Page 1 of The Story Between Us

One

The barista had spelled her name wrong again.

Libby. Scrawled in black Sharpie across the side of her oat milk latte. Six years of coming to this same coffee cart, tucked between the pretzel vendor and the guy who sold knockoff scarves from Paris, six years of helping Dante—that was the barista’s name—navigate everything from his ex-girlfriend drama to his sister’s quinceañera playlist. And still: Libby.

Olivia—Livvie, thank you—didn’t bother to correct him.

“Thanks, Dante.” She wrapped her fingers around the cup, the warmth almost too much for the mild morning. “Love what you did with the foam.”

He’d attempted a leaf. It looked more like a lopsided heart, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

September had softened the city overnight. Livvie tucked the cup against her chest and stepped back into the river of commuters flowing down Fifth Avenue, dodging a man in a suit who apparently had somewhere very important to be. Above the canyon of buildings, the sky stretched endless and blue, scrubbed clean by yesterday’s rain. The brutal humidity of August had finally broken, leaving behind air that felt like a gift—warm but breathing, the kind of morning that made even the most jaded New Yorkers walk a little slower.

She didn’t blame them. The city was showing off today.

The trees along the avenue hadn’t turned yet, but they’d lost that tired, dusty look of late summer. Their leaves hung full and green, with just a whisper of gold at the edges—a promise of autumn in the city. Sidewalk gardens spilled over with late-blooming zinnias and marigolds, oranges and yellows bright against brownstone stoops. The air smelled like roasted nuts from the cart on the corner, sweet and earthy, layered over coffee steam and the warm yeast scent drifting from the bakery with its door propped open.

Livvie breathed it in. It wasn’t Maple Lake, Minnesota, which pretty much set the bar on autumn scents and colors, but Central Park gave it her best go, and Livvie would take what she could get.

She took a sip of her latte—still too hot, burning the tip of her tongue—and let herself feel, just for a moment, like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

New York City. The publishing world. Moving up the corporate ladder at her literary agency, closer to the smell of success.

A woman thrust a flyer into her hand. Broadway show. She smiled, tucked it in her pocket, and kept walking.

The knockoff handbag guy was already set up on his corner, fake Prada and Louis Vuitton spread across a folding table, his eyes scanning for cops. A saxophonist outside the bank played something slow and golden, the notes floating up past the construction scaffolding and dissolving into the morning symphony of horns and jackhammers and a thousand conversations happening at once. A dog walker wrestled with six leashes, a tangle of pugs and ’doodles all pulling different directions.

Her phone buzzed.

Meg.

Meg

Pizza. Your place. Tonight. Dancing with the Stars.

She laughed and sent a thumbs-up emoji.

She shoved the phone back in her pocket and walked faster, dodged a couple women in skirts and tennis shoes emerging from the subway.

The Telegraph Building rose ahead of her, its limestone facade glowing honey-gold in the morning light. Pemberton & Associates Literary Agency had occupied the fourteenth floor for forty years—long enough that the brass letters in the lobby directory had worn smooth at the edges. Livvie loved this building in a way she’d never admit out loud—the ornate cornices and arched windows, the terra-cotta details that most people rushed past without noticing. It felt like publishing should feel. Like stories lived here.

She pushed through the heavy brass doors and stepped into the lobby. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, the echo of footsteps mixing with the whisper of revolving doors. Somewhere above her, a century of telegrams had once clattered through wires, urgent messages flying across the country. Now it was emails and Slack notifications and the same hushed desperation dressed up in business casual.

7:14 a.m. Right on time.

The security guard—Montrose, two kids, wife just started nursing school—waved her through without checking her badge.

“Early again, Ms. Fox.”

“Someone has to water the plants.”

He laughed. What? She meant it.

The elevator dinged at the fourteenth floor: gray carpet, gray cubicles, the hum of the HVAC system. Morning light slanted through the east-facing windows, catching dust motes in the air. The smell of stale coffee from yesterday’s pot mixed with the lemon cleaner the night crew used.

And there, by the elevator, the fiddle-leaf fig was dying again.

Livvie set down her coffee and her bag. The leaves had gone yellow at the edges, brown spots spreading across the broad surfaces. She’d told Richard multiple times—more light, less water, maybe don’t shove it in a dark corner because it “fits the aesthetic.”