7. Too Little, Too Latte
TOO LITTLE, TOO LATTE
NEHA
I had worked in cafés and restaurants, just like everyone else who needed to pay the bills while getting through school.
But once I earned my undergraduate degree in business, I never thought I’d go back to it.
I had imagined a career with Ansel. Growing with him, learning, building something together.
So stupid. So na?ve.
He was just like every other corporate suit—taking what he needed, getting what he wanted, and the moment you were no longer useful, he kicked you to the curb.
I had gone over what he said to Vanessa over and over again—like a bad movie on replay in my head.
The thing I was most embarrassed about was that he knew about my crush and thought I wasn’t good enough for him, that I was aiming too high.
I wasn’t aiming , period. I hadn’t overtly indicated how I felt to him.
I’d been careful, professional, and what did that get me?
Absolutely nothing. I worked so diligently for him—and also me—but mostly him, and he’d discarded me.
All I was worth was three weeks’ severance pay.
A week for every year. It was humiliating!
And even after six weeks of quitting my job and four weeks of being a barista at Sun & Chai, Penny’s café, the burn of that shame hadn’t lessened.
The good news was that being a barista was fun and not boring at all as I’d worried. The job was low-pressure, and once it was done, it was done . You didn’t take your work home when you made and served coffee for a living.
I had time to study without squeezing it into the cracks of my day.
I didn’t have to constantly anticipate someone else’s needs, triple-check reports at midnight, or wake up in a cold sweat remembering something I forgot to add to a presentation.
I breathed easier now, in the bustle of the café, where the biggest crisis of the day was a broken espresso machine or an impatient customer.
Penny had been right—this was exactly the break I needed. And since she never missed an opportunity to say I told you so, she took every chance to tease me about how my dark circles had finally disappeared.
“And you said because you’re Indian you’re born with that haunted look.”
“Most south Asian women have them,” I grumbled .
Sleeping eight hours a day every day had done its magic.
I didn’t walk around feeling exhausted, instead I was full of energy.
My skin had never been better. My face looked healthy, and I hadn’t used my under-eye corrector in weeks.
Forget the spa and fancy pampering—all I needed was proper sleep and voilà ! Glassy, K-beauty-worthy skin.
I wiped down the counter as the lunch rush finally died down, my shoulders pleasantly sore—but not in the soul-crushing, bone-deep exhaustion I’d felt after fourteen-hour days at Sterling.
Nestled in a cozy Brooklyn street with big windows that let in warm afternoon light, Penny’s café was small and busy.
The scent of coffee and fresh pastries was so much better than over-priced colognes and perfumes mixed in with the desperation to climb the corporate ladder in the financial district.
I glanced at Penny, who was ringing up a customer who looked like a finance bro. When he left, she caught my eye and smirked. “Are you missing the Wall Street chaos?”
I laughed, stacking clean plates behind the counter. “Not even a little bit.”
“But you’ll go back once you finish your MBA,” Penny remarked sadly. “And I’ll miss you.”
I looked around the café and wondered if maybe I wouldn’t have to go back. Penny owned the café, yes, but the profit margins were measly, so she barely made ends meet, especially in New York. We both couldn’t draw a living wage from Sun & Chai.
I was pondering the future when Mrs. Desai, a regular, came into the café. “Neha, beta, how are you doing?”
Since I hung out at the café on weekends, I’d met several of the regulars even before I started working here. Mrs. Desai knew my story—as in I had a great job that I left because my boss was a douchebag.
“I’m good, Auntie. The usual?”
Mrs. Desai nodded, holding her phone over the card reader. She waited for it to ding once I tapped the screen to finalize the transaction.
I made Mrs. Desai’s masala chai just the way she liked with extra cinnamon.
Since there wasn’t much of a rush, I chatted with Mrs. Desai who took a seat at the bar. “Kunal, you know is a partner at an ad agency. I told him about you, and he’d like to meet you.”
Mrs. Desai’s son Kunal was single, and she was doing everything she could to pair him up with anyone before he was too old to have children. Since Kunal was my age, around twenty-eight, I didn’t understand her urgency but I knew it was an Indian thing.
Since our mother, who raised my sister Sanya and me alone, passed five years ago, we didn’t have anyone nagging us to get married, not that our mother would have.
Mummy was a rebel! She’d had the temerity to divorce her arranged marriage husband who used to beat her. I didn’t remember those days because I was only one when she left him, but Sanya, who was three years older than me, did.
Our sperm donor returned to India after the divorce, and since getting divorced was still a big deal in those days, Mummy had been abandoned by both her and his family. She didn’t care and said, ‘ good riddance .’
Our mother was amazing. She went to school and got a degree in education while she raised us and worked. She retired as the principal of Thomas Jefferson High School.
Sanya and I missed her every day. She had taught us about resilience, about respecting ourselves, about not putting up with shit from anyone.
I think it was because of how she raised us that I’d resigned from Sterling rather than wait to be fired and collect a three-week severance pay.
Money was money—and I wasn’t rolling in it so that would have been appreciated.
But Leela Rao’s daughter wasn’t going to let anyone treat her the way Ansel had.
“Thank you, Auntie, but I want to work in finance,” I told her.
She made a face. “I’m not matchmaking, just helping you find a job.”
I rolled my eyes. She certainly was. “Okay, Auntie, I’ll contact Kunal,” I lied.
“Oh wonderful. Maybe you can meet him…you kn ow for coffee or a drink to talk about the job,” she suggested.
I laughed at that and was saved from answering when another regular walked in for their afternoon shot of espresso and a cupcake.
The café felt like home in a way my old job never had. There was warmth and a sense of community. People were happy to be here, including me. I was just an assistant at Sterling, but here, I could be my authentic self.
Mrs. Desai had just left, making sure I had Kunal’s contact information on my phone when the bell above the door jingled. I looked up with a smile, expecting another caffeine-deprived remote worker when my eyes locked with Ansel’s.
Behind me I heard a gentle gasp. Penny had clocked him as well. She’d met him a couple of times when she’d come to the office to wait for me before we went out.
For a second, my brain stalled. What was he doing here? Why was he here? Had he just strolled in for a cup of chai or was he here for me?
He looked good in a navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, the faintest five o’clock shadow, and those sexy gray eyes.
“Neha.” He smiled as he came up to me.
I forced my expression into neutrality, even as my heart thumped painfully in my chest. I wish I were behind the counter so there would be distance between us, so I’d have time to get my armor up. Now he was close, too close, right in front of me, and I could smell his stupid cologne.
"What are you doing here?" I was surprised I didn’t squeak because inside, I was a hot mess.
His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected me to be this direct. Like he thought I’d smile, offer him coffee, and pretend like he hadn’t gutted me.
“I wanted to…ah…just check in with you.”
Penny snorted loudly. “The fucking nerve.”
Ansel turned to face my friend, and I ran to the safety of the other side of the counter, where only employees were allowed.
“Hello, Penny, how are you?”
“I was doing great, Ansel, before you walked in,” she replied. “Now, I’m going to assume you didn’t just wander in here, ‘cause this is off the beaten path from Lower Manhattan and Tribeca.”
Ansel lived in a high-rise luxury condo in Tribeca that practically screamed finance bro with money to burn. I’d been there once for a team Christmas party—impressed by how sleek it was, disappointed by how sterile.
He cleared his throat. “You’re right. I came to see Neha.”
“Ansel?” I asked softly, intervening before Penny got violent and I had to empty my savings account for bail. “What can I get you? ”
There, I’d play barista, he’d play customer, and we’d have a nice, easy interaction—no drama required.
He looked at me with hurt in his eyes. I knew what he drank, but I wasn’t his lackey anymore. I didn’t have to remember his preferences for anything.
“Triple-shot espresso with milk.”
“Whole or?—”
“Oat,” he gritted out. He was lactose intolerant.
I rang him up as professionally as possible, pointedly ignoring Penny’s glare, while silently willing someone—anyone to walk into the café. Because right now, it was just the three of us in a silent standoff, like some modern-day O.K. Corral.
The bell over the door jingled, and I nearly cried out in relief as a group of three walked in—a young couple and an older man who looked like he was probably the woman’s father. They glanced around before the woman, dressed in a navy wool coat and knee-high boots, smiled politely.
“Do you have a table for three?” she asked.
“Of course! Right this way.” Penny smiled, shooting me a look before slipping into hostess mode. She grabbed a few menus and led them toward a small table near the window, leaving me alone behind the counter with Ansel who had not taken his damned coffee to a table and parked his ass at the bar.