Chapter 3
three
The Corner Cup was packed by the time we got there.
Not packed in a someone-call-the-fire-department way, but busy enough that every couch and mismatched chair was claimed and clusters of people stood wherever there was space, drinks balanced in their hands.
The place looked completely different at night, lit by strings of warm bulbs along the walls instead of the overhead lights and a small stage set up at the back where there was currently a girl singing something while playing a guitar.
If I hadn’t completely embarrassed myself here this morning, I might have found the whole arrangement cute.
Ainsley let out a breathy, excited laugh beside me.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispered, gripping my sleeve. “I didn’t think it would be this busy.”
Her eyes were already darting around the café like she was afraid she might miss something important if she blinked too slowly.
She’d changed outfits twice before we left the house, finally settling on ripped jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweater that brought out the blue in her eyes.
If anyone had told me this morning who would be dragging who to a crowded live-music night, I would’ve laughed in their face.
This was usually my territory—new places, noise, people.
Ainsley preferred predictability. Assigned seats. Exit strategies.
But even though this hadn’t been my first choice of where to be tonight, I tried to make the most of it. I’d changed into a black skirt that made my legs look longer than they actually were, sheer tights, and a cropped sweater that felt just edgy enough without being obvious.
“Do you think he’s here?” Ainsley whispered, her eyes raking across the room. She wasn’t even looking toward the actual coffee bar, so I wasn’t sure what she was trying to look for.
The bar area was to the left, though the counter had been cleared of most of its usual clutter to make room for a tip jar and a small handwritten sign that read LIVE MUSIC NIGHT—PLEASE ORDER AT THE REGISTER.
A few employees moved behind the counter, pulling shots of espresso and calling out names over the noise.
I scanned the faces automatically, telling myself I was just checking to see how long the line was.
That was when I saw him.
The barista stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up exactly the same way they had been that morning. The café lights caught on his dark hair, and he was leaning slightly forward as he spoke to a girl on the other side of the register. He wasn’t smiling.
Honestly, it made me feel a little better that he seemed to just be annoyed at people all around and it wasn’t because he’d hated me on sight.
He looked up. Our eyes met for half a second before my brain caught up with my body. I jerked my gaze away so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
“I don’t see him,” I said quickly.
Ainsley squinted at me. “You didn’t even look.”
“Yes I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.” I tilted my head up to study the large chalkboard sign that read RECOMMENDATIONS. “I think I’ll get a Heartbreaker. How about you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s the name of the drink.” I pointed at the sign. “See they all have cutesy names—a Heartbreaker is a raspberry mocha.”
Her face twisted up as she looked at it. “How do they expect me to go up and ask for a study Breakdown? Can’t I just ask for a hot chocolate?”
“Ah, but the Study Breakdown has whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, you can’t live without those.
” I looked around at the crowd gathered.
I hadn’t noticed until now but pretty much everyone in here was around our age and I recognized a lot of them, so a lot of them must have gone to Parkhurst like us.
I wondered if the place had always catered to teenagers or if they’d played it up after noticing everyone was coming to check out Hot Barista.
Ainsley’s grip on my arm tightened. “Oh.”
I dropped my gaze to her. “Oh?”
“Okay. Clementine was not exaggerating.” I suppressed a sigh at her words. Clearly she’d spotted him. “Do you think he remembers you?”
I snorted. “How could he forget me? I turned his workplace into a slip-and-slide.”
As if summoned by my words, a sharp voice cut through the chatter.
“Next.”
I flinched. The line moved forward, carrying us with it whether I liked it or not. My eyes drifted upward, following the exposed brick wall to a narrow staircase tucked beside the counter.
“Relax,” Ainsley said under her breath. “You’re acting like you’re about to be arrested.”
“According to Clementine’s cousin’s friend’s neighbor, that’s not off the table,” I muttered.
She grinned. “You’re nervous.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I just don’t want to be recognized as the horrible coffee spiller.”
Ainsley’s grin widened. “Too late.”
My stomach lurched. “What do you mean?”
She tilted her head slightly toward the counter. “He’s staring.”
I didn’t want to look. I really didn’t. But some terrible, traitorous part of me needed to know. I glanced up. He’d moved on from chatting with the girl back to making drinks, his dark hair falling into his eyes and his movements efficient.
But his eyes were trained on me.
Not in a curious way. Not even in an annoyed, vaguely polite way. It was the same flat look from earlier, sharpened now with something that felt distinctly like recognition.
Then his jaw tightened.
Great.
He turned away abruptly, calling out another order with more force than necessary.
“Well,” Ainsley said cheerfully. “That went great.”
“I told you we shouldn’t have come,” I muttered.
“You told me a lot of things,” she said. “You also told me he didn’t seem scary, which is clearly not true.”
“He’s not scary,” I said, even as my pulse thudded in my ears. “He’s just… grumpy.”
She hesitated. “Okay, but—hypothetically—if he really was expelled for fighting, you spilling coffee on him earlier today would not be ideal.”
I stared at her. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, it’s true!” She started to look a little panicked now. She leaned closer to me. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Do I think what’s true?”
“The juvie thing.”
I grimaced. “You cannot just say that in public.”
She glanced around nervously. “I whispered.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“Well?” she pressed.
I hesitated. “I don’t know. He seemed rude, not violent.”
“That’s exactly what someone violent would want you to think,” she said seriously.
I rolled my eyes. “You watch too much true crime.”
“I watch a healthy amount of true crime, thank you.”
An arm landed heavily on my shoulders. “Well that’s a bold-faced lie,” Clementine announced, sticking her head between mine and Ainsley’s.
Ainsley shrieked in surprise, drawing the attention of the people in front of us, but luckily nobody else seemed to hear her over the sound of the music. I wasn’t sure Hot Barista would have been impressed by that.
“When did you get here?” Ainsley asked, putting a hand to her chest.
“When did you?” Clementine shot back. She dropped her arms from around our shoulders and adjusted her messy ponytail of pink hair. “If you told me you were coming tonight, I could have given you a ride.”
Clementine was a year older than us and one of Ainsley’s friends from the swim team, which meant that while we couldn’t get our learner’s permits for another two weeks, she could drive unsupervised and even had her own car.
I was insanely jealous of her. I would give anything to have that kind of freedom, to be able to go anywhere I wanted without having to explain.
If nothing else, it would make seeing Dad a whole lot easier.
“Anyway, Reese and I have a couch over in the corner,” Clementine said, pointing across the room. “Come sit with us once you get your drinks, okay?”
Ainsley nodded happily and Clementine disappeared back into the crowd, leaving us inching forward with the line again.
We were only two people back now, close enough that I could hear the coffee being brewed better than I could hear the music.
I kept my eyes focused on the girl working the cash register now, reminding myself that I wouldn’t actually need to talk to Hot Barista.
That was, until the girl moved aside to make the next drinks and he took her place just as we stepped up.
Up close, he looked… the same. Annoyed. Focused. He didn’t look at me at first, just wiped his hands on a towel and glanced at the register.
“What can I get you?” His voice was flat.
“Two drinks,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. I was sure he’d recognize me immediately by my British accent but he didn’t look up. “A Heartbreaker and a Study Breakdown. Oh and a gingerbread loaf.”
He nodded and his hair flopped against his forehead. “Name?”
I hesitated half a beat. “Imogen.”
That did it.
His eyes flicked up, sharp, and landed on my face like he was confirming something he already knew. His jaw tightened again—not as hard as before, but enough that I noticed. He typed my name in without comment.
“Five minutes,” he said, already turning away.
“Wait,” I said, and immediately regretted it.
He stopped. Looked back at me. “What?”
“I—” I swallowed. “I just wanted to say… I’m really sorry about earlier. Again.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
My head jerked back as if he’d hit me. “What do you mean? I meant that.”
He leaned his arms on the counter, a scowl on his face. “I know your kind of people. You give halfhearted apologies and you move on but then you do it all over again without a care in the world. You don’t mean it.”
I tugged self-consciously at my coat, suddenly aware of the people behind me in line and how I was holding everyone up to say sorry to a guy who clearly didn’t want my apology. But I couldn’t let it go.
“You don’t know anything about me.” I didn’t have anything to prove to him, but the fact that he thought he knew me so well after exactly two encounters made me mad. Especially when all I was trying to do was apologize.