Page 37 of Play Along With Me
"The usual, Mr. Abernathy?" I ask as a silver-haired man approaches the counter.
"You know it, Audrey," he nods. "And whatever Mrs. Abernathy wants today."
Mrs. Abernathy, a tiny woman with impeccable posture and bright eyes, studies the pastry case with the seriousness of someone selecting fine jewelry.
"I think... the almond croissant today," she decides. "We're feeling adventurous."
They've ordered the same thing—a black coffee, a tea with lemon, and a shared pastry—every Thursday for the two years I've worked here. The pastry selection is their only variation, and even that rotates between the same three or four options.
I find their predictability comforting. Fifty-two years of marriage, and they still have a standing breakfast date. They still hold hands. They still make each other laugh. It's a kind of love I can barely imagine—enduring, comfortable, yet never taken for granted.
"Special plans today?" Mrs. Abernathy asks as I hand her the tea.
"Just work," I say automatically, then remember Collin's party. "Well, maybe a neighbor's get-together later."
"How lovely," she beams. "You know, I met Mr. Abernathy at a neighbor's party. Spilled punch all over his new shoes."
My mind runs to the idea of spilling punch all over Jake's shoes tonight. That would be something, wouldn't it?
"Ruined my suede loafers," Mr. Abernathy confirms cheerfully. "Best day of my life."
They shuffle to their usual table by the window, and I watch them for a moment, wondering what it's like to look at someone after five decades and still see the person you fell in love with.
Daniel and I barely made it three years before he was looking at someone else.
The rest of my shift passes quickly, and soon I'm back at my apartment, where Mr. Darcy greets me with his usual blend of neediness and judgment.
"Don't give me that look," I tell him as I refill his food bowl. "I know I said I wouldn't go to the party, but Leila's going to drag me there regardless. Might as well preserve my dignity by going voluntarily."
Mr. Darcy blinks at me slowly, unimpressed by my rationalization.
I spend the afternoon attempting to write, giving up after an hour, and then embarking on a half-hearted apartment cleaning that mostly involves moving piles of clutter from one surface to another. By six, I've convinced myself I'm definitely not going to Collin's party. By seven, I'm standing in front of my closet wondering what to wear to Collin's party.
My phone buzzes with a text from Leila:
On my way. Be there in twenty. PLEASE tell me you're not overthinking your outfit.
I look down at the six discarded tops scattered across my bed and type back:
Of course not. I'm a rational adult who doesn't spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical black sweaters.
Her response is immediate:
Wear the green one. It brings out your eyes but not the one with that weird rip on the sleeve that you think doesn't look ghetto but definitely does. The other green one.
I pull the green sweater from the back of my closet, impressed by Leila's fashion knowledge. It does bring out my eyes, and it's one of the few items I own that doesn't have mysterious food stains or cat hair embedded in the fabric.
Twenty-three minutes later (Leila's "twenty minutes" always means at least thirty), my doorbell rings. I open it to find her looking effortlessly put-together in a way that makes me immediately regret every life choice that led me to this moment.
"You're wearing jeans," she observes, stepping inside and examining me critically. "Good jeans, though, so I'll allow it. And the green sweater! See, you do listen to me occasionally."
"Only when your fashion advice doesn't involve crop tops or anything described as 'statement-making,'" I reply, grabbing my small crossbody bag from the hook by the door.
"Statement pieces are the foundation of a memorable wardrobe," Leila says, clearly quoting some fashion influencer she follows. "But the sweater is perfect. Casual but flattering. You look pretty but not like you're trying too hard."
"The exact vibe I'm going for," I admit. "Though I still maintain this is a waste of a perfectly good Thursday evening that could be spent watching 'Great British Bake Off' reruns in my pajamas."
"You can watch people make sponge cakes any night," Leila dismisses. "Tonight, we socialize. We network. We mingle with actual humans instead of fictional bakers."
