Page 15 of Wings
I typed the message and hit send: "Emergency coffee needed. Now." No explanation. No context. But Stephanie wouldunderstand—three years of friendship had taught her my distress signals.
The walk to Grounded Coffee normally took eight minutes. Today, I made it in five, moving like something was chasing me.
Morning foot traffic parted around me—a woman clearly on the edge wasn't worth the collision. I kept my head down, counting cracks in the sidewalk. One, two, three, turn left. Four, five, six, cross against the light because waiting meant thinking and thinking meant drowning.
The coffee shop materialized like an oasis. Exposed brick facade, windows crowded with concert flyers and community board postings. The neon sign flickered—the second "E" had been dying for two years, turning "GROUNDED" into "GROUND D" at unpredictable intervals.
I pushed through the door and the familiar sensory wall hit me. Espresso steam and baked goods. Indie music. The constant hum of the ancient espresso machine they refused to replace because Maya swore it made better foam than anything modern.
This place had become my sanctuary. Three years of the same order. Three years of tipping well but never lingering too long. Three years of being friendly but not friends with the baristas. They knew my name, my drink, my preference for the corner table with sight lines to both exits.
"Rough night?" Maya called from behind the counter, already reaching for a large cup.
"The roughest." I managed something that might pass for a smile in bad lighting.
"Lavender latte coming up. Extra shot?"
"Make it two."
Her eyebrows rose but she didn't comment. That's why I loved this place. Caffeine and comfort, dispensed without judgment.
I claimed my usual corner table. The chair wobbled—left front leg had always been short—but the view was perfect. Door, window, back exit past the restrooms.
My hands had almost stopped shaking by the time Stephanie burst through the door fifteen minutes later.
Her scrubs were different from last night, but equally rumpled. Hair in a messy bun that listed dangerously to one side, skewered with a pen. Her face was full of the kind of exhaustion that came from twelve hours of other people's traumas.
But her eyes were sharp when they found me. Assessing. Cataloging. The same look she gave critical patients, checking for immediate threats to life and limb.
Triage.
"Jesus, Ki." She slid into the opposite chair without preamble. "You look like death warmed over."
"Charming."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept? Actually slept, not just that thing you do where you lie in bed calculating ceiling tiles."
I opened my mouth to lie, then closed it. .
"Few days ago," I admitted.
"I bet it’s more than a few."
"Your point?"
She flagged down Maya with the confidence of someone used to emergency situations. "Latte, please. Extra shot. And whatever pastry has the most sugar."
Maya took the order and smiled.
Steph leaned back, studying me with those too-knowing eyes. "So? Spill."
I wrapped both hands around my mug, letting the heat seep through ceramic into my palms. The lavender smell mixed with coffee should have been soothing. Instead, it reminded me of thebotanical garden. Of butterflies. Of sitting next to Gabe while Alex flirted with strangers.
"Remember that guy I told you about?" The words came out carefully neutral. "From before?"
Stephanie's entire demeanor shifted. From concerned friend to protective mother bear in two seconds flat. She knew about before. Not everything—I'd never told anyone everything—but enough.
"Which guy?" But her tone said she already knew. There'd only been one guy worth mentioning from before. Only one whose memory could put that particular expression on my face.
