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MACK’S DRINK SPECIAL: FLUSTERED FRAPPE WITH A DRIZZLE OF HOPE

The chill in the night air suffocated me and

Nope . She tried again.

The freeze in the air matched my heart

Absolutely not.

The briskness of the oxygen

Seriously?

Mack slammed her laptop shut. She pushed her palm into her chin and inhaled a shaky breath. Even the circling scent of flowers and ferns from her parents’ guest bedroom open window, combined with the spectacular view of the sunrise over the Olympic Mountains, couldn’t inspire her.

She hospital-edged the sheet and smoothed the comforter. After double-checking that her T-shirt was still crisply ironed from her middle-of-the-night relaxation technique, she began her escape.

The hardwood floors squeaked as she tiptoed down the hall. She eased the rental car keys from a hook and crept to the front door.

“Mack?”

Ugh.

She spun on the balls of her feet. Seeing her mom’s formerly straight, thick, long black hair now short and wispy dropped Mack’s heart into her stomach. Three years since they found the lump, two years since treatment stopped. The hair would take another year to get used to.

“Hey, Ma.”

Narrowed, dark-circled eyes glared at her.

“You leaving?”

“Yeah.” Mack’s shoulders stiffened. “Needed some coffee. Didn’t want to wake you and Dad.”

Caffeine was a solid excuse. Her mom didn’t need the entire truth this early.

“It’s barely after six.” Lines cut across her mom’s forehead. “It’s still dark.”

Extreme worst-case scenario was her mom’s favorite sport. She was probably going through an itemized list of things that could hurt her twenty-six-year-old daughter, ranging from a rabid raccoon to an escaped serial killer. And people wondered where Mack got her storytelling gift.

“I’m good, I promise.” Her mom had been through enough in her lifetime. Worrying about her daughter was the last thing she needed.

Her mom’s slippered feet padded across the cherrywood floors, and she plopped onto a kitchen chair. “Wanna talk about it?”

Talk about why Mack hadn’t visited her parents for a year and then called eight hours ago from the Seattle airport letting them know she was in town? No, not really. “I’m kinda tired right now.”

“Shocking, since you’ve been up since three.”

“You heard me? Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you. I just wanted to?—”

“Iron. I know.” Her mom jutted her head toward the corner of the room. “I’m the one who put the iron and board in your room for you.”

Mack’s heart softened. “Someday I’m gonna craft a personal essay on the joys of midnight ironing. Reduction in heartrate. Satisfaction of a job well done. Waking up sharp and fresh.”

“Mackey.”

“What?”

“You’re avoiding.” Her mother tightened her frilly pink robe around her willowy frame.

Mack brushed her palm across the tiny hairs poking out from her freshly buzzed undercut. “Can we just say it’s been a hellish week and leave it at that?” Words congregated on the tip of her tongue, begging for release. “I gotta go.”

Her mom shook her head. “You can’t go traipsing around in an unfamiliar city. You know, I saw on Dateline , or maybe it was one of those Netflix true crime stories, about this writer who?—”

“Ah, come on. I travel all the time for work.” She laid a quick hand on her mom’s arm. “I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

Her mom sighed and leaned into the touch. “It’d be nice to have breakfast with you… I, we, haven’t seen you for so long.”

Her mom’s words landed with a punch.

“You trying to make me feel guilty?”

“Honey. I’m trying to make you feel loved .”

Less than eight hours with her mom, and Mack pulled in two different directions. Option one, rush into her mother’s arms and cry it out. Option two, run like hell.

Her money was on bailing the F outta here.

“I’m sorry. I know. There’s just… a lot.” Mack waved her wrist as if that would magically explain everything that transpired in the last few months. “We’ll chat later.”

Mack darted down the hall before her mom could speak. She hit the elevator button multiple times before the door opened. After she verified no sketchy white van was parked near her rental car, she hopped in.

Inhale. One, two, three, four. Hold. One, two, three, four. Exhale. One, two, three, four. Repeat.

Minutes later, her heartbeat slowed. She rolled her windows down and took off for any place but here.

Seattle air was different from New York’s. The city smelled like the color green. Ripe. Meadowy. Invigorating. Clean. Made her want to breathe and meditate. And forget the scene twenty-four hours ago when she raced around her apartment, stuffed her military-style folded clothes and anxiety meds into luggage, and rushed to the airport.

She needed to figure out a plan—and fast. The countdown clock ticked toward a looming deadline. What am I gonna do?

Two hours later, her head feeling clearer, the rental car shook with the infinite potholes as she headed downtown. The fuel gauge indicator verged just above half. No way would she break her own rules in a different city and let it dip any more. She pulled off the highway and followed her navigation to the closest gas station.

“ Jesus. ” Was the apocalypse happening? Every pump was full.

She white-knuckled the unfamiliar steering wheel as she snuck in between two SUVs. Before her smartwatch could warn her that her heartrate was too high, she deflated into the seat and took a breath.

Moments later, she exited the car and swiped her card. The machine beeped in response.

Card error. Please see attendant.

Seriously? She swiped a second card. The same message flashed across the screen with the same shrill buzz. She glanced up at the person pumping gas next to her, who was for sure judging her incompetency.

“Broken machine,” Mack muttered with a weak smile.

The woman gave her an uninterested nod.

A pit formed in her stomach as she entered the store. Social Interaction 101: stay calm, maintain eye contact, don’t fidget. “Um, the machine outside isn’t taking my card.”

The man behind the plexiglass security wall stopped stocking vapes. “What pump?”

“Pump five.” Tiny beads of sweat formed on her lower back.

A customer stood behind her, tapping their foot. More sweat pooled and her increased heartrate thudded in her neck. The front door opened, and two additional guests entered. Was everyone staring at her?

The attendant pulled down the skinny microphone above his head.

Oh God, not the microphone.

“Jimmy! Can you come up front? Customer having a credit card issue.”

Every eye in the convenience store bored into her.

“Machine issue… not credit card issue.” She fanned the lower part of her shirt. Don’t they have air-conditioning around here? She placed her hands on her hips—an over-heating preventative measure while she waited for the manager. Was everyone still staring? They were probably angry she caused them a delay. She stumbled a bit to the side to allow other customers to come to the front, and froze her gaze at some random tabloid, pretending it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.

Ten minutes later, with her tank full, her hands still clammy, and a logged mental note to never buy gas in the morning, she exited off I-5 in search of coffee.

Her phone buzzed.

“Ugh.” She sent Viviane, her literary agent, to voicemail. A minute later, she tapped the phone to listen to the message.

“Mack. You know it’s serious when I’m leaving you an actual recording like it’s 1995. Pick up your damn phone. Listen, lady, I respect and appreciate your creative process, but I’ve got multiple people waiting for a status update, including me… Send proof of life, or I’m organizing a search party. Your Instagram posts of books don’t count. Love you. Byeee.”

She’s pissed.

Mack swerved left to avoid entering what she thought was one-way. Goddang Seattle drivers . People parked on whatever side of the street they wanted and faced whatever way they wanted, and it was totally disorientating.

Her GPS rerouted, and when a car honked behind her, she panicked. The drivers here almost never honked and gave constant “thank you” waves. But the guy behind her was obviously in a hurry, and her GPS was frozen, so she took another left and parked.

Exhaling, she reached for her phone.

Mack: I’m alive. Just head’s down, finishing up.

Viviane: Send proof of life. You may be a kidnapper.

Mack sent a picture of her middle finger.

Viviane: Much better

Viviane: Wait, are you driving a car? In Manhattan?

Mack: Went to see my parents in Seattle

Viviane: Are you kidding me? You weren’t going there for a few weeks yet for the book signing

Viviane: What’s going on?

Mack could picture Viviane’s smiling, smooth brown face morph into flatlined lips and a scowl.

Viviane could not know Mack was nowhere near delivering her overdue first draft, nor that Viviane wasted months busting her butt to secure a totally undeserved advance for Mack’s sophomore book.

Viviane’s name flashed across the screen, and Mack declined the call.

Viviane: you know it’s crappy when you’re texting with someone, but they send your call to voicemail.

Mack: Sorry, I know. Bad service. I’ll call later.

No way would Viviane believe that excuse. She silenced her phone. Needing some air, she exited the car and wandered the neighborhood. Mid-century homes with lush greenery gave her the illusion she was no longer in the city.

“What the…” A rainbow flag—always a comforting hug—flew outside a small brick home in the middle of the block. A sign on the door displayed Sugar Mugs .

Perfect. A quick cup would jolt her from her funk.

The shop captured the ambiance of a warm living room. Beautiful hardwood floors, shelves overflowed with books and board games, and plants. So. Many. Plants. On the wall hung photos of Seattle-based musicians Macklemore, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews, Jimi Hendrix, and Foo Fighters.

Mack froze when she turned her focus to the woman at the counter.

Thick, curly red hair framed a freckled face with equally red plump lips. A floor-length flowy dress completed the modern-day Renaissance look. Full. Curvy. Round. Stunning.

Oh, holy hell… who are you?

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