Chapter Two

Maren

Every person in Sunset Bay needs their coffee this morning, and apparently they've all come to Insomniacs to get it. I haven't had a chance to breathe since the shop opened. To top it off, my coworker Nina chose today of all days to be late. Okay, fine…she chooses every day to be late. But it's closing in on eight, and she still hasn't walked through the front doors. In Nina time, this is actually late. And until she shows up, it's just me and my useless manager, Susan. Seriously, the woman is blind to the fact that I'm drowning out here while she takes up space at one of the tables, coming up with next month's schedule.

Susan, we don't need a new schedule. We need you to get off your lazy ass and make some coffee .

But I can't say anything because I need this job. Now more than ever, since a breach in employment will not look good to any new landlord, nor will it help me secure the deposit I can't afford.

"I'd like a triple shot latte with chocolate syrup and extra foam," the customer facing me orders.

Fun fact. A latte with chocolate is…drum roll please…a mocha. But try to correct a customer, and you'll find yourself on the other end of an argument you never wanted to enter in the first place.

And extra foam? On a mocha? Whatever dude.

"Anything else?" I key in his latte as a mocha and try to ignore the growing line behind him.

That's when Nina bursts through the front doors.

"I'm here! Let the party begin!"

Nina uses her hair as a canvas, and today is no exception. Yesterday it was faded pink, but today her long locks are mermaid green with blue highlights. To finish the look, she's wearing shimmering green and blue eyeshadow, and her long nails are painted a vibrant blue. As annoyed as I am with her, I'm also impressed. I love fashion, but my color palette is usually in the black range. Nina wears colors loud and proud.

"You're late, Nina," Susan says, not bothering to even look up.

"Sorry, there were extenuating circumstances." The smirky side-eye Nina gives me is a prelude to whatever wild story she's about to unfold. Last week it was about the date she went on with a guy who failed to mention he was still in high school. She only found out when his mom tracked his phone and showed up at the movie theater they were making out in, then lectured him about going out on a school night while Nina made her escape. The week before, Nina escaped out the second-story window of a guy who forgot to mention he was married before his wife came barreling up the stairs.

Ten out of ten, her wild story was about a guy.

"So there's this guy," she begins, as she takes over the cash register and I move to the espresso machine. I roll my eyes, but keep my ears perked, even over the whoosh of the steam wand and the cadence of chatter throughout the shop. "He's new to the neighborhood, but holy hell, is he making an impact." She goes on with the story even as she helps the next customer, a mousy middle-aged woman who looks like she'd rather be praying than listening about Nina's smoke show neighbor.

"The guy has a literal eight-pack. I mean, I've read about eight-packs in that blue alien book series. You know, the one with the barbed peni—"

"Nina." I shoot an apologetic look at the woman in front of my coworker.

"Right. That will be $8.50," Nina says, twirling the screen so the flustered customer can finish her transaction. "So, every morning this guy walks around our neighborhood, shirtless and barefoot, carrying nothing but a cup of coffee." Nina holds the back of her hand up to her forehead, pretending to swoon. The next customer is standing there, waiting to give his order, but seems more invested in the story than the lady before him had been.

"Every morning?" I ask.

"Yeah, every morning? Even if it's raining?" the customer asks.

Nina shoots the guy an annoyed look. "This is California. When was the last time it rained?" But then she grins. "And yes, every morning. So far, without fail. The guy has the whole neighborhood wrapped around his finger, including me."

"Nina, less chit chat, please," Susan murmurs out the side of her mouth while taking inventory of the pastries. "Maren, when you put in the pastry order this afternoon, double the amount of morning buns. Those ones are going too fast."

Just the mention of pastries reminds my stomach that it hasn't consumed any food yet. I get through the next hour of drink orders, and when it seems like the morning rush has died down, I take my break.

With my almond milk latte and the last morning bun, I snag a table and pull out my phone, scrolling Craigslist for an apartment in my price range. It's a quick process.

"Shit," I mutter, scanning the rents that far exceed anything my meager paycheck will allow. I've been so spoiled with my low rent that I forgot the reality of housing costs in California. Even renting a room in someone's house will cost more than I was paying for my entire apartment.

I'm not an emotional person. I don't cry at the drop of a hat. When I come close, it usually comes out in anger. But this is a whole new experience of feeling hopeless. I don't have any family to help, or a savings account that will pad my income until I figure out a better solution. I don't have the education for a better paying job, and I just so happen to live in one of the most expensive tourist traps in SoCal because I never thought to move someplace more affordable. Partly because I lucked out on this apartment, but also because this is my home—always has been. Plus, there's Claire and my favorite kid, Finn. My best friend and I have been through too much for me to up and leave.

Even though I don't want to do it, I think Claire is my only hope in this situation.

I step outside the shop and call her. She picks up on the third ring.

"Hey," she says, and I note the breathlessness in her voice.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" I ask, hating how weak I sound right now. But I feel weak. I've made it my mission to never need anyone, and right now, I'm tearing out the backbone of that resolve.

"No, not at all." She laughs then, and I hear muffled sounds. "Ethan, give me a second."

Fuck. I was interrupting.

"I'll call back," I say.

"No, it's fine. We just got Finn off to school and are cleaning the kitchen. I could use the distraction. What's up, everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," I lied. "Why would anything be wrong?"

"Because you never call me. Usually you just show up, bearing gifts of coffee and pastries. Which, by the way, I miss. You haven't stopped by in a while."

She's right. Ever since Ethan proposed, our friendship has taken a backseat. She's been wrapped up in wedding plans and family stuff, and I've been holding back to respect the process.

Plus, I hate to admit it, I'm a little jealous. For years I've had my friend all to myself. But now, she's preparing to make this complete life change by getting married and shit, and I'm still single Maren—working a dead-end coffee job, entertaining casual flings and cutting them off when they appear to be heading toward seriousness.

But now that I see how happy Claire is and how her life seems to be heading into this whole new realm of adulthood, I can't help but feel a twinge of regret. I'm twenty-six years old and about to be homeless for fuck's sake.

"I'll drop by tomorrow morning," I promise, all the while trying to figure out a way to ask Claire if I can crash on her couch without completely destroying my thread of an ego.

"Ooh, can you bring me one of those morning buns? I'm obsessed."

"You and the rest of Sunset Bay," I say, the taste still lingering in my mouth. These buns really are pure deliciousness, kind of like cinnamon rolls but not gooey at all. They're actually crispy, fried cinnamon pastries with hardened sugar on top. We just started serving them and run out every day.

"Is that Maren? Tell her to bring two. I'm starving," Ethan says in the background.

"You just ate breakfast, sparky," she laughs. "And she's coming tomorrow, not today."

He says something I can't hear, and when Claire giggles, I know it wasn't meant for my ears. It's also apparent that if I move in, I'll be taking a front row seat to their lovefest. As much as I love my friend, I think I'd rather live in my car than be an intrusion—or a witness.

"My break's about over, but yeah, I'll bring morning buns for all of us. We already sold out and it's not even nine o'clock."

We end the call and I stay where I'm standing for a moment, wondering what the fuck I'm going to do. I should have said something. It's not like I have any other choices.

"You still have a month or so to figure this out," I reassure myself. But I don't feel reassured. I feel scared.

There are a few minutes left of my break, so I take the time to scroll through Instagram. But, as usual, my scroll turns into a pseudo stalking session when I open my search history and touch the name at the top of the list.

Lydia Huerta.

It's been years since I've seen my little sister. The last time, she'd been hiding behind my father as I begged my parents to take me back. I'd been out for a month at that point and wasting away from both the drugs and lack of food.

In a way, I understand why they wouldn't let me back in their home. Lydia was nine, and I was a strung out seventeen-year-old with a death wish, ready to take down everyone with her.

I wouldn't let me in, either.

I still don't forgive my parents.

Looking at my sister's photos, I can see she's happy and surrounded by friends. She's now the same age I was when I was kicked out, but her story couldn't be more different. We look a lot alike, from her dark hair and pale Latina skin to her wide eyes the color of espresso. Just like our mother. What's different, though, are the deep dimples in each cheek, a feature she models in every single one of her smiling photos. You don't even have to know her to see that she's kind and lovable. And it makes my heart ache that I'm not in her life.

In her latest photo, she's clad in her green and gold track uniform, the colors of the high school I used to go to. She's surrounded by friends, all sweaty and smiling. It's apparent they've just finished a run—another difference between us. The only reason I would be running is if something were chasing me, and even then, I'd be weighing the pros and cons of breaking a sweat versus being maimed.

If I came home, would Lydia know me?

I close out of her account quickly and head back to the shop. It's not going to happen. I am not crawling back to my parents' house just because I'm in a bind. They didn't help me when I hit rock bottom, and they haven't reached out to me since…even though I still live in the same town and have worked at the same job for years. I'm not hard to find, and they've never tried to find me. I mean, I work in the most popular coffee shop in Sunset Bay, and they have never walked through those doors. Coincidence? I think not .

I step back inside Insomniacs, noting how Nina is leaning against the counter, chatting with Jess, her roommate for the past several years. A glance at the coffee station, and it's like an espresso bomb went off. There are coffee grounds all over the workstation, dirty towels on the counter and floor, and unwashed frothing pitchers hanging off to the side. Susan is nowhere to be found, which means I have to be the one to manage my messy coworker.

Or just do it myself.

Which I do, because I don't have the energy for a confrontation—which is so unlike me because I'm all about confrontation. But this whole house thing is throwing me for a loop, and I realize at some point I'm going to have to get over myself and ask for help.

The question is, who's the lucky person I get to inconvenience?

"Well, that was interesting," Nina says, joining me as I finish cleaning the bar. "My roommate just told me she's moving out, effective immediately."

I stop what I'm doing, and face her, not believing what I'm hearing.

"What do you mean?" I ask. "Like, in the time you've been at work, she's moved all her stuff out?"

"Well, not exactly," Nina says. "I guess she's been chipping away at this for the past week and I just haven't noticed. She says it's because I'm a slob and always stealing her stuff." She shrugs, then reaches across me to grab her coffee from under the counter. Of course it has no lid, and it sloshes on the shelf and across the floor. Nina doesn't notice, though. "I think she was just looking for an excuse to move in with her boyfriend."

"You think so?" I ask, wiping up the spill. I'm only half in this conversation. The other half of me is thinking about how to insert myself as a prospective roommate. Even though Nina really is a slob. Even though, as I've just noticed, she's wearing the exact same shade of lipstick that I am, which most likely means she went in my purse while I was on break.

Even though Nina is difficult and half the time I don't like her, and if I live with her, I will be around her—All. The. Time.

"It's fine, though. Really. I have nowhere to put most of my clothes, and they're all over my living room while I reorganize my closet. But with Jess gone, I don't need to reorganize anything because I can just use her room as my closet."

I snap out of my thoughts and re-enter the conversation, unsure if I heard her correctly.

"Wait. You're willing to take on Jess's portion of rent just so you can have a closet? How much did she pay, anyway?"

"$700 a month. "

I widen my eyes. That's less than what I'm paying now, and just a fraction of what I've seen on the market. I've been to Nina's place. It's a huge, beautiful Victorian, albeit a mess. But there's room to move in there, even with her shit everywhere.

"How much is it to rent the whole place?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. It's my grandma's house. I inherited it when she died, and it was fully paid off. I only have to pay property taxes and utilities, and this job and Jess's rent more than cover that. Well, now, just this job since Jess it out." She shakes her head. "Regardless, I'll be fine. But you're a good friend for worrying."