Page 3 of Caffeinated in Amesbury
My fingers hovered over my phone, the sleek device seemingly out-of-place amid the stacks of manuscripts and literary anthologies. I chewed on my bottom lip, a habit I’d had since childhood when I was about to do something that felt like stirring up trouble. But this wasn’t mischief calling; it was an allegiance of the heart. With a decisive click, I tapped Blair’s contact, the call connecting as naturally as turning to a favorite chapter in a well-worn novel.
“Defrosted Bakery, where every cupcake is a taste of heaven,” chirped the voice on the other end, sugary sweet and vibrant as a jingle.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said, tone wrapping around the words like a warm shawl. “Am I interrupting?”
“Never for you, Flick. I was just frosting the gingerbread men, giving them a little pizzazz with candy buttons. What’s up?” Blair’s voice was a cascade of effervescence, each syllable popping with fondness.
“Guess who’s coming to visit you for Christmas?” I grinned.
“Wait, really? You’re not pulling my leg with a sugar-plum fairy tale?” Blair’s excitement crackled through the line, infectious and twinkling.
“Cross my heart,” I confirmed, the anticipation bubbling up within me like champagne. “I need a break from the concrete jungle. And... I miss you guys.”
“Miss us? Girl Amesbury hasn’t been the same without its runaway agent. Cole will flip! He’s got his ‘Felicity stories’ on repeat, you know. The legend grows,” Blair laughed, the sound rich and round like a carol.
“So he won’t mind if I come down and crash y’alls plans?” I chuckled, leaning back in the chair.
“Nope! Thomas will be happy too.” Blair affirmed. “So, when do we get the pleasure of your company?”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Cue the festive tunes,” Blair quipped, and I could almost see my friend’s impish grin, bright as the holiday lights strung up along Main Street. “Speaking of fine selections, I expect you to bring some of that big city fashion with you. Amesbury needs a dose of your style—it’s been languishing in plaid and denim since you left.”
“Consider it done. I’ll pack my most dazzling scarves and boots,” I promised, my heart a kaleidoscope of warmth and yearning. “But honestly, I can’t wait to slip into some flannel PJs and just... be.”
“Being is what we do best here. And I’ve got a fresh batch of your favorite—molasses cookies, extra ginger. Your room at the inn is waiting, Flick.” Blair’s voice softened, a tender note strung between the miles.
“Home,” I whispered, the word tasting of peppermint and possibility. My gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes continued their silent ballet against the cityscape. For the first time in a long while, I felt the pull of the future, not as a daunting chasm, but as a bridge back to myself.
“Home for the holidays,” I repeated, the decision settling into my bones like the first deep breath of wintry air. “See you soon, Blair.”
“Can’t wait, Flick. Safe travels and merry everything until then!”
The call ended, leaving me surrounded by ambition but buoyed by belonging. Blair started as just another author I believed in and quickly became one of my best friends. As I nestled back into the rhythm of work, my heart sang a tune only Amesbury knew the harmony to.
My fingertips lingered on the cool glass of the office window, tracing the snowflakes as they melded into the steel canvas of New York City. Below, yellow taxis swarmed like bees around a hive of ceaseless activity. The hum of ambition permeated the air, each buzz a reminder of the life I’d meticulously built, brick by corporate brick.
“Hey,” came Heather’s voice, laced with that skyscraper-high ambition I knew all too well. “Got another manuscript for you. This one’s about a city girl who finds love in a pumpkin patch. Utterly original.”
“Thanks,” I replied, accepting the stack with a wry smile. I flipped through the pages. The irony was not lost; fiction mirroring an urge I couldn’t shake.
Heather leaned against the desk, her eyes glinting with unspoken challenge. “You sure you want to waste your annual leave on Amesbury? You could be networking at the Christmas Gala here.”
“Call it nostalgia,” I said, the word feeling like both an armor and a vulnerability.
“Suit yourself. Just don’t come back wearing overalls,” Heather joked, sauntering back to her own high-rise kingdom of paper and deadlines.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I mumbled, though my mind toyed with the image: myself clad in denim.
My heart thrummed with doubt and desire as I turned from the manuscripts to the computer, the screen a mosaic of emails screaming deadlines, expectations, promotions. The cursor blinked, a silent metronome keeping time with my indecision.
“Pros and cons,” I whispered to myself, the words a lifeline as I opened a new document. ‘Pro: I’m good at this job.’ My fingers hesitated, the next bullet point a cliff edge. ‘Con: It doesn’t make me happy.’
“What doesn’t make you happy?” Heather's voice carried from next door
I quickly covered up by saying "Talking to myself," but I had already spoken the truth, and now it haunts the office like a ghost.
“Everyone talks to themselves here. Comes with the territory,” Heather called out, her tone dismissive but not unkind. Another day, another dollar, another conversation with the office plants.
