Chapter 2
TIANA
“Okay, angels, that’s the reset. I’m off to real life. Drink water, be kind to yourself, and remember, don’t let the internet tell you who you are!”
I click the red button to stop the video, then change out of the silk outfit the brand sent: an ivory silk tank with spaghetti straps that barely qualify as structural support, and matching shorts that sit high on my thighs. It’s cute. Marketable. Borderline indecent.
This campaign is going to get attention, just not the kind I want. Half the comments will be about my skimpy outfit, not the skincare products I’m supposed to be promoting.
I’m grateful for the opportunities I get as an influencer, but a lot of people think I’m some stuck-up girl who floats through life with everything handed to me. It’s almost funny when you get to know me. Still, that’s what happens when you build a persona online.
You make a version of yourself easy to digest, and then you choke on it.
I glance at the time and bolt upright. “Oh, shoot.”
Only an hour until my shift at the café.
I quickly scroll through the photos I shot and send a few to my manager.
Renee Manager Extraordinaire
I love the content so far. They want stronger ‘single-girl-Sunday’ energy for the final edit, though.
I stare at the message, rolling my eyes. “Right,” I murmur to no one.
Thanks for the blatant reminder that I’m single.
On my way out, I grab my keys and tote with my planner. I catch my reflection in the mirror: simple makeup, hair in a claw clip, hoodie and leggings. That’s the girl I recognize.
I jog downstairs and the smell of coffee hits before I reach the kitchen. My stepmom is already there, pouring herself a mug of coffee, still in her robe, hair up in a messy twist. She glances over her shoulder when she hears me.
“Morning, sweetheart. Want some?”
I shake my head, slipping on my sneakers. “No, thanks. I’ll grab one at Willow’s.”
She nods, stirring her cup. “What were you doing up there? I heard you talking to yourself again.”
I chuckle. “Nothing interesting.” I tug my hoodie sleeves down over my hands and make for the door. “I was filming content for a new campaign.”
“At six in the morning?”
“That’s when I have time.”
“I hope you’re not talking to strangers on the internet, TJ.”
Another laugh escapes me. “You watch too many crime shows, Mom.”
“I’m just saying. I saw this documentary about an influencer who accepted money from a stranger online in exchange for photos and ended up getting kidna—”
“Oh my God, Mom. I’m not going to get kidnapped. Bye, love you!”
I leave the house before she can respond and hop into my car.
Willow’s still smells like yesterday’s cinnamon rolls even before I step inside.
Demi is on opener with me but she’s not here yet, so it’s just me and the hum of things waking up.
I turn on the lights and the espresso machine and listen for the heat-up hiss. Then, I prime the brewers and check the milk temps on the thermometer.
In the back office, I drop my tote on the desk, wake the ancient PC, and set my phone on the cork mat. I’ve got four pre-filmed stories queued for today, so I caption and upload them.
I tackle inventory next. Pulling out the clipboard, I scan the syrup levels, count sleeves of cups, note that we’re low on chai and out of lids. As manager, I deal with day-to-day ops, schedules, and emergency orders when a delivery goes sideways.
The owner, Aravind Patel, trusts me with the keys and the calendar; I’m determined to earn both.
The café’s phone rings and I answer without checking the screen. “Willow’s.”
A groan filters through. “It’s me,” Mya says. “Remind me: when do I have to exist today?”
I laugh at my stepsister’s gravelly voice. Mya and I might not share blood, but the “step” part stopped meaning anything a long time ago.
“Good morning to you, too.” I glance at the schedule taped by the monitor. “You’re on the afternoon shift. Two to close with Eric. But I’ll be here all day.”
“Thank God.”
“Why?” I tug open the fridge and do a milk count. “Are you hungover or something?”
She laughs. “Hungover would imply going out, and you know I don’t have time for that. I was up late finishing a project for my construction design class.”
“Right, that. How’s my favorite future building-genius?”
Mya is in her final year of the Graphic and Architectural Design program at U of W, on track to graduate at the top of her class. She’s spent years working toward following in her late father’s footsteps—and if he were still here, I know he’d be damn proud of her.
Just like the rest of us are.
“Cranky. But my model didn’t collapse, so I call that a win,” she replies.
I smile into the phone. “Okay, cranky genius, you’ve got until two. Sleep.”
“Bless you. Tell Eric I’ll bake the brownies if he covers the mop.”
“He’ll marry you.” I laugh, tucking the phone under my chin and scribbling a number on the order form. “Text me when you’re heading in.”
“Will do. Love you.”
“Love you.”
By the time I’m done with the checks and the till count, Demi breezes in with her tote, bangs stuck to her forehead from the humidity.
“Morning, boss,” she sings, bumping my hip with hers as she ducks behind the bar. “Machine hot?”
“Hot and moody, just like you.”
She grins. “Flattered. What’s low?”
“Chai, lids, and my patience if anyone asks for a secret menu drink before eight.”
Demi snaps a salute and starts dialing in shots, dumping the first pull with a sniff. I slide the pastry case doors open and load trays of cinnamon rolls, blueberry muffins, and two dozen croissants that will be gone by ten—if I don’t get to them first.
I’ve got a dangerous sweet tooth and exactly zero self-control when it comes to fresh pastries, so I grab a cinnamon roll, tear off a piece, and take a bite before I can even pretend to resist. You know, strictly for quality control.
The front windows catch the early light and the chalkboard sign waits for today’s doodle. I write be kind to yourself in loopy handwriting and add a tiny willow branch.
Back in the office, I submit the inventory order, reply to Mr. Patel’s email—meeting today?
—and answer Yes. 3 p.m. My heart does that hopeful, stupid little hop it’s been doing since he said the words sell and retire.
Owning a business has always buzzed at the back of my mind, and Willow’s isn’t just a job—it’s my second home.
It makes perfect sense to want to buy it.
I just don’t have enough for the down payment to secure the loan. Yet. Which is why I’ve been saying yes to more brand deals than usual.
I started my lifestyle page as a hobby right out of high school, filming on my phone between working at Willow’s, while I pretended to figure out what college program I’d go into. Then my page took off, and the college thing… didn’t. I kept filming because it felt like building something.
But now, I’m ready for something more.
Demi barges in and slides a latte onto the desk for me, heart in the foam. “Try this. New beans. I think I nailed the grind.”
I take a sip and hum. “Balanced. Less bitter. You’re a wizard.”
“Say it louder for the people in the back!” she cheers, grinning.
Before the morning rush hits, I check my phone for the last time. Notifications flood in, and I skim through them, half-curious. A few familiar names, a handful of brand reps, and the usual parade of burner accounts that make my skin crawl if I think too long about them.
I lock the screen and tuck the phone facedown beside the register.
Later that afternoon, I walk into Mr. Patel’s office and close the door behind me.
“How are you, Tiana?” he asks, kind eyes crinkling. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I sit, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and pass him the inventory sheets, last week’s sales, and the staff schedule.
We run through the usual and Mr. Patel nods, makes notes, and hums under his breath.
Then he exhales and taps the folder like a drum. “I should tell you… I’ve been talking with a chain. They are interested in buying Willow’s when I retire.”
My stomach drops. “A chain,” I repeat, setting my pen down so I don’t snap it.
“They promised to keep Willow’s as it is,” he adds quickly. “Same name. Same menu. They like the ‘neighborhood charm.’” He even does air quotes.
I laugh incredulously. “They’ll keep the name and change everything that makes this place ours.”
He winces and rubs his thumb along the folder’s edge. “I would love for you to buy it, Tiana. You know that.”
“Then give me time. Please. I’m close, just not… there.”
Mr. Patel considers me for a long beat, then nods. “Time, yes. But I can’t give very much. If your plan falls through, I can’t be left without a buyer.” He smiles sadly.
My chest tightens. “How much time?”
“Six months,” he says at last. “If you can bring a pre-approval by then, I will tell them no.”
My mouth goes dry. “Okay. Thank you.”
We adjourn, and he gets up on wobbly legs, leaving me alone in the office.
I drop back into the chair, open my laptop, and pull up the spreadsheet I named “Willow’s Down Payment.” I type in the latest deposit and watch the total crawl higher by inches.
Current: $27,830
Needed to secure the loan (20%): $60,000
Gap: $32,170
I press my knuckles to my mouth and blow out a slow breath. At this pace, it’ll take forever. Or at least longer than six months.
Minutes later, the door creaks. “Knock-knock,” Mya sings, sliding in sideways with a to-go cup in hand. She takes one look at my face and sobers. “Uh oh. Who died?”
I swivel toward her. “Not funny. Mr. Patel gave me a countdown.”
She sets her cup down and sits on the chair next to me. “Tell me.”
“He’s talking to a chain. He says they promise to keep Willow’s ‘as is,’ but you and I both know that’s a lie. I’ve got six months to come up with the rest of the down payment. Aravind wants me to buy it. I want to buy it. I just…” I gesture toward the screen. “Math.”
Mya scans the numbers, then looks up with a steadying smile. “Okay. Not the end of the world. Six months is not impossible.”
“Feels impossible,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead. “I can text Renee, see if there are extra brand deals I can pick up, but I don’t want my page to start looking like one long ad. People already think I’m fake.”
“You’re not! You’re the realest person I know, sis. Just keep it balanced.”
I nod, already pulling out my phone. “Fine.”
Hey, Ren! Any chance of squeezing in more non-clashy partnerships in the next 6 months? I don’t want to overload my page, but I need to stack some money.
“Ugh,” I groan, slumping back. “I hate the idea of becoming a sellout. It won’t look genuine anymore.”
Mya squeezes my shoulder and kisses my temple. “You’ll figure it out, TJ. I promise.”
I look up at her with a pout. “How am I supposed to survive without you when you abandon me for your big corporate girl job?”
“I am not abandoning you.”
“You are literally leaving me to go work in a tower full of men who probably say things like ‘circle back’ and ‘actionable next steps.’ You’re entering enemy territory.”
Mya laughs. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“I know.” My voice gets softer. “That’s what makes it annoying. I can’t even be mad because I’m proud of you.”
Her expression melts, and she leans forward to hug me from the side, her cheek pressing briefly against mine. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Maybe. But who’s going to talk me off the ledge when I spiral?”
“You’ll call me.”
“While you’re being corporate?”
“Especially then.”
I sigh like this is a grave inconvenience. “Fine. But if you start wearing blazers every day and saying things like ‘per my last email,’ I’m staging an intervention.”
“Noted.”
“Ew. It’s already happening.”
Mya laughs again and squeezes my shoulder one last time.
When my sister leaves the office, I switch to my Instagram drafts and upload the post I queued this morning—a simple selfie wearing the outfit I had on while filming my reset. I write a caption, hit post, and shove the phone face down so I can’t watch the comments crawl in like ants.
By the time the shift is over and the last table is wiped, my calves ache and my hair smells like coffee.
When I check my phone again, notifications explode across the screen —likes and comments, and a few DMs. As soon as I open up the app, I notice a username I haven’t seen on my page in months and my stomach twists.
@markellonthemap commented on your post: You look amazing, T. Miss you.
And a DM, because of course.
Can we talk? I was stupid.
I roll my eyes and resist the urge to throw my phone into the pastry case. If my ex wanted to talk, he’d text me like a damn grown-up. We still share mutual friends; he could get my new number in a second.
I open the message, let the “Seen” mark stamp itself, then back out and leave him right where he belongs.
“Trash,” I mutter, shoving the phone into my apron pocket.
Mya pokes her head in. “We’re locked. You good?”
“Getting there,” I say, grabbing my tote. I flick the office light off, and Willow’s falls into that evening hush I love.
Six months. I can do this.
I square my shoulders, tuck the stress into a mental drawer, and turn the sign on the door to CLOSED.