Page 14 of Ansel

I had time to study without squeezing it into the cracks of my day. I didn’t have to constantly anticipate someone else’s needs, triple-check reports at midnight, or wake up in a cold sweat remembering something I forgot to add to a presentation. I breathed easier now, in the bustle of the café, where the biggest crisis of the day was a broken espresso machine or an impatient customer.

Penny had been right—this was exactly the break I needed. And since she never missed an opportunity to say I told you so, she took every chance to tease me about how my dark circles had finally disappeared.

“And you said because you’re Indian you’re born with that haunted look.”

“Most south Asian women have them,” I grumbled.

Sleeping eight hours a day every day had done its magic. I didn’t walk around feeling exhausted, instead I was full of energy. My skin had never been better. My face looked healthy, and I hadn’t used my under-eye corrector in weeks. Forget the spa and fancy pampering—all I needed was proper sleep andvoilà! Glassy, K-beauty-worthy skin.

I wiped down the counter as the lunch rush finally died down, my shoulders pleasantly sore—but not in the soul-crushing, bone-deep exhaustion I’d felt after fourteen-hour days at Sterling.

Nestled in a cozy Brooklyn street with big windows that let in warm afternoon light, Penny’s café was small and busy. The scent of coffee and fresh pastries was so much better than over-priced colognes and perfumes mixed in with the desperation to climb the corporate ladder in the financial district.

I glanced at Penny, who was ringing up a customer who looked like a finance bro. When he left, she caught my eye and smirked. “Are you missing the Wall Street chaos?”

I laughed, stacking clean plates behind the counter. “Not even a little bit.”

“But you’ll go back once you finish your MBA,” Penny remarked sadly. “And I’ll miss you.”

I looked around the café and wondered if maybe I wouldn’t have to go back. Penny owned the café, yes, but the profit margins were measly, so she barely made ends meet, especially in New York. We both couldn’t draw a living wage from Sun & Chai.

I was pondering the future when Mrs. Desai, a regular, came into the café. “Neha,beta,how are you doing?”

Since I hung out at the café on weekends, I’d met several of the regulars even before I started working here. Mrs. Desai knew my story—as in I had a great job that I left because my boss was a douchebag.

“I’m good, Auntie. The usual?”

Mrs. Desai nodded, holding her phone over the card reader. She waited for it to ding once I tapped the screen to finalize the transaction.

I made Mrs. Desai’s masala chai just the way she liked with extra cinnamon.

Since there wasn’t much of a rush, I chatted with Mrs. Desai who took a seat at the bar. “Kunal, you know is a partner at an ad agency. I told him about you, and he’d like to meet you.”

Mrs. Desai’s son Kunal was single, and she was doing everything she could to pair him up withanyonebefore he was too old to have children. Since Kunal was my age, around twenty-eight, I didn’t understand her urgency but I knew it was an Indian thing.

Since our mother, who raised my sister Sanya and me alone, passed five years ago, we didn’t have anyone nagging us to get married, not that our mother would have.

Mummy was a rebel! She’d had the temerity to divorce her arranged marriage husband who used to beat her. I didn’t remember those days because I was only one when she left him, but Sanya, who was three years older than me, did.

Our sperm donor returned to India after the divorce, and since getting divorced was still a big deal in those days, Mummy had been abandoned by both her and his family. She didn’t care and said, ‘good riddance.’

Our mother was amazing. She went to school and got a degree in education while she raised usandworked. She retired as the principal of Thomas Jefferson High School.

Sanya and I missed her every day. She had taught us about resilience, about respecting ourselves, about not putting up with shit from anyone. I think it was because of how she raised us that I’d resigned from Sterling rather than wait to be fired and collect a three-week severance pay. Money was money—and I wasn’t rolling in it so that would have been appreciated.ButLeela Rao’s daughter wasn’t going to let anyone treat her the way Ansel had.

“Thank you, Auntie, but I want to work in finance,” I told her.

She made a face. “I’m not matchmaking, just helping you find a job.”

I rolled my eyes. She certainly was. “Okay, Auntie, I’ll contact Kunal,” I lied.

“Oh wonderful. Maybe you can meet him…you know for coffee or a drink to talk about the job,” she suggested.

I laughed at that and was saved from answering when another regular walked in for their afternoon shot of espresso and a cupcake.

The café felt like home in a way my old job never had. There was warmth and a sense of community. People were happy to be here, including me. I wasjust an assistantat Sterling, but here, I could be my authentic self.

Mrs. Desai had just left, making sure I had Kunal’s contact information on my phone when the bell above the door jingled. I looked up with a smile, expecting another caffeine-deprived remote worker when my eyes locked with Ansel’s.

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