Page 8 of Unlucky in Love
He had wanted to experience the world, and he had. He had seen more than he ever imagined, done things he never thought he would do, lost people he could never get back. And after all of it, he was here again, sitting in an empty apartment above a hardware store, thinking about the girl he had left behind.
Ryan closed his eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily. The past pressed in on him, sharp and unrelenting.
He told himself he had come home to slow down, to rest.
But he was beginning to realize he had also come home because of her.
Chapter 3
Taylor
The smell of fresh coffee clung to Taylor Pierce’s clothes the way perfume might linger on someone else. It was the scent of her life, embedded in every fiber of her sweaters, every strand of her hair, every late-night load of laundry that never seemed to chase it away. She supposed there were worse things to smell like, but some mornings she longed for something different. Vanilla lotion. A woodsy cologne. Anything that did not scream you spend twelve hours a day pouring caffeine for other people.
Bean There was already busy, though it was barely eight o’clock. The bell over the door had not stopped chiming since she flipped the sign to “open.” The clatter of ceramic mugs and the steady hiss of steaming milk filled the air, underscored by the tinny pop songs playing from the café speakers.
She slid a caramel latte across the counter without even looking up. “Two pumps, not three, Mrs. Hughes.”
The older woman blinked, startled. “How do you do that?”
Taylor gave her usual smile. “Barista magic.”
It was not magic. It was routine. Mrs. Hughes came in every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, ordered the same thing, and sat at the same table to knit the same unfinished scarf. Just like Mr. Hollis came in every day for hot chocolate with what had to be half the can of whipped cream. Just like the college kids shuffled in with earbuds and laptops, ordering iced coffee they never finished.
She knew all their drinks. She knew their habits. She even knew their favorite seats. Yet most of them did not know her at all. To them, she was “the girl at the counter,” smiling, efficient, forgettable.
That had been the story of her life for as long as she could remember.
“Order up!” called one of the younger baristas, sliding a pastry bag onto the counter.
“Thanks, Jenna.” Taylor kept her smile in place, handing off the bag to a customer who barely looked her in the eye before disappearing out the door.
Invisible. That was how she felt most days. Not in a tragic, melodramatic way. More in the practical sense, like wallpaper. You noticed it only when it was peeling.
By the time the morning rush trickled down, her muscles ached from constant movement. She retreated behind the counter for a breath, grabbing her water bottle. A glance through the front windows made her stomach sink.
Valentine’s Day was coming.
The street outside was already decorated. Paper hearts fluttered in shop windows. The florist across the street had draped pink garlands around the doorway. Someone had tied a cluster of red balloons to the lamppost.
Taylor turned away quickly, focusing on stacking clean mugs. Valentine’s Day had a way of pressing on her like a bruise. Couples would fill the café, holding hands across tables,exchanging chocolates and flowers. And she would be behind the counter, serving them drinks and reminding herself she was twenty-six and had never had a real Valentine of her own.
At lunch, she ate her turkey sandwich in the staff room by herself. Jenna and Kyle, the two college baristas, had gone to grab food together, leaving Taylor in the silence. She opened her phone, scrolling halfheartedly through social media. Engagement posts. Vacation photos. A pregnancy announcement from a girl she had once sat next to in English class.
She tossed her phone back into her bag, appetite gone.
The truth was, she had dreams. Big ones. She wanted to travel. She wanted to see the world beyond this small town. She wanted to write stories that mattered. And in secret, she had. Late at night, after closing the café, she sat at her little desk with her secondhand laptop and typed until her eyes blurred.
She had written entire novels. Fantasy romances full of daring heroes and heroines who were never invisible. She had even self-published them online under a pen name. A few strangers had bought them. Enough royalties trickled in each month to cover groceries, but it wasn’t enough to make her believe she was really an author. She never told Emma or anyone else. It was safer that way. If no one knew, no one could mock her for daring to think she had talent.
By the time the day ended, her feet hurt and her head pounded faintly from the constant noise of the café. The last customer waved goodbye, and Taylor breathed a sigh of relief as the doorbell chimed behind them.
Closing time was her favorite part of the day. Not because she hated the café. It was hers, in a way. She had worked here since she was seventeen, climbing from part-time barista to manager. She took pride in it. But when the café emptied, when only thehum of the refrigerator and the quiet tick of the clock remained, she could finally breathe.
She wiped down the counters, stacked the chairs, and counted the register. Her movements were automatic, her mind drifting. She thought about the stack of Valentine’s cards already cluttering the store shelves at the grocery. She thought about how Emma’s husband would probably surprise her with flowers. She thought about her own empty apartment waiting for her, with nothing but a stack of laundry and her laptop for company.
She switched off the overhead lights, leaving only the glow of the string bulbs that looped across the windows. A soft, cozy glow filled the room, and for a moment, she stood in the quiet and let herself feel how tired she was.
Then she noticed something.
