Finding Us (Interracial Romance)

Congratulations

Cecilia

It's a Monday morning at Smooth Brew, and the espresso machine hisses like an angry snake. The air smells of roasted beans and freshly steamed milk. I've memorized this scent; it's become a part of my daily routine. The bell above the entrance chimes, and I greet the customer with a smile.

But something's different today. Every time I turn around, my coworkers give me these knowing glances, their grins a little too wide. I brace myself for whatever is coming.

Savannah, one of my coworkers and the loudest person I know, sidles up to me as I pour steamed milk into a caramel macchiato. Her curly hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and her eyes shine with excitement .

"Here's our Grammy-award winner!" She pokes me in the side, making a few customers turn their heads. "How does it feel to be famous?"

I nearly spill the milk. "It's not like I did it on purpose," I laugh, though the words come out more awkward than I'd intended. My stomach twists as the memory of last night surfaces. Sam Smith and Kim Petras' performance still leaves a sour taste in my mouth—flames, horns, and everything that screamed... well, let's just say it was intense. And a little unnerving.

"Come on, don't be modest! You deserve this, Cec," she says, leaning against the counter. "I mean, you won a freaking Grammy! That EP, Flowers, it's fire!"

I manage a small smile. "Thanks, Sav."

I glance over at the line forming near the register. Derrick is waving me over, and I shuffle behind the counter, past the grinding coffee beans and stacks of cups. He's got this huge grin on his face, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "There she is, our very own superstar!" He says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "I would've thrown you a party right here in the shop."

"Derrick, it's just an EP. It's not like I'm Beyoncé," I joke, though my stomach flips. I love Flowers, my EP, but all this attention makes me uneasy. It feels like everyone's expecting me to be... more. Someone bigger, someone brighter than I feel inside.

He gives me a knowing look. "An EP that won a Grammy! Don't downplay it, Cecilia. That's big, really big." He nudges me with his elbow, then turns back to the espresso machine to prepare an order. "And we're all proud of you, Cecilia. You worked hard for this."

I don't know what to say. It's easier to be in the studio, lost in a beat or a melody, than it is to deal with this kind of attention. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to steer the conversation somewhere else. "Well, I hope I'm still doing a good job here," I say, forcing a laugh.

Derrick waves a hand. "Oh, you're a great barista, but don't think I'm not keeping my eye on you. You're going places, kid."

I nod. "Thanks, Derrick." I keep my voice even, but I can't quite meet his eyes. Instead, I focus on pouring milk for a latte, trying to steady my hands. I know he means well, but I wish people would stop talking about it. I want to be happy about winning, but all I can think about is how uneasy that performance made me feel. The crowd's cheers mixing with a shiver running down my spine. I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away.

 Savannah comes up beside me again, hip-checking me lightly. "Hey, we should celebrate after work. Drinks at Bruno's?"

"You know I don't drink, but I'll accept the offer," I accept, giving her a small smile with a light chuckle. 

"Neato!" Savannah squeals, clapping her hands together.

**********

After work, I head to my parents' house. It's a cozy two-story home with peeling white paint and a creaky front porch. The moment I step inside, the scent of arroz con pollo hits me—my mom's specialty.