This cannot be my life.
I stack another sleeve of disposable coffee cups at the station, lining them up like it somehow matters. Like any of this matters.
I’m supposed to be in Peru right now. Or London. Somewhere with bright lights, cameras, and people who don’t know my name from high school. Not stuck in this dusty barn, setting up coffee for strangers who think pumpkin spice is a personality trait.
I slam a box of tote bags onto the floor. They spill everywhere. I blow my bangs out of my eyes and crouch to gather them, irritation buzzing under my skin. As I reach, the sleeve of my shirt rises, exposing the butterfly inked along the inside of my arm—black lines, sharp wings, very detailed for something I got one drunken night after celebrating my first day in the city. A cold reminder of my failure.
I tug the fabric back into place.
I can’t believe Dad dumped me here. Just because he’s friends with Fred doesn’t mean I owe this place anything. I needout. Again. But this time I’ll do it right. I’ll be smarter. Track my money. Stop handing my future over to the first person who promises fame with a smile.
My stomach twists.
That so-called agent flashes through my head. Two thousand dollars. Gone. Promises of auditions that never came. Messages left on read. Nothing.
I shove the bags back into the box.
Stupid, Sandie.
I drop the box behind the register, wedging it next to the trash can stuffed with my empty pumpkin muffin wrapper. I haven’t seen Fred in a while, and I was hungry. I don’t feel bad about it. He left me alone here for hours.
Serves him right.
That damn machine is still buzzing somewhere out back. Low. Constant. How long does it take to toss a few pumpkins into a grinder anyway?
I slip my headphones on and let the opening riff of “You’re the One That I Want” flood my ears, drowning out the hum of the old refrigerator and the buzz crawling under my skin. I start humming along, hips swaying as I line up pumpkin-flavored lollipops near the register.
Cute sells. Always has.
I step back and snap a photo.
The glass catches my reflection. Perfect hair. Glossy lips. The lighting hits just right, warm and forgiving. For a moment, I look like the version of myself that belongs somewhere better than this place.
God, New York has no idea what it’s missing.
I scroll through my camera roll. Half selfies. Half shots tagged for sponsors who think I’m grinding through auditions and callbacks. They imagine runways and dressing rooms, not adusty farm gift shop stuffed with pumpkin junk and fluorescent lights.
Let them believe it. Their money still spends.
I pop my hip, lift the phone, and take a few more. Lip caught between my teeth. Chin angled just right. A smile that says luxury. Desire. Want.
Perfect.
I turn the screen toward myself to check the shots.
And freeze.
There’s something behind me.
Tall. Broad. The shape is warped by the glass. It stands near the back of the shop, partially hidden behind the candy display. Too still to be a person. Too solid to be a shadow.
My pulse spikes as my eyes zero in on the red and white letterman jacket.
“Drew?” I tug one earbud loose, turning around to face him. “If you’re trying to scare me, I swear to god?—”
He steps forward.
“Drew, stop messing around.”
