Page 129 of Spring Break Fling

I stopped at the nearest one, a little cart draped with fairy lights and an overwhelming aroma of coffee beans roasting. The barista, a wiry man, gave me a nod as I approached.

“Morning, what can I getcha?” he asked in a thick Brooklyn accent. His hands were already poised to make the next order.

“Just a large black coffee, thanks,” I replied, trying to muster a smile.

As he prepared my drink, I stood there taking in the sounds of the city waking up. Horns honked in the distance, the clatter of subway trains echoed from the nearby station, and the chatter of early risers filled the air. It was all so different from Boise—louder, faster, relentless.

“You look like you could use this more than most today,” he quipped.

“You have no idea.” I sighed, accepting the cup gratefully. “You’re doing the lord’s work today.”

I made my way to the office, choosing to walk the short distance. The streets of Manhattan buzzed with early morning energy, but I felt like a ghost floating through the chaos. It was so strange to be surrounded by thousands of people and yet feel completely alone. I felt invisible.

By the time I settled at my desk, other employees began trickling in, sipping their overpriced coffees and chatting about their weekend plans. Nobody so much as glanced in my direction, and the loneliness hit me like a freight train. I missed Miami and Boise. I missed my friends. I missed him.

It felt like people in the office couldn’t care less if I was there or not. I don’t know what I was expecting when I took this job. Maybe it was like Nikko said. I thought I was some big shot. Like I was going to walk into the New York office and be some kind of queen with the other employees looking at me like I was truly royalty.

In Boise, I was the big fish in a small pond. At least in my mind I was. I busted my ass and made something of myself. But here in New York, they looked at me like I was a cockroach that snuck inside the building. Like one of the sewer rats infiltrated their precious office.

I shook it off and dove back into work, burying myself in spreadsheets and pitch decks until the client arrived. We met in a conference room. They were all business, their smiles plastered on like cheap wallpaper as they demanded results from a control group I hadn’t even been informed about.

“Where are the numbers?” one of them snapped, tapping their watch as if that would magically produce data.

My stomach dropped. “I wasn’t given any details about a control group,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Their faces hardened. “This is unacceptable. We don’t have time for amateur hour.”

The words stung, but I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath. “Actually, you’re wasting my time.”

My composure snapped. Chalk it up to lack of sleep, a broken heart, or just general frustration. It didn’t matter.

I was done.

The room went silent. The lead client raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

I stood up, feeling a strange sense of peace wash over me. “I’ve been killing myself for weeks, jumping through hoops for people who don’t respect my work or my time. And for what? A pat on the head? More demands. No thanks. I quit.”

Panic flickered across their faces. “You can’t quit! Your company needs this account. Clarke was clear about that.”

“Then maybe you can call him and rake him over the coals for no reason. I’m not sitting here for this.” I pulled off my name badge and placed it neatly on the table. “Bye.”

The clients sputtered and scrambled to stop me, but I was already out the door. I felt light, like I’d just shed a thousand pounds of stress. My suitcase was practically packed.

It shouldn’t have taken me this long to realize the truth, but better late than never. I knew exactly where I needed to go.

45

NIKKO

Istood in the middle of the dusty, sunlit space, imagining it filled with sleek tattoo chairs, a waiting area decked out in vintage Miami kitsch, and walls covered in custom flash art. It had good bones: tall ceilings, exposed brick, big front windows that let in plenty of natural light. Sure, the floor creaked ominously in a few places, and the faint smell of something I couldn’t identify lingered in the air, but it had potential.

The building was shitty and not in a great neighborhood, but it was affordable. Obviously the only reason I was looking at it. I kicked at a stain on the floor. I didn’t even want to know what it was. A little Windex would buff that right out.

“It’s not terrible,” Marcus said as he looked around. “Not great, but not terrible.”

I brought him along because he knew about this stuff. It was a little awkward to ask my former boss and future competition to help me find a place to set up shop, but Marcus was a friend as well. He was the only person I knew that had any idea about running the business.

“It’s perfect,” I said, turning slowly to take it all in. “You just don’t want me to get it.”