Serena
The tiny bell tinkled as I walked through the door and into the coffee shop. The aroma of coffee filled the air, and I wanted to inject the caffeine into my veins. It had been a long but productive day, and it was barely noon.
I had done the shopping—from getting the fabric to personal shopping for my clients—so my morning was off to a great start.
The fabric was getting delivered to my studio in an hour, since there was no way I could carry that much, but I was only a few blocks from home, so I had time.
The sun was shining, and I was going to treat myself to an expensive chai latte and something sweet. There was a glass case of sweet treats that made my mouth water. Slipping my headphones off, I got in line.
I was running through the last items on my to-do list because I was on schedule, if not a little ahead, which was right where I needed to be. It gave me breathing room and a night off to spend all my time with Harper without the nagging worry of everything still on my plate.
There was so much I wanted to give Harper, but it was impossible for one person, especially with my limited means.
If I thought Charles would support any of the things Harper wanted, I would’ve asked him.
He was so unreliable it wasn't worth hearing the word yes, only for him to find an excuse not to pull through or forget altogether.
Right. There it was. For a second, I thought I beat the mom guilt that seemed to hover over me like a big gray cloud, but I should’ve known it was only waiting for the right time to pop up and make me feel like I wasn’t doing enough for Harper.
Ignoring the feeling, I focused on the sweets in the case, trying to decide which one I wanted.
“Aren’t you in the wrong neighborhood?” said an all-to-familiar voice beside me.
My stomach dropped. My hand tightened its hold on my headphones, and my jaw clenched on instinct.
I just wanted a coffee from my favorite place, unbothered. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently, the universe thought so.
Stepping out of line, because in no way would I stay here longer than I needed to, I looked at Charles.
He had the quintessential All-American boy look down. His dark brown hair was perfectly coifed, with enough stubble on his jaw to give impression he forgot to shave, and his suit was well-tailored.
He could be in a magazine, with the added charm of his smile. I wanted to slap the smile off his face, wrap my hands around his throat, and squeeze.
How could he be so relaxed and nonchalant when his daughter asked about where he was this morning? How could he be anything but in misery for never being for our daughter?
Not for the first time
There was no one I hated more than Charles. Everything he put me through, and everything he no doubt would put Harper through in the coming years, no matter what I did to protect her, sometimes sent me spiraling.
I loved Harper with everything that I was. If there was one thing I was most proud of, it was being her mom. It sucked that she had him for a father, and there was nothing I could do to change that.
Behind him, his friends took up one table each, like they needed room for their egos. They wore matching vests, smug looks on their faces, and a superiority complex that flowed off them.
I gave a tight smile. “Hi. I didn’t think you came below 40th Street.” My tone was snarkier than I meant it to be, but it was hard to look at his smug face and not want to punch it after he left Harper high and dry, again.
During our divorce, he tried to add a clause that said I couldn’t travel beyond 40th Street in Manhattan, knowing most of my clients lived on either the Upper East or Upper West sides.
I was able to fight that particular clause, but Charles still tried to enforce it, as if it was something he could control.
“Working?” He ignored my comments. My stomach twisted. I tried not to hate him, but he made it so easy.
I could take not liking him, but I couldn’t stand the way he treated Harper. It took everything in me not to snap at him. It would lead to a fight I wasn’t prepared to have.
“Yep.” I needed to make my exit.
“Serena.” The barista called my name, and I whipped my head around. I hadn’t ordered anything. I blinked, then blinked again.
Enzo was at the other end, grabbing a small to-go bag and two coffees. He walked toward me, hands full. I stood frozen, still trying to process if this was real.
Then he shoved an iced coffee into my hand, my name written on the side with the correct order.
“Passion fruit thing,” he said, holding the little bag out. “It’s not pistachio, but it will do.” His Italian accent, usually faint, was more pronounced as he stared down at me, a glint to his eyes I didn’t understand.
I tilted my head, heart racing. How was he here and I didn’t notice? How did he know what I liked? We’d seen each other outside my studio only a handful of times in the last year.
He handed over the bag. Wordlessly, I took it, not bothering to open it.
“Who are you?” Charles’s nasally voice grated on my nerves and helped me realize I wasn’t dreaming. Enzo was here, in this coffee shop, handing me coffee and food like he’d been waiting for me the whole time.
Enzo took a step, so he was slightly in front of me, blocking my view of Charles.
I tried to step around him, because I knew Charles would take whatever Enzo was doing as a threat.
It wouldn’t be hard–Charles was easily intimidated and felt like he had to show people he was ‘top dog’, as he liked to put it, when he was anything but that. Cheers to nepotism.
Charles adjusted his stance, pushing his shoulders back and tipping his chin up. Enzo stood where he was, a hand in his pocket, the picture of nonchalance as we watched Charles try match Enzo’s physicality.
Not that it would work. Enzo had three inches on him, and so many more muscles that it made Charles appear almost frail in comparison.
I took both of them in while they sized each other up—both in Brioni, though only one wore it well.
Charles came across as plain, like wearing a designer's name was enough to impress people. Enzo, on the other hand, wore his suit like it was armor. He showed it off the way every creator hoped someone would show off their work. He breathed life into it, and...
I had to stop thinking about how Enzo looked and focus on how to get out of this rapidly devolving situation.
“If I remember correctly, the only time you need to speak to her is regarding Harper.” Enzo shifted his stance, giving me the opportunity to get a good look at Charles, whose face was turning redder with every breath.
I opened my mouth, then quickly shut it. How did he know her name? Or the stipulations of my custody agreement.
Charles looked from Enzo to me and sneered. His eyes had that glint in them that I knew meant he was going to get meaner the longer I stood there. “I guess the only way you can get a man is if you butter them up while you’re on your knees, fixing a pant leg.” The insult hit like a punch to the gut.
Enzo got closer to Charles, his body coiled with tension, and leaned in, whispering something in his ear. Color leeched from Charles' face. Without thinking, I reached out and touched Enzo’s hand as it curled into a fist, trapping my fingers in his grip.
Immediately, Enzo stood back, a vicious smile on his face, but didn’t let go of my hand. I wiggled my fingers, but Enzo merely adjusted his grip to the point we were fully holding hands. He glanced down at me, his smile softening, and squeezed my hand.
It was a silent gesture that filled me with relief and made me want to cry. A moment of reassurance that let me know he was with me and I didn’t have to face Charles alone.
I shifted my focus, using Enzo’s reassurance to bolster my wavering confidence and focus on what Charles had said.
Of course, he would make a comment about me sleeping with a client. It was his go-to insult.
It was so hard to be cordial with someone who tried to put you down whenever they had the chance.
“Charles, it’d serve you well to stop speaking,” I said, keeping my voice soft, knowing I had to diffuse this situation.
An arm wrapped around Charles’ waist—long, pointed ballet pink, an enormous ring on her finger she’d bought herself. The only woman I genuinely hated.
Apple McBurger. As in the apple of her daddy’s eye.
“Oh, sweetheart, let’s be cordial to the service workers.” She turned to me, her eyes going from Enzo to me, and mock-whispered, “If you need money, there are other ways to get it.”
If I were a violent person, I’d punch her in her pinched, over-botoxed face. Apple hated me for having the gall to, as she put it, "steal Charles from her." Which made no sense, considering she’d moved to Paris to chase after a man more than a year before Charles and I even met.
When her scheming in Europe didn’t pan out she came back to find me pregnant and engaged to Charles, she launched into a hate campaign against me. She told lies, spread rumors, and my life miserable.
She ostracized me from would-be friends in a time when I’d never been more scared, because being pregnant was scary, and I needed a friend.
I don’t know why she was worried. It wasn’t like Charles was faithful; he’d never been.
He was incapable of any type of monogamy.
I was just too hopeful and scared to recognize what the late nights, weekend meetings, and constantly buzzing phone meant.
When that video of Charles cheating went viral and landed on Page Six, I wasn’t surprised to find out it was Apple.
By that time, I knew I wasn’t in love, but it gave me the push I needed to act.
I was done. Done with them and everything to do with them.