Maddy interjected.
"Your Swedish accent hold up?—"
"Jag ?r mycket svensk!" Ivy attempted.
“And your heart...” Gloria looked at me. “Someday, break free of that wall you’ve built.”
After we split the bill, I gathered my things to head home. The walk from Cork & Crown took precisely six minutes, long enough for River Bend’s evening soundtrack of crickets to clear my head.
October had transformed the sugar maples lining Main Street into torches of red and gold, while Storm King Mountain stood silhouetted against the harvest moon across the dark water. Old Mrs. Patterson’s porch light cast a warm glow across her rocking chair, empty now but still swaying in the night breeze. As I approached home, the “Closed” sign in River Bend Books’ window glowed softly, my mom’s neat handwriting visible beneath it: Tomorrow’s another chapter.