Milo wraps me up in a hug again. “It’s good to be back, you know? I missed home.”
I don’t know how Milo can be so Milo about this—so nonchalant about being technically homeless and jobless. I’ve spent my entire life pedaling at warp speed to avoid that exact situation, but he willingly put himself into it. He’s the personification of those motivational posters that say, Jump, and the net will appear, whereas my motivational poster would say something like, There is no net, so maybe reconsider jumping and just find a ladder or something?
But he’s here now. Milo. My other half. I look at his silly glasses and his messy hair and the blue T-shirt that I know he’s wearing to make his eyes look bluer, because we have the same eyes and I do the same thing.
And even though I have a million and one reasons to be annoyed at him, I say, “I’m glad you’re here,” because it’s the truth.
Chapter Four
If you’d told me when I graduated from high school that I’d be working in a coffee shop down the street from Annie’s house when I was almost thirty, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. But then again, I might have, because at eighteen part of me still sort of thought I’d become a mermaid when I grew up.
When Annie and I started college at OSU, she majored in film studies without giving it a second thought, while I went for the beloved major of aimless students everywhere: undecided.
College was a financial stretch for me, and instead of moving into the dorms, I moved into Annie and Don’s carriage house. Don asked me to; he worried about Annie, he said, since her mom recently died of a heart attack. If she couldn’t have her mom around during such a big transition, then maybe at least she could have a friend who felt like family. It was an easy decision, because I knew the feeling. Although my mom hadn’t died, I’d accepted that she was dead to me and I would never see her again.
Don tried to get me to live there rent-free, but my Chloe Sanderson sense of pride wouldn’t let me accept that offer. Instead, we agreed on a rent payment so low that it was almost embarrassing, but at least I was paying my way.
But college was harder than I expected. Not the classes themselves, but everything else in my life, like how my dad was starting to need my help more and more often. With Milo and me out of the house, I chalked up his frequent confused calls as the activity of a man who suddenly had way too much free time on his hands, but eventually I had to admit that something was wrong. Add that to the fact that I had no real career direction and very little money and, well, dropping out wasn’t such a hard decision.
Over the next several years, as Annie graduated and pursued her writing dreams, I took a slew of jobs to support myself. None of them were glamorous and most of them were awful. Right around the time I realized I had to find an assisted living facility for my dad, I was fired from my crappy call center job (it turns out most employers do not like it when you routinely bail on your shift because you’re having a family crisis).
In my state of financial despair and panic, I saw a sign. I mean, a literal sign, in the window of Nick’s cozy, brick-walled coffee shop: Now Hiring. So I walked in, applied, and told him up front that I had to leave anytime my dad needed me. And whether it was desperation or something else that made him hire me, he said okay.
That was years ago and I’ve been here ever since, turning Nick’s into not only my place of employment but also my home away from home. Eventually I started taking online classes to finally finish my degree. The only difference is that now I have enough direction to know what I really want to do—I want to own my own business, a place like Nick’s but really mine. One where I can decide the menu, spruce up the boring walls, and create a homey café that makes everyone comfortable. A place where I can take care of people but, you know, get paid for it.
Until then, Nick’s is where I shine. And now, as I’m sitting here with Annie at her usual table, I’m focusing on another venue where I can showcase my strengths: her wedding.
“I’m envisioning a pom wall,” I say, spreading my hands in front of me.
Annie stares blankly from her seat across the table.
I sigh. “Have you never been on Pinterest, Annie?”
She shakes her head. “Only for writing mood boards.”
“Wasn’t your break over . . . oh, about ten minutes ago?” Nick asks from behind the counter.
“We’re in a lull, Nick,” I shout, not looking at him because I do not have time for the awkward jitters I get whenever his eyes are on me (Reason #3: When you google the phrase bedroom eyes, his picture comes up).
I pull up a picture on my phone. “As I was saying. Pom wall. See, like this.”
Annie and her fiancé, Drew, are getting married here in Columbus—down the street from Nick’s, actually. It turns out Nick knows the guy who owns the building, and he has this loft space no one ever uses that will be perfect for a small wedding. It’s big and open and the paint is peeling in that artfully decrepit way that makes for great Instagram photos. I’m thankful they’re not getting married in some faraway city, like New York or LA or Shreveport, where Drew’s from. I didn’t even want to leave my dad for the premiere of Annie’s movie (thankfully, she pulled some strings and worked out a Columbus premiere, which everyone is super excited about), so there’s no way I’d feel comfortable jetting across the country for a celebration while God knows what happened in my absence.
“I just think it will add a nice pop of color to the whole ‘abandoned warehouse’ vibe,” I say.
“It doesn’t look like an abandoned warehouse,” Annie says. “And you know I wanted to get married in the park, but it’s spring, and no one else wants to stand out there if it’s cold.”
“True,” I say. “I’m glad you’re keeping this wedding super small, but I wish Drew would invite more celebrities. Especially hot ones. Brie Larson seems nice.”
Annie presses her lips into a thin line, but I can tell she’s amused. “I don’t even know Brie Larson. I told you, we’re keeping this small. And secret.”
“I suppose that makes sense. But the pom wall. Think about it.”
Annie wrinkles her nose, then takes a sip of coffee. “I don’t know. That looks like a lot of work.”
I throw up my hands. “Exactly! It’s one of the most romantic things you can do with tissue paper!”
“And how many romantic things can you do with tissue paper?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“If you have to ask, you don’t want to know,” Gary, one of our regular customers, says from his table, where he’s clearly been listening to our entire conversation.
“Let me take care of the pom wall, okay?” I ask, getting up from the table.