Chapter 8
Eight
Caroline
The second interview went worse than the first. The office was in a strip mall sandwiched between a vape shop and a pawn store, and the guy who interviewed me couldn’t have been older than Adele.
He asked if I had “relevant experience with Microsoft Office Suite,” then spent the whole time scrolling his phone.
When I got home, I realized I’d left my portfolio in the Uber and had to call the driver twice before he agreed to drop it back.
I sat on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, and tried to summon any willpower to start over. But my hands were shaking too much for coffee, so I threw on a jacket and decided to walk. Anywhere.
A few blocks from my apartment, I spotted a sign I’d never noticed before: Massimo Coffee Roasters. It looked different from the chains I knew—smaller, almost cozy. The windows were fogged from the heat inside, and a little bell jingled when I stepped through the door.
The smell alone almost made me cry. Rich, dark, like someone had ground up all the best mornings of my life and piped them into the air.
The place was crowded, every table crammed with students and freelancers and a pair of old men arguing over chess. But behind the counter, the owner was running the show with the kind of grace you only ever see in figure skating or Olympic relay teams.
He caught my eye the second I walked in.
“First time?” he asked, not unkindly.
I nodded. “Yeah. Is it that obvious?”
He smiled. “I know everyone who walks in here, and I’d remember you.”
He had a voice that could probably talk you into robbing a bank, if you weren’t careful.
He took my order—vanilla latte, on his suggestion—and then said, “You look like you could use something sweet. You trust me?”
It was such a weird question that I almost laughed. “Why not.”
He came back with the latte, perfectly foamed, and a blueberry scone big enough to be a meal. “On the house,” he said. “First timers always get dessert.”
I was too tired to argue. I just carried it to the only open table and sat, letting the caffeine and sugar do their thing.
The noise in the shop was different than the silence of my apartment. It was alive, all chatter and clinking mugs and the hiss of milk steaming. I watched the owner work, talking to every customer, somehow remembering names and orders and who liked their coffee black versus double sweet.
He checked on me, just once, with a nod and a grin.
I finished the latte, ate every crumb of the scone, and for a brief moment, forgot why I was so sad.
When I left, he held the door and said, “Come back tomorrow. We’ll save your spot.”
It was probably just a line, but the way he said it made me want to believe.
The walk back to my apartment felt shorter. I opened the laptop, filled out three more job applications, and wondered if it was pathetic to look forward to coffee in the morning.
I told myself it was just caffeine.
But when I climbed into bed, I caught myself smiling for the first time since the world ended.
Maybe that was enough for now.