by J. J. Bella
1
Brittany Haverford revved the espresso machine at Blue Line Coffee, one of the hippest coffee shops in Williamsburg, as the sun crept in from the May morning. Outside, Brooklyn-ites marched past with purpose, their eyes penetrating and dark, as they started squabbling on their phones, pre-emptively preparing for their long days at a marketing firm or the next start-up. The world seemed brimming with people who ached with arrogance and purpose. That is, everyone except for Brittany, whose career as a designer would hopefully take off after graduation—that is, if she could afford the next semester with only a job at a coffee shop.
“So, anyway, that’s how I got the start-up cranking,” the guy standing near the espresso machine continued, blaring his “magic” toward her and adjusting his large, hipster glasses. “We have our own beans, of course, but I prefer to come to Blue Line in the morning to get a hint of the city life, you know? Otherwise, I’m just stuck in my office all day and into the night. But what can I say? Gotta work hard to play hard.” He winked at her, causing a shiver of distaste to race down her spine.
Brittany passed the coffee to his outstretched hands, giving him a false, Barbie smile. Her waif-ish figure, large, brown eyes, and short blonde hair wasn’t particularly attractive, at least in her eyes, but she sensed that it was “just enough” for the hipster assholes who snuck in and out of Blue Line in the mornings, wanting to brag and measure their dicks, so to speak.
“I’m Carter, by the way,” the hipster continued, tossing his free hand forward to shake hers. A line had begun to form in front of the register, making Brittany feel anxious and strung-out.
“Um—Brittany,” she said, turning toward the register and flashing another half-assed smile. “I’m sorry—I have to—“
“Don’t worry about it,” Carter said, shrugging and taking a step back. “I can wait.”
Shit. Why couldn’t he catch a hint? Of course, these guys never quite understood she wasn’t interested. Her body language always gave them the impression that she was willing and open to their advances, often landing her with several opportunities for dates at the end of her shift. But Jesus, she’d given up on that nearly a year ago. At 23 years old, she felt she’d encountered everything this city had to offer, man-wise. They were child-like, doing anything they could to “win” women and get them into bed, and then ultimately abandoning them when they—God forbid—asked for anything like “commitment.”
Not that she had time for a boyfriend, anyway. Between work and school, she was absolutely swamped.
“Sure,” she stuttered, swiping her hands across her apron and heading back to another bespectacled man at the counter, who asked her for a scone and a cappuccino, to go, with a wink. It seemed the waves of flirtation would never end.
Tossing the scone into a white paper bag, she eyed her schoolbooks, awaiting her near the microwave. She had class later, and she still hadn’t stumbled through some of her homework, having had to close Blue Line the evening before. The bills were piling high on the crooked table in her apartment, a continual reminder that New York City was a weight on her shoulder that pressed harder with each passing day.
A ding sprung up from the toaster. She turned toward it, with a soft, “Shit!” and then snuck the two pieces of nearly burnt toast onto a plate, decorating them with a slathering of peanut butter and jelly. “NUMBER 25?” she cried out, watching as a middle-aged woman with thick-rimmed glasses trudged toward her, accepting the plate and taking an immediate, animalistic bite. Crumbs fell to the countertop below. Still, Carter the hipster waited on, tilting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Sorry,” Brittany piped to him, scrunching her nose. “We’re just pretty busy today, I guess.”
“No worries at all,” Carter boomed back, flashing a handsome smile.
I don’t have time for you! Brittany thought to herself, her nostrils flaring.
“Brittany! The line!” These words hailed from the back room, where the owner, Ian, was hunched over a computer, doing payroll. “If I can hear the grumbles from here, I know you’re not moving fast enough!”
Brittany’s eyes danced toward the door, awaiting the arrival of her always-late best friend, Sarah, who was meant to arrive to help her with the nine-thirty rush about ten minutes before. Not wanting to get Sarah in trouble, Brittany continued, her arms flailing like those of an octopus as she prepared flat whites, lattes, caramel macchiatos, and other sugary drinks for overworked New Yorkers. “We all need a nap,” were the words she wanted to say to them—tell them to return home, to stop the nine-to-five, to give up, if only so she could have a moment’s reprieve.
“All right, all right, I’m here!” Sarah cried out, racing into the fray and donning her apron, giving Brittany a soft tap on the back. “What do you need?”
“About fourteen cappuccinos and your head,” Brittany said, rolling her eyes. “Just once, could you come on time? Jesus.”
But her heart grew warm with the appearance of her friend, Sarah—a girl she’d met at designer school before she’d gotten Brittany the gig at Blue Line. “He wants artsy, cute girls,” Sarah had told Brittany of Ian, rolling her eyes. “And I think you take the cake on that one.”
Diligently, the girls got through the rest of the line, pushing out drink after drink, springing toast into the air and adding cheese spreads and tofu spreads and peanut butter spreads. Whatever the people wanted, they received. As she worked, Brittany felt her smile begin to sag, her legs ache with the weight of standing. Finally, after what seemed like a small infinity, the line petered out; Sarah and Brittany remained, gasping, turning toward one another with soft giggles.
“Another day, another grind,” Sarah said.
Like a ghoul, Carter’s face popped up in front of the register once more, his eyes bright and targeting Brittany. “Looks like the line’s down. Finally, am I right?”
Brittany’s heart sank. Sarah spun toward Carter, dropping between the two of them and crossing her arms. “My co-worker has to head back to prep about 400 cinnamon rolls. Can I help you with something?”
In a moment of panic, Brittany spun toward the back room, out of sight. Carter hummed and hawed before ordering another coffee to go and muttering something about “artisanal coffee, my ass.” The jangle of the bell, alerting the closing door, was the only reprieve Brittany had. She was free.
“Another stalker, eh?” Sarah said, scoffing. She began to prep her own toast, cheese on one, peanut butter on the other, as Brittany collected her textbooks and prepared to sneak her homework in the corner, out of sight of Ian.
“They’re all the same,” Brittany said, flipping to chapter nine. “Eager. Always with one start-up or another. Always from the ‘Bay Area’ or whatever, trying to make a life on the east coast. It’s disgusting, the fact that all their stories are the same. Like, they’re carbon copies of one another, down to the glasses.”
“Someone’s dark today,” Sarah said, giggling.
“Whatever,” Brittany sighed, beginning to take notes about the various components of interior design. Her pen scrawled over the page, trying to force as much knowledge into her brain as possible. But all she could think, at the end of the day, were the words: “Soy milk or regular? Flat white or latte? Did you want that toasted?” She was poisoned.
“What do we have here?” Ian boomed behind her, causing her to leap into the air. “I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with the lunch rush when you’re studying like this,” he said.
“Sorry, Ian,” Brittany sighed, stabbing the textbook closed. “I’ll start prepping.”
“Homework isn’t for my time,” Ian continued, swiping his hand across his bald head. “All of us, here today—me, you, Sarah—we’ve devoted ourselves to artisanal coffee and all its loveliness. The beans are special, and should create a nourishing experience for our customers. Do you understand? When people come into Blue Line Coffee, they expect the best. And if we don’t have bread prepped—“ He trailed off, his eyebrows dancing at
op his forehead.
“I get it, Ian,” Brittany said, heading toward the refrigerator, where she retrieved a large, shiny bowl filled with flour-coated bread dough.
“We’re getting a new shipment today. From Florida,” Ian continued, suddenly on one of his drawn-out coffee talks. He rubbed his palms together, looking like a child. “I tell you, the minute you sniff these beans, you’ll get whiffs of orange, of chocolate. I know the customers are going to notice a difference, as well.”
As if, Brittany thought. As far as she could tell, black coffee tasted like black coffee, unless you put some kind of milk in it. Then, it tasted like coffee with milk in it. Simple. Easy. Far less complex than, say, design school, which she needed to spend quite a bit more time on if she was really going to pass.
As she began to knead the dough, to the side of the register, Brittany snuck a glance toward Sarah, who appeared to be leaning over something with intense concentration. Ian returned back to his computer in back, muttering about orange beans, and Brittany pulled up on her toes, seeing the magazine between Sarah and the pile of muffins she was meant to be pricing.
“Ah-hah!” Brittany exhaled, through her breath.
Sarah gave her a dark look. “Come look at this,” she murmured, her eyes dancing. “Seriously. You won’t believe some of these.”
Brittany eased in beside her, careful not to flash the flour onto the magazine. The magazine was featuring some of the hottest and richest bachelors of New York City, with CEOs, artists, filmmakers, and engineers, all of them filled with swagger, their eyes seeming to penetrate through the page.
“I hope that Carter guy never ends up on one of these pages,” Brittany joked.
“They’re all so impossibly hot,” Sarah breathed. “Like this one. Garret Brighton. He founded his own business that makes it easier for restaurants to donate food that people give back. I mean, he’s literally saving lives.”
“But you mostly like him because he’s hot. Am I right?” Brittany asked, giggling.
“Of course.”
With another flip of the page, Sarah revealed a man named Paul Le Montaigne. Brittany felt her jaw drop. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with fair skin, dark, almost black hair, and French features, making him look both refined, with a gruff, American-looking hipster beard.
“Wow,” Brittany finally said. She rushed her fingers forward, making sure that Sarah didn’t leave the page too soon. As she read about him, the bell jangled at the door, alerting them of a customer. Neither woman looked up.
“Paul Le Montaigne is from of one of the wealthiest families in New York City. He’s a playboy, once married, who belongs to the family of Le Montaigne Software—a software firm based in Paris. Wow,” Sarah read, shaking her head.
“You said Paul Le Montaigne?” The middle-aged woman at the register eyed them. Drawing her maroon-colored nail across the counter, she looked close to giggling. “A dish, isn’t he? And you know, I’ve heard he’s just moved to the area. To one of the high rises. So who knows? You might even see him around. Oh, and while I have your attention, could I get a flat white and a scone? Then you can go back to ogling one of the most handsome men alive. Thanks!”
Brittany and Sarah snapped the magazine closed and raced toward the espresso machine. The woman had brought a wave of coffee-seekers with her, forcing them to forget about the New York bachelors, about design school, about everything but their aching feet and the smell of coffee. It was just another day.
2
Paul Le Montagne laid back in his king-sized, white-sheeted bed, watching the slim, still-naked model ease herself from his bedroom and into the side bathroom, where she cranked up the shower. Giving him a sneaky smile, she began to wash herself, in his full view, bringing her hands across her large breasts, her tight waist, her firm thighs.
She was gorgeous. And yet, in that moment of early-morning confusion, Paul wasn’t entirely sure if he remembered her name. Was it Courtney? Maria? Lillian? All of these names bounced around in his mind, reminding him of all the other forms who’d slept beside him in the previous few years. He hadn’t bothered to keep a record. He hadn’t bothered to consider the idea of falling for them. He slept with them only a few times, then tossed them out—ensuring that love wasn’t a part of the equation. Usually, his reputation preceded him.
They knew what they were getting into.
As the model continued to cleanse herself, Paul reached into his side table, drawing out his phone and checking emails, growing bored. With a thrust of her hand, the model stopped the rushing water, drew a towel from the side hook and wrapped it around her body. Taking long, gazelle-like strides, she eased toward Paul, sitting at the edge of his bed as she dressed herself, tousling her hair in the towel. Her back gleamed in the soft, May light from the early morning.
“I had a good time last night,” she offered him, her voice tart and too-bright, making Paul’s ears ring.
“Mmm,” Paul murmured, slipping through his emails with a move of his thumb.
“When will I see you again?” she asked, buttoning the last of her dress buttons, just over the crest of her cleavage. Her face, cleansed of makeup, looked perfectly ordinary now—in complete contrast from the one on the recent sports’ magazine cover. Although, he knew, they were one and the same.
“I have quite a few trips back to Paris lined up,” Paul affirmed, knocking his phone to the side.
“Sure. And when will you be back?” she tried again.
Paul shrugged slightly, his strong, thick muscles pumping up to his ears. “Not sure I can answer that without talking to my secretary first. You want me to call her?”
The model rolled her eyes, giving him a wry smile. “I see,” she murmured, knocking her head toward the door. “I’ll just let myself out, then, shall I?”
Paul’s shark-like white teeth crept into a smile. “That would be wonderful, Cynthia. Thank you.”
“It’s Denise.”
The woman’s heels clattered across the penthouse floor, toward the elevator, where she disappeared from his sight forever. The moment the elevator doors clipped closed, Paul had already forgotten her: the curvature of his thighs, the way she’d cried out when they’d made love against the windowsill. All of it was distant, ghost-memories.
Finally, he was alone.
His phone began to blare, then. The vibration shook through his legs and across the mattress. Reaching toward it, he felt his nostrils flare at the appearance of that villainous name: Elena. His ex-wife.
The affair had been brief. Seven years ago, now, when they’d met eyes at a gala event in Paris—in the seventh arrondissement, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. She’d worn a shimmering, silver gown, which fluttered at her feet; her breasts had crested above the beading, and her eyes had been secretive, dark, as if she could tell him the story of his future. He’d whispered into her ear as he’d walked past, telling her that everyone else in the entire gala event couldn’t hold a candle to her. He’d slipped a card into her thin fingers, telling her “Room 808. The penthouse. You can’t miss it.”
For the next six months, Elena and Paul hadn’t existed without the other: always with Paul’s strong, rippling muscles wrapped around her thin frame. They’d vacationed on yachts and flown to South America and spent an entire three weeks in a French chateau, sipping champagne deep into the night. When she’d informed him she was pregnant, he’d been overjoyed, delivering over 100 bouquets of roses to her modeling shoot, and then asking her to elope with him, “to make things official.”
For some reason, he’d always chosen the “romantic” route with Elena. The stuff he’d seen in the movies. As if theirs was a fictional love, one that could last forever. Ha.
Their marriage hadn’t even lasted past their baby’s first birthday. 24 years old and divorced, Paul had grown bitter and resentful, throwing himself entirely into his career and into raising his child, Lea, who he doted upon. Elena had grown wicked with each passing year, no longer holding
any resemblance to that stunning vision at the gala, and ensnaring him in her grasp—ensuring he paid more than enough for her to raise their child, and for her luxurious lifestyle. The champagne and roses hadn’t stopped. They’d just stopped coming directly from Paul, out of love.
“What is it,” Paul boomed into the phone, feeling a sense of foreboding.
“Ah, what a remarkable greeting,” Elena said. He could feel her eyes rolling, even across the city. “It’s always a pleasure, Paul. Really it is.”
Paul sighed, leaning his face into his hands. After a long pause, he softened his voice, trying to work with her. “I’m sorry. All right. What do you need, Elena?”
“Well, namely, your check hasn’t yet arrived for the month,” Elena said, her voice still tart.
“That’s ridiculous. I sent you the amount a week ago,” Paul boomed.
“That was only half. Don’t you remember, I need a bit more this summer? Lea’s been enrolled in something of a musical summer camp, and they expect parents to payloads. And you know I don’t have that kind of money lying around, the way you do.”
“You would if you didn’t live in a penthouse on the Upper West Side,” Paul said, his face growing hot.
“So you want your daughter to grow up in squalor, is that it?”
“Jesus, Elena. If you could just write me an email asking for money, instead of calling, like I keep asking you to.” It was as if she took pleasure from their conversations, continually goading him until his heart hammered in his chest. It took him hours to calm.
“It’s better to have contact. My therapist says so,” Elena responded.
“Well, what does your therapist say about me not being about to see Lea, huh? Because I’ve been delivering all the money you’ve been asking for over the past months, but I haven’t seen her. That’s ridiculous, Elena. When we first started this arrangement…”
“I can’t discuss this now. Not without the lawyers,” Elena said, tossing his comments away like trash. “But on to another thing. I’ll be at my mother’s all net week while mom’s on vacation.”