Page 8 of No Place Like You

The timer I set on my phone for my break dings just as the screen goes blank.

“Lucy.”

I look up from the small round table I settled at to call Nat and Hayden to see Mr. Bean, the owner of Mr. Bean’s Coffee and Tea, leaning over the counter to get my attention. “I have to leave a little early,” he tells me. “You’ll be okay until Vanessa gets here?”

“Sure.” I shove my phone into my back pocket, rounding the counter where the glass display and register sits, and take the next customer in line. I ring a few people up, pour various types of espresso drinks into disposable cups, and keep a watchful eye on the pastries in case I need to place a small Sold Out placard on the display. When the line dies down, giving me amoment to breathe, I reach for my phone in my pocket and open what I like to call my Anxiety Support Checklist on my notes app.

Email Elevate Media with the last of the HR paperwork before I start on Monday morning. Check.

Confirm my flight for Saturday at eleven a.m. out of Seattle International to JFK. Check.

Email the property manager for my new rental in Brooklyn to confirm the time of my arrival. Check.

Avoid running into my sisters while living in Brooklyn for three months.

Maybe if I invested in a wig or those thick-framed glasses with a plastic nose and mustache, I can check that one off. Spirit Halloween is open year-round, right? Or maybe I can order one off Amazon.

It’s in the bag. A flimsy one full of holes and a broken strap, but a bag nonetheless.

With the late afternoon lull in customer traffic, my tasks dwindle down to restocking wooden coffee stirrers and sugar packets with the sporadic flow of customer traffic. Vanessa finally walks in close to four, looking a little frazzled.

“Hey,” she says with an exhale. “Sorry I’m late.” She ducks her head to fasten her apron around her neck before clocking in.

“No worries.” I finish refilling the napkins and turn to her. “Mr. Bean took off. Something about his parrot’s vet appointment.”

“Maybe he’ll finally get him to stop singing ‘Rocket Man.’” We share a giggle before she adds, “You all ready for the Big Apple?”

“Physically? Almost. I just have a few things left to pack. Mentally? No.”

She laughs. “Is one of your sisters meeting you when you get there?”

“Uh, no,” I tell her hesitantly. “They, um, they don’t know.”

Vanessa jerks her head in my direction. “You didn’t tell them?”

I shake my head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her with a deep sigh. “I thought about it, but my mom already didn’t want me to apply for this internship. I don’t want them to accidentally slip and tell my mom. And I don’t want them to lie to her either.” I pause to look at her with a sad puppy dog face. “And I talked to Nat earlier. She thinks my mom’s right. She said it’s probably a good idea that I didn’t apply for it. Thinks I’ll just get my hopes up or something.” I bury my face into my hands. Even my sister thinks this internship is a bad idea.

“Hey.” I look up from my hands, and Vanessa has her chin in her palms, her elbows braced on the countertop, and her bright blue eyes peering up at me. “Just go and kill it. Break a leg or whatever. Worry about all of that family drama bullshit later.”

I smile, though my lips immediately turn upside down into a sad pout. Vanessa stands upright and clicks away at the register before it opens with a heavy clunk. She lifts the drawer tray, where a large white envelope with my name is buried under a mess of invoices, and carefully plucks it out and slides it my way. “Let’s hope this is the last time you get one of these from Mr. Bean.”

I glide my fingers over my last check. “Fingers crossed.”

4

Dexter

I’mspeed walking through the busy streets of Manhattan, hurriedly dodging people left and right before I come to a stop in front of Buca’s, my sister’s favorite Italian restaurant. I didn’t realize what time it was when I left Hayden’s apartment, and now I have barely enough time to spare to make it to dinner with Janet and her boyfriend, Charles.

As soon as I walk in, I see them huddled over a table for four, the low candlelight making their faces glow under the dim light. Janet sees me and waves me over.

“We just ordered a bottle,” Janet informs me, gesturing toward the freshly uncorked bottle of merlot and standing briefly to hug me. Charles stands too, shaking my hand before the three of us take our seats.

“Happy birthday, sis.”

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