Page 36 of Common Grounds

I blow out a long, defeated breath through puffed-out cheeks. “I have no idea.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, not looking at each other. I think about asking Mike if he wants me to make him a drink, but we both know he’s not coming in here for the caffeine.

I sag lower and lower in the seat as the weight of reality sinks in on me. This place isn’t going to make it. 50,000 clicks on an article should have produced at least a few new customers. Maybe a couple of people checking in out of curiosity, or some people who haven’t been here in a while would be reminded that I exist. Instead, I got nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

“You could stand on the corner with free samples and try to bribe people to come in here,” he suggests, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to be helpful or be an asshole. Then he adds, “You do love giving stuff away for free.”

Asshole.

I don’t bother justifying that with a response, though it’s not a terrible idea. Maybe if people tasted my muffins, they’d at least come in for those. I happen to think I make a mean latte, too, especially when people like to try unique flavors. Not that anyone has been in here to order one in a while. I’ve been left to whip up random flavor combinations out of boredom and taste-test them on my own.

Mike snickers. “Maybe Emery has some ideas since we’re fresh out,” he suggests sarcastically.

I know he’s teasing me. He’s well aware of how much I’ve been thinking about her. I texted him on Tuesday asking if he thought she might stop in again. He sent back a laughing-while-crying emoji.

So, I know what he’s doing here. He’s trying to get my goat. Or, rather, he’s trying to get me out of my funk about the shop by bringing her up. Little does he know, part of this funk was brought on by trying to distract myself from thinking about her. Constantly.

I violently push myself to standing, which causes Mike to startle in his seat. “I can’t sit around here wondering when she’s coming back,” I say, mostly to myself.

Mike responds anyway, seemingly not thrown off by the change of subject. “What other option do you have?”

“You said I should give away some samples, right?”

“I was kidding. Obviously. That’s a stupid idea.” He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

“But what if it’s not?” I ask, making my way behind the counter and pulling out milk and espresso. “What if I could see her and pass out some samples to entice people to come in at the same time?”

Mike leans forward, his concern obvious. “Trev,” he starts slowly. “I think we should maybe get you home.”

“I’m going to bring drinks to her office.” I start up the milk steamer before he has a chance to respond.

“How do you know how many people are there? Or what they like to drink?”

I pause to consider this for a moment. “Good point. I’ll clear out the baked goods and bring those in. But I’ll bring a hazelnut latte for Emery.”

“Do you even know where her office is?”

“I can look it up on the internet.”

“It’s late,” he says once the steamer has finished. “How do you know she’ll even be there?”

I shrug, pumping in some hazelnut syrup. “She’s got to be doing some final work on the article that goes live tomorrow, right? And what better way to burn the midnight oil than with her favorite latte?” I wiggle the cup in his direction. “And if she’s not there, I’ll hand these out to people on the way.”

“Yes, because people are going to take muffins from some random hipster on the street,” he says sardonically.

I shrug it off. It doesn’t matter. She’ll be at the office. She has to be.

“Okay…” Mike says slowly, standing as if I’m a wild animal he doesn’t want to spook. “I’m going to take off, then.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I caution, eyeing him over the counter. “I’m bringing food for the whole staff. You’re going to have to help me carry it.”

***

As I make the drinks—a hazelnut latte for Emery, an iced matcha for Ethan, and an extra cappuccino just for kicks— Mike begrudgingly searches for the address of the magazine’s office. It’s not too far, but he insists his designer shoes can’t handle the walk and forces me into his car. I’m grateful for it; walking with three drinks and huge bags full of pastries in this late-afternoon heat wouldn’t be fun.

He parks, and I look up at the five-story building. Somehow, it looks more imposing than a five-story building should. The office is on the fourth floor, at least according to Mike’s internet sleuthing.

“We’re here,” Mike announces after a minute, clearly trying to spur me on to action since I’ve been sitting here, staring up at what I imagine are the windows to Emery’s workspace.

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