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My phone buzzed in my hand. I stepped back from the small crowd that had formed around the order-pickup counter and tapped at its screen. I was expecting a message from my new boss... but the message wasn't from him.
It was from Polly.
I tapped again, bringing up her message.
Polly had sent me a picture, a rare selfie of herself with white-flecked hair like she had just stepped out of a snowstorm. But it wasn't snow—it was paint. Behind her, on full display, was the progress she had made on her embattled dining room. She had stripped off all the old ornate wallpaper—and with it, all of the charmed gold writing—and was now busy priming the walls a pure white.
I'm thinking of painting the walls yellow, she wrote alongside the picture. Or blue. Or maybe green? Something... fresh. Bright.
Bright sounds like a great idea, I typed back. Have you decided what you're going to do with the house, then?
No, not yet, Polly replied quickly, the message arriving with another buzz. Though I spoke with that realtor and she said there was plenty of interest. But I'm still not sure...
Now that she finally had closure over her past and what happened to Lillian, she had to decide on her future. One of those decisions was whether or not she'd sell her family home. It was full of memories, both good and bad...
My fingers hesitated over the screen as I tried to think of a reply. It was hard for me to give her advice. I couldn't tell her what to do with the house. I had the opposite problem. My memories weren't enough to tie me to any one location. In fact, I was still crashing in Ethan's chilly basement while I searched for yet another apartment.
"Order for Rachel?" called the barista at the pick-up counter.
My head snapped up. I dropped my phone into my pocket, intending to reply to Polly when I had a better idea of what to say.
"That's me!" I said as I stepped up to collect the tray laden with drinks and the small box of pastries. I surveyed the order. "One large black, two ice coffees, a tea and half a dozen of the chocolate croissants?" I said, double-checking everything. My new boss was particular and I was still eager to prove myself to him.
"That's right," the barista said. "And if—oh. It's you."
I looked up from inspecting the drinks. It took me a moment, but I realized I recognized her. The barista's hair was now a seafoam green instead of purple, but the silver piercings set into her dark skin were unmistakable. It was the same girl I had met during my ill-fated job application in this very coffee shop.
I gave her an awkward smile. It had been months since that bomb of an interview— when I had passed out after seeing a ghost—and I had only just worked up the courage to come back, hoping that embarrassing moment had been finally forgotten.
