[2024 WATTYS SHORTLISTED]
[Updates Saturdays 10am EDT] [18+]
Two best friends. Six weeks. One final shot at love. Since college, Maisie and August have been best friends -frustratingly, perfectly platonic best friends. For nine long years, Maisie ha...
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"I think your best look was at the Grammys that first year," the barista at my favorite coffee shop in Greenwich says, swiveling back and forth on her stool. Her chin rests in her hand, her elbow propped on the counter between us as she looks past me, seemingly daydreaming. She doesn't seem to care about the paparazzi outside, their cameras flashing incessantly, yelling for me to turn around, and I'm not even sure she notices the growing line behind me.
"That pale flowy blue dress really made your eyes pop," she adds, widening her own eyes slightly on the word pop.
"Oh, um, thank—"
"I would have said your best outfit was at Coachella last year. You know, with the Versace bodysuit and all. But I don't think anyone remembers anything other than the fact that you fell flat on your face," she says, grimacing at me. August, who is standing so close his chest brushes against my shoulder, shielding me from most of the paparazzi, snorts out a laugh. I elbow him in the side, trying not to smile. "Did that hurt? I bet that hurt."
It did, in fact, hurt. I had a bruise on my shin for four weeks.
The owner of Hansen's Coffee suddenly appears from the doorway behind the barista, his jaw clenched as he storms over.
"I thought I told you to come get me when she got here," he whisper-yells at her, guiding her off her stool and toward the back room of the coffee shop. She pauses, trying to resist, and they start bickering back and forth—wife or sister, I'm guessing—until she finally shakes her head and walks to the back. He exhales a long, deep breath, then turns around and heads back to the register.
"Sorry about that. My sister is a, uh, really big fan," he says, clearing his throat and glancing at the line before looking out the window at the paparazzi, their flashes still going off, and then quickly back at me. "Your usual?"
"Please."
The owner quickly prepares our coffees himself—my favorite caramel kiss latte and the Americano August ordered. Once we have our drinks, Ryan guides us to the back of Hansen's Coffee, leading us through a door that opens to a little patio. It's tucked away between two brick buildings, with a view of the street, greenery twining around the fence, and lights strung from building to building, creating a cozy, hidden oasis. And while you can still see through the fence, it feels secluded enough, and fortunately for me, the paparazzi have remained at the front.
The moment I step outside onto the patio, it's like a small weight lifts off my shoulders, and I breathe a bit more freely for the first time since stepping off the plane. Even for me, this level of attention is overwhelming, and I can only imagine how August is feeling.
"Is it okay if we quickly run through everything for today's Vogue photoshoot?" Andrea asks, following us to a small table in the corner. I slide onto the bench, August sitting close beside me, while Andrea and Rachel sit across from us. "That way, you'll feel a bit more prepared before we head over."
