“I won’t call,” he promises as the bell starts dinging, telling us both he’s in demand. “You got this,” he repeats and disappears out the door.
I exit the office and hurry beyond the busy desk and my guilt for leaving the staff behind, forcing myself to focus on what is before me, not what I’m presently leaving. With that idea in mind, I step on the escalator and text Jess to cancel lunch. Message sent, my gaze lifts and sweeps across floor two as it comes into view, homing in on one table. My heart hammers against my breastbone with what I find below. The dark-haired man is back, and I instinctively gobble up any details about this stranger and his intent—that word intent in my mind for no explainable reason. There’s a book in front of him, a MacBook to his right, a coffee to his left. He seems to be here working, and yet, almost as if he does nothing but sit there and watch the escalators, his gaze is fixed on my location yet again. He’s watching me, tracking my slow descent down to floor one. Isn’t he?
And then he’s gone. The escalator has carried me behind a wall.
Chapter Thirteen
In a rush of anxiousness, I exit the library and step onto the sidewalk. The air I didn’t know was trapped in my lungs whooshes from my lips in what I can only call relief. When in my entire career have I ever been relieved to leave the library? Quite the contrary, in fact. I replay my two brushes with the man on floor two and decide he’s a people watcher, as I am. That’s all. It’s nothing more, and people watchers see everyone.
Even those others ignore.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I start walking, telling myself to shake off the encounter as I read a message from Jess. Dinner tonight then?
Dinner with my father, I reply. My mother is out of town with her boss. Don’t ask. Not now before my presentation.
My head was not where yours clearly is, she answers. I have questions. Coffee tomorrow morning. Coffee Cats. Non negotiable.
I blink and I’m already at the entrance to Caroline’s Coffee and Bagels. The coffee isn’t as good at Caroline’s as it is at Coffee Cats, but the bagels are delicious, and the location is hard to beat. As for Jess, I don’t answer her last message. She’s made the decision. It’s just another one of those “The End” kind of topics. What Jess wants, Jess gets. What I want is some time to myself, to calm myself down before my meeting this afternoon.
Entering Caroline’s, I quickly find a corner booth, set my things down to claim my spot, and then head to the counter. There’s a person in line in front of me, with Greg, the familiar college kid who is here most afternoons behind the register, helping him. Once the man finishes ordering and pays, he steps away from the counter, and I inch forward.
Greg looks right at me and then walks away.
Of course he does. Most likely he’s just putting in the other customer’s order.
And yet I wait. And wait. Greg walks toward me, and all seems well, but then he grabs something under the counter and leaves again. I grind my teeth and wait a little longer. He walks by me again and keeps on keeping on. Finally, impatience ticking in my jaw, I ring the bell. Greg appears behind the register. “Can I help you?”
“Did you not see me standing here?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “You were standing here?”
I grind my teeth a little harder. Of course he saw me standing here. I’m not literally invisible, but I’m feeling anxious to get back to work and let the confrontation tempting me slide on by.
“My usual,” I say, trying to expedite this slow process.
His brows dip. “Usual?”
Is he serious? “I come in here several times a week and you wait on me. You don’t know what my usual is?”
He just blinks at me. If I were Jess, he’d be falling all over himself to please me.
“Fine,” I state. “A large honey cinnamon latte with nonfat milk and a cinnamon bagel with plain cream cheese.” Yes, I drink nonfat milk in my coffee, and sugar and grease in everything else. I don’t have to be logical to please my taste buds and belly.
Greg punches in my requests while I slide my card into the charge slot. Once the transaction is complete, he says, “Name?”
This man has asked me that question at least thirty times before today, and I fight the urge to tell him as much. Nevertheless, an uncharacteristically snarky reply slides from my lips and does so rather easily. “Invisible Girl,” I say, and once it’s out it feels good, as liberating as that presentation years ago had, in fact. I’m not allowing myself to be invisible. Take that, Jess.
In return, I expect Greg to grimace or make some smart remark. Instead, he grabs a cup, writes the name on the cup, and says, “We’ll call you.” He walks away.
I stand there a moment, just staring at the space where he’d been moments before, telling myself that the burn in my belly that resembles anger is the wrong emotion to feel. I should be pleased right now. Being dismissed supports the hypothesis that I won’t be noticed enough in the meeting today to make a fool of myself. And yet this encounter with Greg doesn’t feel good. Why can there be no happy medium?
I turn and walk to my seat, sitting down and pulling my MacBook from my bag before opening the lid and powering it up. My fingers drum on the table for far too long as I contemplate what a conflicted mess I am. I want to be noticed and yet, today, in that meeting, I do not want to be noticed. Apparently I want to pick and choose by who, when, and where I am seen.
Right then, the barista calls out, “Order for Girl!”
Girl. That’s it. Just Girl.
I can’t even get Greg—no, “the guy behind the counter,” which is how I plan to think of him from now on—to write out “Invisible Girl” on my cup.
Why in the world am I worried about the presentation? Greg has made my point, driven it right on home to the parking lot in my brain. That point being that my father has never been dismissed. He is not me. I am not him.
“Girl!”
With that name filling the air again, I all but grind holes in my teeth. Pushing to my feet, I cross the room, bite my tongue, and pick up my order. Once I’m sitting down again, my gaze lands on the scribbled “Girl” written on my cup. I draw in a breath and sip from the coffee to discover it’s not even a latte at all. It’s just black coffee, and I’ve hit my limit with “the guy behind the counter.” I stand up and march toward the counter.
The manager is behind the register, and I beeline to the empty counter in front of her. Loretta is tall, thin, and fortysomething by my first guess, and, people watcher that I am, I’m good with ages. And names. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she greets. “Mia, right?”
I blink in surprise. “You know my name?”
“Of course,” she assures me. “You’re in all the time. What can I do for you?”
“I ordered a nonfat—”
“Honey cinnamon latte,” she supplies. “Does it taste off?”
“It’s just plain coffee.” I slide the cup in front of her.
“Oh no,” she says, her tone reading as genuinely concerned. “I’m so sorry.” She lifts the cup to eye the order on the side and frowns. “Girl? He wrote Girl on your cup?”
The female barista, whose name I do not know, leans toward Loretta and says, “He can barely remember his own name.”
Loretta scowls and murmurs, “Isn’t that the truth,” before adding, “I need a nonfat honey cinnamon latte, ASAP.”
“You got it, boss,” the barista replies, eyeing me to say, “Sorry about that.”
“Thanks for making me a new one,” I say, feeling my agitation floating away in a sea of kindness and apologies.
On that very note, Loretta casts me in a concerned stare, reaches under the counter, grabs a couple of cards, and hands them to me. “Coupons for a few free coffees. Sorry for all of this.”