“I’ll think about it, Corner-Kick Croix.”
We both laugh. And there’s no sadness underneath it.
Just the strange, beautiful relief of letting something go with grace and still holding on to the part that matters most.
Best friends.
Chapter Three
Lattes, Letdowns + a Little Shot of Rum
Aspen
Six months ago.
By the time I make it toHollyDates, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg smacks me in the face like a scented intervention. The place looks like a department store holiday aisle exploded. Twinkle lights still strung from Halloween, turkeys with glitter feathers hanging from the ceiling, and Christmas trees peeking from the corners like they’re early to the party.
Because here in Cinnamon Grove,everyseason is a holiday season. And atHollyDates, every day is a reason to celebrate.
It’s chaotic, ridiculous…and a little bit perfect.
I spot Tatum instantly, perched in our usual corner booth. Her nails are fire-engine red, her big, bushy blonde curls styled to perfection, and she’s already halfway through her “Peppermint Pick-Me-Up,” the seasonal drink she swears gets her through deadlines and dramatic life updates. Of which I am currently providing both.
I don’t even head to the table first. I beeline for the counter where Holly is humming Olivia Dean and decorating a cookie to make it look like it’s wearing a bikini.
“Holly,” I whisper, breathless.
She looks up from behind the counter, grinning. “Aspen, darling. Let me guess—nutmeg latte, oat milk, extra foam?”
I nod, stepping closer. “Yes. And if you love me even a little, you’ll toss in a shot of rum.”
She blinks. “It’s eight in the morning.”
“It’s Thursday,” I counter flatly.
Her brow furrows. “Ummm.”
I give her my most seriousdon’t-play-with-me-womanlook. “Holly.”
She lets out a loud laugh, but starts reaching under the counter. “Okay, fine! The customer is always right!”
“Thank you,” I whisper in desperation.
While waiting for my drink, I take a breath and finally face the text from my mother I’ve been too anxious to touch all morning.
Me:Still not sure if I can make it to the baby shower. And no, you can’t know the last name of the man I’m seeing so you can add him to your prayer wall.
Here is the thing, my mother knew about Croix, but only in theory. I’d always told her I was seeing someone, but I’d framed it as “respecting her too much” to introduce her to a man who might not last. It was a convenient little game because it kept her happy enough to send me home with extra plates of food, and ask polite questions about our dates without actually invading my privacy.
But now that Croix and I are over, just friends, and she’s demanding I show up to a family function with a plus-one, I’m seriously questioning why I ever opened my mouth about the man in the first place.
Then I remember exactly why. Because my mother had a dream that I’d be married by this time this year.
My mother is a dreamer. If you grew up in a Black family, you know the matriarchs usually are. They are known to pass down prophetic messages through their dreams, and surprisingly, many of them actually come true. My mother is ours. And while I respect her gift and everything that comes with it, I really need her to mind her business right now.
Because rather than fighting the most recent string “prophecies” and “premonitions,” I’d simply decided it was easier to go along with the narrative and allow her to think Croix and I might be going somewhere, too. Poor Croix ended up being a casualty of it all.
Drink in hand, complete with my contraband splash of rum, I weave through the crowd toward the corner booth where Tatum is busy scrolling through her phone.
