Kiss Her Once for Me (6)
My social anxiety isn’t about a fear that people will be mean to me. It’s a far more nuanced kind of mindfuckery, a deep-seated conviction that every social interaction is a test I’m predetermined to fail. “Maybe next time,” I murmur.
Ari cocks her hip and stares me down. “Is this serving you?”
I roll my eyes. “We get it, Ari. You follow Brené Brown on Instagram.”
“Don’t attempt to deflect with humor. As your best friend, I have to ask—”
“My best friend? We’re casual workplace acquaintances at best….”
Ari ignores that and barrels onward. “Is this whole sad-hermit thing you’ve got going on serving you?” Ari makes a circling gesture in my direction, indicating my whole thing just as the bell dings above the door to signal a new customer. “Like, is this making you happy?”
I laugh uncomfortably. “Of course I’m not happy! I’m a twenty-five-year-old with massive debt from two degrees I’m not using who got fired from her dream job and now works for a dickweed serving coffee to snobs in this shithole.”
“Shithole, is it?” asks a lush male voice. I turn away from Ari to discover that the customer who just entered Roastlandia isn’t a customer at all. It’s him.
Andrew Kim-Prescott. Roastlandia’s landlord. And he heard me call this place a shithole. Which is just fuck.
If I’m really lucky, maybe he heard me call my boss a dickweed, too.
A visit from Andrew Kim-Prescott is usually a highlight in my sad-hermit life, but this is just the flammable tinsel on the dried-out Charlie Brown Christmas tree of my day.
“Mr. Kim-Prescott,” I say, adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose. “Would you like your regular?”
He nods. “Please. And Ellie?” He flashes me his most winning smile. “You can call me Andrew.”
If a Burberry coat were a person, it would be Andrew Kim-Prescott. This evening, he’s wearing a navy pin-striped suit under a herringbone trench, his black hair arranged in its signature wave over dark brown eyes and a luxurious pair of cheekbones. He checks the gold Bulova watch on his wrist, and I swoon.
I like my men like I like my life goals: unattainable.
It’s not even that he’s wealthy (though he is). And it’s not even that he’s laughably handsome (though he really is). I look forward to Andrew’s visits because for the length of time it takes for me to prepare his sixteen-ounce green matcha latte with cashew milk, I’m distracted from thoughts of selfish mothers and mean bosses, of social anxiety and failure, of being lonely and lost. Because it’s impossible to look at Andrew’s face and experience negative thoughts.
“Hey, Andrew,” Ari says casually to the man who owns this building, and the building next to it, and the building next to that, like a young, surprisingly hot Dickensian landlord. (That’s how I usually draw him, anyway.)
He’s technically not our boss, but without him and the real estate investment firm his family owns, Greg never would have fulfilled his dream of selling overpriced, over-roasted coffee. Andrew comes by at least once a month to get updates on the business and drink his hipster hot beverage.
“Ari. Good to see you,” Andrew purrs. Even his voice is expensive, like cashmere, or ordering an appetizer before your entrée instead of ordering an appetizer as your entrée.
He finishes paying and comes around the counter to stand across from me like Tuesday Jeff did. “So, Ellie. Do you have any plans for this evening?”
This feels like a trap, like he and Ari are setting me up to uncover my lies. I don’t have plans. I never have plans. “I—”
“Andrew! You’re here!” Greg comes flying out from the kitchen, because he has a preternatural ability to smell Andrew’s presence. Which, incidentally, smells of bergamot and lots of money. “I read about your grandfather’s passing in The Oregonian,” Greg says with his usual amount of tact. Which is to say, none. “Our condolences.”
Andrew conjures a charming smile. “Thanks.”
Roastlandia’s landlord is the heir apparent to Prescott Investments, a major firm that owns a healthy chunk of Portland’s real estate. For a city that prides itself on being distinctly anti-capitalism, Portland loves the Prescotts. Maybe because they’re good at appearing philanthropic even as they erect the same generic apartment buildings all over town, gentrifying everything from the Columbia River down to Sellwood.
Richard Prescott, the firm’s founder and Andrew’s grandfather, died from pancreatic cancer last week. It was on the front page of The Oregonian.
I set his green matcha latte on the counter, and Andrew reaches for it, giving me a playful wink. “Greg, you wanted me to check on the electrical issue in the kitchen?”
Greg nods obsequiously, and Andrew follows him through a swinging door into the back office. As soon as they’re gone, Ari releases a knowing tut. I turn. “What?”
“As your best friend, I think you should date Andrew Kim-Prescott,” she announces.
“Why do you keep calling yourself my best friend?”
“Do you have other friends in Portland?”
“That’s—” a fair point.
Ari squints as if contemplating it further. “Yes, absolutely. I’ve decided. You should definitely date Andrew. Andrew would help you shake up your life. He’s charming and well-connected and fun, and you’re… well, you know.” The opposite of that.