There are copper lanterns lining the entryway and mums in every shade of burnt orange and burgundy crowding the window boxes. The usual pastel color scheme has been temporarily replaced with deep maroons, mustard golds, and forest greens. And there are pumpkins everywhere.So many pumpkins.
A fake leaf garland frames the coffee bar, with twinkle lights tucked between the branches, and the chalkboard menu has been redone with curly handwriting that says things likeCinnamon Sugar BlissandSweater Weather Latte.
It’s obnoxiously cozy. Sickeningly charming. And entirely on-brand for Holly.
“Hey Eslin! Funny seeing you here on a Sunday morning!”
“I know, but lots happening and I needed to chat. Do you have a minute?”
I’m not usually the type to spill my deepest secrets with girlfriends. I never passed notes in class about the boy I was secretly obsessed with. Never saw the point in dissecting every glance or overanalyzing a crush when you didn’t even know if he’d remember your name a week later.
But lately, my brain’s been uncooperative, to say the least. Unpredictable. Loud.
And when that happens, apparently, I do what normal women do.
I gab.
I gush.
I dish.
“Sure, honey! What’s going on?”
“First,” I say, sliding onto my usual stool, “can I try a sweet potato scone and a nutmeg latte, please?”
“Coming right up!” Holly grins, darting behind the counter like she’s been waiting all week for this drama drop.
“So, I decided to try being friends with—”
She gasps mid-steam, eyes wide. “Soccer Daddy?”
I laugh. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”
“That’s whatIcall him,” she says with a shrug. And honestly, I think I might start calling him that, too.
“Yes,” I sigh. “I’ve decided to try being friends withSoccer Daddy.And I’m joining him and Marlow for dinner tonight.”
She hands me my warm scone with the kind of care reserved for holy offerings. “I mean, Igetit. Being his friend makes sense. But what made you decide to actually go over there for dinner? You think you can handle that?”
“Icanhandle it,” I say, lifting my chin. “I just don’t know how toactaround him without Marlow picking up on the tension.”
“Masturbate,” she says with a straight face, without missing a beat.
“…What?”
“Masturbate,” she repeats, like she’s giving me medical advice. “It’s the only way to make sure there’s no tension when you’re around him. You gotta get it out of your system.”
“Okay, first of all—I’ve tried that. And ifyou’recalling him Soccer Daddy, thenyouknow why that doesn’t work. The man is sex on a platter with a billion-dollar pension.”
“Right. My bad,” she says. “So then maybe cancel dinner. Because if the tension’s as bad as you’re claiming, you’re gonna end up being the dessert.”
I shake my head. “Wow. So helpful. I’msoglad I came to talk to you.”
She plants a hand on her hip. “Look, I’m not the friend who gives a gentle pep talk your delusional ass isn’t ready for. I see the way your eyes dart and your breathing shifts when you talk about him. You donotbelong in close quarters with a manthattempting.”
“You underestimate my ability to resist temptation,” I say, trying—and failing—to sound convincing.
She arches a brow. “Then why are you here? Asking me how to handle it?”