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“I actually already have plans. I’m sorry,” I apologized half-heartedly, pushing my locker door closed.

A part of me felt guilty for thinking of Jim as nothing but a nuisance. He was a nice guy, decent looking with sandy blond hair and that boy-next-door sort of face. We’d worked together at Wally’s over the past three years, and I think he asked me out every day of the last two. He might have been a good catch if I had any interest in dating. Unfortunately, Jim understood none of the subtle clues I threw his way, and I didn’t have the heart to be outright nasty to him. I was usually great at avoiding him, so I cursed myself for not hearing him come into the break room in the first place.

“Oh, come on, Krys! You’re always busy,” he complained. When I turned to consider him, there it was—the sad puppy face. I had to force back the urge to roll my eyes.

Be nice.

“Another time maybe,” I said, trying to wiggle my way out of the corner I was backed into—and I was, quite literally, in a corner. With a wall at my back, a row of lockers to my left, and a table to my right, I was essentially trapped. Jim stood in front of me, making a perfect box, blocking the way out of the break room.

“I’ll tell you what—how about you pick the date and the time? I promise to make it worth your while,” he said with a wink.

“I’ll check my calendar and let you know,” I lied.

It suddenly reminded me of a cartoon I saw as a kid, the one with the dog that had an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. The angel was lecturing me and shaking her finger in disapproval.

You shouldn’t lead him on, Krystina. Why don’t you just agree to have dinner with the nice boy?

I ignored the angel, slipped my way past Jim, and walked hastily toward the break room door. I knew I should have been straight with Jim a long time ago. Any other guy would have received a blunt, if not rude, refusal on their first attempt at asking me out, deterring any thoughts of asking me again. Jim just made it so hard—he was almost too nice.

“Check your schedule, and I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” Jim cheerily called out to me.

I was sure he would, too.

Guilt gnawed at my conscience. Perhaps I was handling the situation with Jim entirely wrong, but I knew in my heart it was for the best. He didn’t know about my past, and it was better he didn’t. The last thing I wanted was his pity. Jim deserved a nice girl and not someone bitter like me.

“I’ll catch you later, Jim.”

I threw a dismissive wave over my shoulder and hurried out of the break room toward the front entrance of Wally’s. I needed to get away quickly before he could pressure me any further.

As soon as I stepped out onto the streets of New York, I took a deep breath. The smell of hot dog vendors and car exhaust permeated the air, while the passing traffic noise and people filled my ears. A siren from a police car sounded shrilly in the distance, adding to the constant rush of the city’s organized chaos.

I stretched out my arms and shoulders, muscles stiff and sore from lugging canned vegetables all day. Fatigue set in as I walked away from Wally’s. Working the early shift was great because I got to enjoy the afternoons. However, it also meant a four in the morning wake-up call. My body screamed for caffeine. A stop at Café La Biga was definitely needed, especially if I wanted to stay awake long enough to enjoy the heatwave the city was experiencing so late in the year. I took my ancient iPod from my purse, plugged the little earbuds into my ears, and began the short walk up 57th Street to my favorite coffee shop.

There was some minor construction up ahead on the sidewalk, and I had to move off the curb to avoid it. A few men in neon orange hard hats nodded my way appreciatively, then followed up with obnoxious wolf whistles. They reminded me of a news article I once read about the staggering number of times the average woman gets harassed when walking through the city.

I scowled at the men and resisted the urge to throw them an obscene hand gesture.

Pigs.

I quickly sidestepped the construction, cranked the music up, and hummed along to a song by Tokyo Police Club. It was an upbeat tune that added a little spring to my step, quickly dispelling the irritation I’d felt from the city workers .

Feeling more relaxed, I did what I always did when I walked the streets of New York—I took in the surrounding sights. Since moving here over four years ago, I had yet to tire of the constant changes and the little surprises my city held in store for me every day. The sounds, the smells, and the energy couldn’t compare to anyplace else.

While its sheer size may have been intimidating to me initially, I had quickly grown accustomed to the busy hustle and bustle and adapted accordingly. New York was a living being. It had its own pulse, a different beat than the rest of the world, and I loved living here more than I’d ever imagined possible.

I smelled the aroma of espresso and fresh pastries before I even rounded the corner onto 8th Avenue. Café La Biga had been opened thirty-five years ago by an Italian couple, Maria and Angelo Gianfranco. The café was small, with a simple interior that the owners modeled after the original Café La Biga in Rome, Italy. Angelo frequently boasted that the café was the only place in New York to get an authentic Italian espresso. Whether it was true, I didn’t know. That wasn’t why I had become a regular of the cozy little coffee shop. I came because La Biga was an experience.

I opened the door to the café and heard the familiar sound of espresso beans being ground. Every one of the little two-person tables was occupied, with the local chatter almost drowning out the voice of Dean Martin playing over the speakers. Angelo was whistling behind the counter and tamping espresso grounds into a portafilter. He stopped to give me an enormous smile when he saw me walk up.

“Krys! Ciao, bella! Where have you been? We have not seen you in a long time!”

“It’s only been two days, Angelo!” I laughed.

“Two days is too long to go without seeing your beautiful face,” he joked in broken English. Angelo prepared my favorite drink without my asking—a cappuccino with two packets of raw sugar. The aging Italian had the memory of an elephant.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with work and sending out resumes to different advertising companies. Plus, I worked the early shift yesterday and today. Unfortunately, you’re not open at four in the morning,” I pointed out with a regretful shrug of my shoulders. “Besides, don’t feel too bad about not seeing me. I haven’t seen my roommate in three days, and she lives with me!”

“You young people are always so busy—you never sit still!” he chided.