Page 1 of I Saw Her First

1

Daisy

You know something isn’t quite right when a cupcake makes you question everything about your life.

It’s not a bad cupcake by any means; red velvet, with that decadent cream cheese frosting that melts on your tongue. I know because we’ve sold them here at Joe’s Coffee for years, and I’ve eaten more than a few. Usually, I savor one with a chai latte on my break, but today this particular cupcake seems to do nothing more than make me wonder how I got here.

“Seven years.” My boss, Dave, beams at me. “You’re the longest-running employee here at Joe’s, Daisy.”

I stare at the cupcake in his hands, into which he’s jammed a slightly askew birthday candle. The tiny flame flickers, waiting for me to blow it out. Two of my co-workers loiter nearby because Dave forced them to be here, not because they’re interested.

In fact, to my left, Celine mutters, “Seven years? Fuck, if I’d been here that long I’d kill myself.”

I glance from the candle to where she’s scrolling, half asleep, through her phone. She seems to sense it because her gaze flicks up.

“No offense,” she adds in that way people do that seems to somehow addmoreoffense to the original statement. She runs her silver tongue-piercing along her bottom lip, a habit she’s had the entire four months she’s worked here, then drops her gaze again with a yawn. She’s not used to being here so early—it’s usually only me opening up at six in the morning—but Dave insisted we all gather before opening, “for the occasion.”

“Hey, come on now,” he says, throwing Celine a look of disapproval she misses because she’s once again engrossed in her phone. “It’s great. I hope you’re all still here when I celebrate my seventh year.”

To my right, Jaya snorts, and I don’t have to look to know she’s sharing an eye-roll with Brett. We all know Dave would die here, given half the chance. He’s like a labradoodle: perky and easily excitable, and loyal to a fault. Until it closed, he used to manage a Starbucks in the West Village, and he’d been there for over a decade. He only started here eight months ago after our last manager quit, and already he’s got a ten-year plan, most of which involves “fun workplace incentives” to “boost morale.”

It’s not like Joe’s Coffee is an especially bad place to work. The shop itself has a great vibe. Set in an old building on Fruit Street in the historic district of Brooklyn Heights, it’s got exposed brick walls painted a clean white, an old-fashioned tin ceiling, and double bay windows facing the quiet, residential street. Black and white photos detailing the area’s history cover the walls, small cast iron tables scatter across the bare wood floor, and the marble counter nestles at the rear.

I’ve always loved the atmosphere in here. That’s not the issue. The issue is, well, being a barista was never my long-term plan.

Still, life never really goes according to plan, does it?

I clear my throat. “Er, thanks, Dave.” Pushing my mouth into a smile, I blow out the candle and take the cupcake from him. Celine announces she’s going to go sleep in her car until her shift starts at ten, Brett mutters that he’s going to Trader Joe’s, and Jaya hoists her yoga mat onto her shoulder before sauntering out for her early class. Dave heads out the back to do paperwork, leaving me with my cupcake in the empty coffee shop. I watch the thin thread of smoke rise from the cooling candle, wondering how I ended up here; stuck in a job I’d never intended to be in long term, and still a virgin.

Oh, did I not mention that?

Yeah, I’m a virgin. And I’m beginning to think I might die a virgin.

Okay, I know that’s dramatic. I’m only twenty-five, and it’s not like my doctor diagnosed me with a life-threatening illness or anything, but when you get to this age and youstillhaven’t had sex, things feel a little bleak.

High school was… complicated, to say the least, so I never had the chance to lose my virginity like most of the people I knew. It seemed to just get harder after that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dated, but it’s never gotten to the point where I wanted to take it further with any of them.

In reality, I know that “virginity” is only a social construct created by men to keep women pure, and if we’re getting really technical, my hymen was no doubt broken by horse-riding as a teenager, or using tampons, or my vibrator. I’m not from the Dark Ages.

But also… there’s no denying that people still view those with less experience—those like me—as different. Whenever I’ve told guys, they’ve always been surprised, if not a little judgmental. (One particular guy told me it was “whack” that I hadn’t hadsex and that he could “definitely help me out with that issue.” Gross.)

At my age, it feels like some kind of mark against me. The older I get, the less I feel like telling the guys I date—and the less I feel like sleeping with any of them. Maybe I keep choosing immature men, I don’t know, but the thought of sleeping with a guy my age has almost zero appeal. I haven’t gone on a date in forever because, honestly? I’m sick of wasting my time.

So, here I am. A twenty-five-year-old virgin with no career prospects.

An uneasy feeling rises inside me as I glance at the cupcake in my hand. I try not to think about this stuff too much, but it’s hard to avoid when someone waves it under your nose like this. I didn’t even realize I’d been here that long, but it didn’t get past Dave. He never misses an opportunity to celebrate, and despite my usual cheery outlook, celebrating is the last thing I feel like doing right now.

A suffocating feeling claws its way across my chest as I stare at the cupcake, trying to pinpoint what the sensation is. It’s the feeling of being stuck; being stuck in my life and not knowing how to fix it.

The door to the coffee shop opens behind me, and I set the cupcake on the back counter with a sigh. I’ll have to deal with this quarter-life crisis later. I flick the espresso machine on and, in spite of everything, a smile tugs at my lips because even without looking, I know who walked through the door.

Weston.

He’s always the first here, and lately, he’s become the best thing about working at Joe’s. It’s not only his good looks: salt-and-pepper hair that leans more toward salt than pepper, three-day scruff on his square jaw, and a sparkle in his blue eyes.

Well, maybe it’s alittleof that. I’m only human.

But there’s more to Weston than a pretty face. He’s been my secret project for the past year. Which isn’t as creepy as it sounds, I swear.

---