The bell over the door of Shang Java rings every thirty seconds during the morning rush.
You stop hearing it after a while.
Today I hear every single one.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Melanie says from the pastry case.
She’s lining up croissants with surgical precision, not even looking at me.
“I was gone four days,” I say, tying on my apron.
“Which in barista time is basically a sabbatical.”
JB snorts behind the espresso machine.
“You go see family or something?”
Version one of the truth.
“Road trip,” I say. “Needed a reset.”
Not technically a lie.
Just… heavily edited.
Melanie finally glances up.
“You look less homicidal than usual.”
“Give it an hour.”
She nods approvingly.
The morning rush wipes out any further interrogation.
Grind.
Tamp.
Pull.
Steam.
Repeat.
The rhythm slides right back into place like I never left.
Coffee orders blur together until the bell rings again and someone steps up to the counter.
British accent.
“Black coffee, please.”
I glance up.
Oh.
Handsome annoyingly sexy accented guy.
Again.
Still annoyingly handsome.
Still ordering coffee like bitterness is a personality trait.
“Coming right up,” I say.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He leans on the counter while I pour it.
“You’re the one who made my coffee last week,” he says.
“I make everyone’s coffee.”
He smiles.
“Fair. But yours was memorable.”
I slide the cup across the counter.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Tag.”
He nods.
“Cass.”
I pause for half a second.
Cass.
That’s… unusual.
“Just Cass?” I ask.
He laughs a little.
“Cass Novak.”
Still unusual.
Fake name energy.
Interesting.
I nod.
“Tag Urich.”
Which is also fake.
Balance in the universe restored.
The bell rings again.
Auré walks in.
And of course the first person she sees is Cass.
The recognition is immediate.
She lights up like someone just turned the brightness up on the room.
“Cass!”
They hug.
Comfortable. Easy.
Old friends.
I busy myself wiping down the counter while they talk.
Cass takes a sip of his coffee and glances back at me.
“Still excellent,” he says.
Careful.
I might start liking you.
My shift finally ends around four.
The walk home is cold enough to sting.
By the time I push open the apartment door, Auré is already inside.
She’s curled up on the couch with a mug of tea.
She looks up when I walk in.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How was work?”
“Caffeinated.”
She laughs softly.
“You disappeared for a few days. Everything okay?”
Version two of the truth.
“Yeah,” I say, kicking off my shoes. “Just needed to unplug for a bit. Went off the grid.”
Not technically false.
Just missing the part where the grid was Spokane.
She nods.
“That makes sense.”
You’re alarmingly easy to lie to.
Useful.
Later that night the apartment goes quiet.
Auré disappears into her room.
I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling.
My brain, extremely helpfully, decides this is the perfect moment to replay New Year’s Eve.
Bleachers.
Fireworks.
Her laugh.
Her mouth—
Okay.
Nope.
We are not doing that again.
I last exactly twenty-seven minutes before opening TapDat, a new dating app.
Self-control is a myth.
Setting up the profile takes a minute.
Name: Tag
Age: 19
Bio:
Barista.
Will judge your coffee order.
Pan. Selectively chaotic.
Now the photos.
We’re not here for subtlety.
First photo: gym mirror shot. Sports bra, messy curls, post-workout glow.
Second: lake day bikini photo. Black bikini. Good lighting. Cleavage doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.
Third: candid shot JB took behind the espresso machine where I’m leaning on the counter looking like I know what I’m doing.
Which, occasionally, I do.
Perfect.
Save.
Profiles start sliding by.
Fish guy.
Why is it always a fish?
He definitely owns a sword.
Swipe left.
Leather jacket woman leaning against a motorcycle.
Swipe right.
Guy whose entire personality appears to be cryptocurrency.
Swipe left.
Then I stop.
Wait.
I recognize this guy.
Paris Remy Martyn.
32.
Same guy who ordered the ridiculous oatmilk lavender honey blonde espresso latte the other day.
Nice smile.
One picture of him mid-laugh.
Another photo in a Smoke-Boy cosplay outfit.
Which… okay.
Nice ass.
Did not expect that.
Bio reads:
Poly with a partner.
Horror/comic nerd.
Writer.
Major Smoke-Boy fan.
#RIPOfficiators
I laugh quietly.
His partner in the photos, a cute redhead with glasses, looks like a cute art teacher who definitely owns watercolor supplies and likes to go raving on the weekends.
He also looks like a genuinely funny guy.
Which is dangerous.
Swipe right.
No match.
Devastating.
The Officiators tag lingers in my brain for a second.
People still talk about them like myths.
Which is funny.
I used to watch Awe-Woman clips online like they were religion.
And Flux?
Yeah.
Relationship goals.
Even if the world’s a little messier now than it was back then.
Maybe I liked them more than I admitted.
Eventually I toss the phone onto the mattress.
Cass can keep the bitter coffee.
I’m still thinking about dessert.
And judging by the way my brain keeps replaying New Year’s Eve…
I really need a distraction, and so I masturbate again until I fall asleep.
Distraction achieved.
