Chapter 5
I’m staring at my laptop screen at 10 PM, wondering if it’s possible to get a repetitive stress injury from repeatedly checking your story stats when my phone buzzes. It’s Aaron, because of course it is—he has a sixth sense for when I’m spiraling into what he calls my “creative crisis mode.”
“You haven’t posted Chapter 2 yet,” he says without preamble when I answer.
“I’m refining it,” I say, which is a much nicer way of saying I’ve been obsessively rewriting the same paragraph for the last three hours.
“Charlotte,” Aaron says in a tone that suggests he’s about to impart wisdom I don’t want to hear, “you’re overthinking this.”
“I’m not overthinking anything. I’m simply ensuring that my description of how to properly steam milk reads like a metaphor for life’s struggles while also maintaining technical accuracy.”
The silence on the other end of the line is loud enough to hear my own ridiculousness echoing back at me. A siren wails in the distance—probably another aspiring writer being arrested for crimes against metaphors.
“What’s really going on?” Aaron asks. “Is this about your stats?”
“No,” I lie, closing the laptop with perhaps more force than necessary. “I’ve also been deeply concerned about whether my metaphor comparing the morning rush to a symphony is too pretentious.”
“Charlotte.”
“And I may have spent forty-five minutes researching the history of latte art to make sure my technical details are accurate.”
“Charlotte.”
“And there’s also the very real possibility that my one reader will turn out to be someone who actually knows about coffee and will call me out for getting the optimal milk steaming temperature wrong—”
“Charlotte Hayes,” Aaron interrupts, using my full name like he’s summoning me from some anxiety-induced spiral. “Post the damn chapter.”
“But—”
“No buts. Post it. Right now. While I’m on the phone.”
“Are you seriously going to stay on the phone and make sure I post it?”
“Yes, because I know you, and if I hang up, you’ll spend another three hours googling ‘how hot is too hot for coffee’ instead of actually sharing your writing.”
I hear him shifting, probably settling into his favorite editing chair—the one he found at a flea market that looks like it belongs in a Victorian library but is actually surprisingly comfortable. I can picture him there, surrounded by his cameras and contact sheets, probably editing photos from today’s shoot while he makes sure I don’t chicken out of posting.
“Fine,” I say, opening my laptop again. “But if this ruins my future career as a coffee shop novelist—”
“Then you can blame me at your first book signing,” he finishes. “Now stop stalling.”
I pull up the chapter, scanning it one last time. It’s not perfect. The metaphors might be a bit much, the dialogue could probably use another pass, and I’m still not entirely sure about that paragraph comparing different coffee brewing methods to types of relationships. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth sharing.
“Okay,” I say, my cursor hovering over the ‘Post’ button. “I’m doing it. I’m really doing it.”
“I hear a lot of talking and not a lot of posting.”
“You know, you’re very bossy for someone who once spent three weeks editing the same wedding photo because the bride’s veil wasn’t catching the light ‘exactly right.’”
“That was different,” Aaron protests. “That was art.”
“And this isn’t?”
There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Of course it is. That’s why you need to share it. Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum, Char.”
“Did you get that from a fortune cookie?”
“Instagram, actually. But the point stands.”
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and click ‘Post’ before I can talk myself out of it again. “There. It’s done. Are you happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” he says. “Now was that so hard?”
“Yes, actually. I think I need a drink.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Sunday drinks exist! Sunday drinks are a thing!”
“Sunday drinks are what got you into trouble during that poetry phase in college.”
“We agreed never to speak of the Haiku Incident,” I remind him. “Besides, that was different. I was young and thought every deep thought deserved to be immortalized in seventeen syllables.”
“At least you’ve moved on to prose,” Aaron says. “Though I do occasionally miss your haikus about the existential significance of microwave burritos.”
“That haiku was a masterpiece, and you know it.” I open the Wattpad app, already regretting my decision to check the stats. Still one view. One singular, possibly accidental, view. “Do you think my one reader is enjoying the story?”
“I think you need to stop checking your stats every five minutes and write Chapter 3 instead.”
“I can’t write Chapter 3 yet! I just posted Chapter 2! What if my one reader hates it? What if they leave a comment telling me I’ve ruined coffee for them forever?”
“What if they love it and are waiting for more?”
I flop back onto my couch. “When did you become so optimistic?”
“Someone has to balance out your dramatic pessimism. It’s in the best friend handbook, right between ‘must help move furniture’ and ‘required to pretend all experimental cooking attempts are edible.’”
“That lasagna was perfectly edible!”
“Char, it was crunchy. Lasagna should never be crunchy.”
“Hey, that lasagna was a learning experience,” I protest, rolling onto my side and watching the city lights flicker outside my window. “And you still ate three helpings.”
“Because I’m a supportive friend who values not hurting your feelings more than my own digestive system.”
“You’re a menace. A menace who should be focusing on editing his fancy wedding photos instead of monitoring my writing habits.”
“Actually,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me sit up straighter, “I finished editing those hours ago. I’ve been working on something else.”
“Something else? Are you cheating on the Anderson-Liu wedding with another photoshoot?”
“No, I’ve been...” He pauses, and I hear him take a deep breath. “I’ve been looking at studio spaces.”
I nearly drop my phone. “Studio spaces? As in, your own studio? Like, a real, actual, grown-up photography studio?”
“There’s this place on Morrison Street,” he says, his voice getting that dreamy quality it gets when he’s really excited about something but trying to play it cool. “The light is incredible, and there’s this exposed brick wall that would be perfect for portraits, and… Well, it has everything. I really like it.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah, that is great.”
“When can I see it?”
“Well, I haven’t actually signed anything yet—”
“Aaron Smith, are you free tomorrow after my shift? Because if you don’t show me this space immediately, I will write you into my story as the pretentious photographer who only shoots in sepia tone.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me. Chapter 3: ‘Aaron Smith adjusted his beret thoughtfully while explaining the deep artistic significance of Instagram filters...’”
“Okay, okay!” He laughs, and I hear the creak of his editing chair as he presumably throws up his hands in surrender. “Tomorrow after your shift. But don’t get too excited—it needs a lot of work, and the rent is...”
“Is what?”
“Let’s just say I might need to start charging more for wedding packages. And possibly sell a kidney.”
“Or you could start doing headshots for all the aspiring authors who need profile pictures for their Wattpad accounts.”
The silence on the other end of the line tells me he’s rolling his eyes. “Yeah, of course.”
“Speaking of Wattpad…”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t check the stats. You just posted Chapter 2.”
Of course, I don’t listen to him. I open my laptop and go to Wattpad. And there…
“Wow…”
“What?”
“I have... five views. And a comment! And a vote!”
“Really? That’s—
“Oh god, I can’t look at the comment. What if they hated it? What if they’re a professional barista who’s offended by my metaphorical approach to milk steaming? What if—”
“Charlotte,” Aaron interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. “Read the comment.”
With trembling fingers, I open the comment, Aaron’s breathing steady on the other end of the line.
“Oh,” I whisper.
“‘Oh’ good or ‘oh,’ I need to change my name and move to Greenland?”
“They... they love it. They said the coffee descriptions made them feel like they were right there in the shop, and they...” I pause, reading the words again to make sure I’m not hallucinating. “They want to know when I’m posting Chapter 3 because they’re ‘invested in Emma’s journey.’”
“See? What did I tell you?”
“One person loving it doesn’t mean—”
“It means exactly what it means,” he cuts me off. “One person connected with your writing. One person found your words and thought they were worth commenting on. One person is out there, probably clutching their own coffee cup, waiting to read more of your story.”
I flop back onto my couch, staring at my water-stained ceiling. “When did you get so wise?”
“Probably around the same time you started comparing coffee brewing methods to relationship styles.”
“That metaphor works, and you know it! French press is definitely the commitment type—slow, intentional, willing to put in the time for the perfect result...”
“Let me guess—Marcus was more of an instant coffee kind of guy?”
“Worse. K-cups.”
Aaron’s laugh echoes through the phone. “Speaking of coffee analogies, what was up with that guy from your shift today? The one Monica texted me about?”
I sit up so fast I almost give myself whiplash. “Monica texted you? Why is Monica texting you about him?”
“First of all,” Aaron says, and I can hear him shifting again, probably leaning back in that ridiculous chair of his, “Monica texts everyone about everything. She’s like the neighborhood watch of Power Beans. She and I text all the time. I sent her a summary of Chapter 1 of your Wattpad story. And second, don’t change the subject.
“I’m not changing the subject. I’m expressing genuine concern about the boundaries of my work relationships.”
“Uh-huh. So you don’t want to talk about the mysterious suit guy who apparently made you forget how words work for a solid thirty seconds?”
I press my face into a throw pillow, grateful that Aaron can’t see me blushing. “There’s nothing to talk about. He was just a customer who asked for a recommendation.”
“A customer who, according to Monica’s extremely detailed text, and I quote, ‘looked at Charlotte like she was explaining the secrets of the universe instead of just coffee.’”
“That’s... that’s just Monica being Monica. You know how she is. She probably thinks the mailman is my soulmate because he once smiled when I said thank you. And you know what she thinks about the two of us.”
Silence. Then Aaron clears his throat. “Yeah... Anyway, the mailman doesn’t wear custom-tailored suits or make poetic observations about coffee.”
“How do you know his suit was custom-tailored?”
“Ha!” Aaron’s triumph rings through the phone. “So you noticed his suit!”
“I hate you,” I groan into the pillow. “I hate you, and I hate Monica, and I hate that I apparently can’t have a normal customer interaction without it turning into a group discussion.”
“You don’t hate any of us,” Aaron says cheerfully. “And you definitely didn’t hate the way he appreciated your coffee expertise.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to tell me if you think he’ll come back tomorrow.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling again. A car honks somewhere outside, and my ancient radiator makes that concerning clicking sound that I should probably get checked out someday. “He won’t come back,” I say, trying to ignore the tiny part of me that hopes I’m wrong. “People like that don’t become regulars at places like Power Beans. They probably have personal baristas or those fancy coffee machines that cost a fortune.”
“You don’t know that,” Aaron says. “Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe—”
“Maybe I should focus on writing Chapter 3 instead of creating elaborate fantasies about customers who probably won’t remember my name tomorrow.”
There’s a pause, and I know Aaron’s deciding whether to push the subject or let me retreat into my comfort zone of denial and deflection. Finally, he sighs. “Okay, but promise me something?”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll use this.”
“Use what?”
“This feeling. This moment. The way your heart probably did that little flutter thing when he smiled at you—”
“It did not!”
“—the way you probably spent the rest of your shift thinking about him—”
“I didn’t!”
“—use it in your story,” he finishes. “Because that’s what makes writing real, right? Those little moments of possibility. Those connections that might not go anywhere but make you believe in something bigger, even if it’s just for the length of time it takes to make a latte.”
I’m quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. Because he’s right, damn him. Those are exactly the kinds of moments I try to capture in my writing—the small instances of magic that happen between ordinary people on ordinary days, the way a simple coffee order can feel like the first line of a story you didn’t know you were about to start reading.
“When did you get so smart about writing?” I ask.
“Probably around the same time you got so smart about photography lighting angles.”
“That was one time, and I still maintain that the golden hour joke I made was hilarious.”
“It really wasn’t.”
I smile, feeling that familiar warmth that comes from having someone who knows all your quirks and loves you anyway. “Hey, Aaron?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For making me post the chapter. For believing in my writing. For... everything.”
“Always,” he says. “Now go write Chapter 3. And maybe include a tall, handsome stranger who appreciates the artistry of proper milk steaming.”
“I’m hanging up for real this time.”
“No, you’re not. You’re—
“Good night, Aaron.”
His laugh is the last thing I hear before I end the call, and I sit in the quiet of my apartment for a moment, letting my mind wander. My laptop screen has gone dark, but the cursor still blinks steadily when I wake it up, like a heartbeat waiting to pump words through the veins of a new chapter.
I take a deep breath and start typing.
ns 172.70.178.115da2
and then Add to home screen.