Chapter One: Kenna
I’m in the middle of remaking a drink, for the fourth time, when the cute cop with the whiskey-colored eyes and buzz-cut hair skips to the front of the line, leaves cash and a generous tip for his cinnamon bun, and winks at me before leaving. He looks so familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. Did I see him at The Onion or The Grumpy Stump? There are only so many places wher people my age can socialize here in Ephron.
My phone, sitting beside the register, lights up with a burst of animated hearts and flames on the notification screen. One new match on the dating app. I can’t resist tapping the screen to see who I matched with.
That’s why the cop looked so familiar. I saw him on the dating app.
“Hey, are you going to gimme my drink, or what?” The disgruntled customer demands my attention.
“Okay.” I set the phone down. “That’s a four-shot, half-caf, soy milk latte … no foam.” I push the drink across the counter. “Did you need me to take its temperature this time?”
The man in the black beanie fixes me with an exasperated stare. “If you don’t mind, honey.” He taps his fingers on the counter impatiently. I can’t help but notice the dirt under his nails. Gross.
“You got it!” I chirp with mock cheer. I plop the glass food thermometer into his drink. We both wait while the mercury rises. I’m sick of remaking this drink. The other attempts were all unacceptable to him. Too foamy. Too milky. Too hot. The Starbucks mermaid herself couldn’t please this dude. He even had the nerve to ask if there was anyone else who knows their way around the espresso maker better than me.
“Nice camera,” I comment, looking longingly at the Sony camera with the superzoom lens slung on his hip. He glances down at it, stroking it proudly and preening a bit.
“Yeah, she’s a beaut.” His face softens slightly.
I remove the thermometer, reading off the number. “It’s 195 degrees, exactly.”
“You sure? Maybe you didn’t leave it in there long enough. I don’t wanna get burned.”
“If you wait much longer, it’s going to get cold,” I say, pushing the paper cup toward him. “And you look like you could really use it. Just take it. It’s on the house, same as the other ones.”
And if he doesn’t like it, there’s a Circle K down the street with a coffee machine that I’d be happy to direct him to.
“Okay, okay. No need to get snippy,” he remarks, digging in his pocket for a tip. He waves the five-dollar bill around showily, making sure everyone else in the diner gets a gander at his generosity before shoving it in the tip jar. “I was kind of hoping you and I could be friends. You from this town?”
“Why? Who wants to know?”
“America wants to know, sweetie.” His voice is gravelly, with a hint of East Coast. He takes a sip and raises his eyebrows, nodding at the cup that has finally passed muster. “Eh, what do you know? This isn’t half bad.”
“You should try it with almond milk and one less shot next time.” The suggestion just spills out of me, unbidden. I hold out a packet of raw sugar. I cannot help it. I’m a coffee witch. It’s a blessing and a curse. Particularly when I know people are ordering the wrong drink. Their whole day would go better if they’d just take my advice.
He eyes me skeptically. “You think I don’t know how I take my own coffee?” But he takes the sugar and tears it open with his teeth, spitting paper out on the floor.
“Anyway, sweetheart,” the man says, still eyeing me cannily, “I was hoping you could help me out.” He reaches into his back pocket and fishes out his cell phone swipes it a couple of times, and turns it to face me. “You seen this guy around here lately?”
If only.
“Isn’t that the actor who plays Titanium Man?” I feign wide-eyed surprise at his photo of Rafe Barzilay.
“You recognize him?”
That explains the giant lens and expensive camera. It figures that the paparazzi would arrive just ahead of the celebrities. If only I had a camera as nice as this guy’s to shoot on. It isn’t fair.
“I mean, doesn’t everyone know Titanium Man?” I answer.
Over the man’s shoulder, I notice Noah Greenberg, a local high school teacher limping into the diner with his laptop. Saved by the bell.
I wave hello at Noah, greeting him extra enthusiastically in order to make my point that I’m done with the pushy photographer. “Hey Noah! So great to see you here! What can I make for you? The usual?”
Before he turns to go, the photographer slaps his card on the counter. “You’ll let me know if you see any celebrity types? Text me any time. I pay a sweet finder’s fee.” He does the thing where he points to his eyes with two fingers, then points at mine, and back at his own.
“Mm-hmm, sure! You betcha! Have a nice day.” I slide the card into my apron pocket and turn my back on him, busying myself with cleaning up my area. Finally, he gets the message and slinks away, heading out the door toward Holm Square.
As soon as his back is turned, I drop his card into the trash. Is it wrong for me to wish a fly finds its way into his cup?
“What was all that about?” Noah asks as he gets settled with his laptop at the counter. “What was with the mafia eye-finger thing? Was he threatening you?”
“Not really.” I make him his usual mocha macchiato. “Mostly annoying me.” I notice now that Noah’s got his cast off, and he doesn’t have the crutches anymore. He’s graduated to a walking stick. Wonder when that happened? Noah is definitely an under-the-radar kind of guy. Regular brown hair. Medium tall. His eyes are nice. Sort of puppy dog-like. He reminds me a little of Chandler from Friends.
“Looks like he’s not going anywhere.” Noah tilts his head toward the park. Through the diner window, I can see our new friend slouched on a park bench, holding up a newspaper in a pathetic attempt to camouflage the giant camera in his lap.
“That’s not conspicuous,” I joke.
I hand Noah his drink. “We should probably get used to his type hanging around here,” he says. “There’s bound to be at least a few of them, given the all-star cast Dean Riley has lined up.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I agree. “I just wish they weren’t so predatory.”
“Not much we can do about it.” Noah sips his coffee. “This is great, as usual.” He studies me for a moment. “Is there anything else bugging you, Kenna? Anything you need to talk about?”
When I don’t respond immediately, he sets down the coffee and folds his hands together. Just waiting and gazing at me patiently.
Maybe it’s his understanding-English-teacher tone of voice, or maybe it’s because I really have nobody else to talk to, or maybe it’s the fact that I know I’ve got to get back to Dean today.
“Dean Riley asked me to take photos of the cast, and I don’t think I can do it,” I blurt.
“Stop, Kenna. Dean wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think you were up to the task.”
I retrieve my backpack from under the counter and pull out my camera. I plonk it down in front of him. The flash is completely missing—it looks like an empty eye socket—and there is duct tape holding on the cover to the battery compartment. There’s a strawberry, scratch-and-sniff sticker on the strap that lost its scent seven years ago, but there’s still some sticky stuff on the part I tried to peel off. Bits of lint and several strands of my hair are stuck in the residual goo.
“It’s one thing when I’m taking photos of dogs. But how can I show up to take photos of celebrities with this?” I wave a hand over the camera, presenting it in all its flawed glory. “I mean, I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.”
“You know, I’d be happy to check a few blogs and see what Consumer Reports recommends if you’re in the market for a new one,” Noah offers. “I have a subscription.”
“Thanks, but there’s no point.” I politely turn him down and pack my camera. “Excuse me. I think it’s time for my break.”
I already know exactly what model camera I want. And I know there’s no way I can afford it. Not even in my wildest dreams. I might as well dream about dating Rafe Barzilay and hanging out poolside with Lorelei Dupont, braiding each other’s hair and snapping selfies.
“I’m taking my break,” I call out to Carlos, who is sanitizing menus in the back room. Carlos is normally our delivery guy, but he’s been filling in a lot since my uncles went on vacation. He sets down the spray bottle and his rag and wipes a forearm across his leathery, wrinkled brow.
“No problem, Kenna. I’ll take over. Take your time.”
I need to figure out what I’m going to tell Dean. As if on autopilot, I fill a bag with muffins and exit the diner. First, I’ll do a loop around Holm Square to stretch my legs, then I’ll head over to Celestial Pets to sit in my chair and think.
Will I regret turning down the offer to photograph the cast?
I pull a coin from my apron as I pass the fountain at the center of the square. What to wish for? New camera? Boyfriend? Vacation? I don’t even know what to wish for. Kissing the coin, I toss it in with a more general request. I just wish something good would happen for me, for a change.
The idea of meeting Rafe Barzilay in the flesh is thrilling. Scary, but thrilling. He is iconic. As nervous as I am to even potentially meet Rafe, the thought of meeting Lorelei Dupont gives me butterflies. For totally different reasons. Dean Riley wasn’t the first person to tell me I look like her.
I’ve been hearing how much I look like Lorelei since I was eight and she was America’s darling, starring in a top sitcom on the leading kid’s network. Everyone was always commenting how much I looked like “Moxie McAllister,” the sassy, freckled, redheaded kid detective. Except with blonde hair and fewer freckles. I’d loved hearing it, too … until Moxie and her show both jumped the shark.
After the show was canceled, Lorelei dyed her hair black, hit the party circuit, and was at the center of a number of unfortunate tabloid scandals. “Poxy Moxie” became a meme when someone suggested she was spreading STDs. When that shithead Bryce Holm called me that at a house party our freshman year, Georgia had nearly beaten the shit out of him.
That episode had really cemented my friendship with Georgia. She is a badass force that is not to be messed with.
Lorelei Dupont dropped out of the mainstream media for a while, mostly acting in indie films, but she’d come back as a supervillain—the Ember Enchantress—in the two final Titanium Man films.
I’m surprised that Dean made the connection between us. Grown-up Lorelei 2.0 looks nothing like Moxie, or me. As the Ember Enchantress, she is pale and severe, with long, glossy, black hair and a vaguely Russian accent.
My phone buzzes. There’s another notification from the dating app. The cute cop has sent me a message. I pause to perch on a park bench while I open the app to read it. First, I look back over the cop’s profile. He’s no Rafe Barzilay, but he’s cute. Medium height, obviously into bodybuilding and working out. His photos show him lifting weights, hunting, and fishing. No dirt bikes, bongs, or gaming consoles. A good sign.
Tentatively, I open his message.
Hi, Kenna. Would you be open to a throuple? My wife and I are looking to spice things up. We’d love for you to be our cinnamon bun.
Ummmm … no. No. No! And why? Why does this happen to me? The last guy I dated off this app asked me to go in on a cosmetic surgery Groupon with him. I’m done. I’m going to be alone forever.
No thanks!
Immediately, he unmatches and blocks me, leaving me to wonder how many people he’s propositioned with pastry references. Yeuch!
“Hi, Angie, I’ve come bearing muffins,” I announce myself as I walk into the pet shop.
“Well hello, dear.” The kind-eyed, older woman in a tie-dyed “Man’s Best Friend” tee greets me as I march into the shop and seat myself into the comfy, wingback chair. It’s still sitting in the middle of the store, and it just doesn’t feel right there. I drag it back toward the register, shoving it awkwardly in the corner. It’s a little cramped behind the bassinet, but I can still sort of fit. I fling myself in my seat properly, sitting sideways with my legs draped over the arms, legs swinging rhythmically as I think.
Angie sets aside her romance novel and pushes her reading glasses down her nose to look at me. “Oh, dear. Is it that bad?” Absentmindedly, she jiggles a pink stroller parked beside her, as if to keep a baby asleep. An elderly pug pokes its head up, and I cannot help but notice the dog’s pirate costume. I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s not International Talk Like a Pirate Day till September, but Daisy Bones here was feeling saucy,” the woman explains. Angie is one of the local shelter’s biggest benefactors. When she is not working there or filling in here at the boutique, she can be found dressing up her rescue mutts. She was the natural choice to mind the shop in Georgia’s absence.
“I need some advice, Angie,” I say. Perhaps Angie has some sage wisdom to share.
“Advice? From me?” She looks flattered and stands up straighter, brushing pet hair from her shirt. “I’d be honored. What’s this about? Boy trouble … again? You know, if I were you, I would spend more time volunteering at the pet shelter. You never know what kind of man you might meet there. We get some real superheroes passing through. You know, serious alpha males? Abs of Steel. Top dogs? You catch my drift?” She winks and wiggles her eyebrows at me like she is performing a vaudeville act.
I let it go. Clearly Angie, like everyone in Ephron, still associates me with my big, bad breakup with Cody, even though it’s been over five years. It’s like my bio reads: Poor Kenna, she has the worst taste in men. Once a doormat, always a doormat.
“Nope, it’s not about a boy.” I open the bag and take out a muffin, pausing to offer one to Angie before stuffing my face. She waves the bag away.
“It’s about the theater—” I start to say, but my phone rings, interrupting me. I check the screen. It’s Carlos.
“One sec.” I hold up a finger and answer the phone.
“I’m so sorry, Kenna,” Carlos apologizes. “I don’t want to steal your break, but we have a big delivery order that needs to go to the theater, ASAP. They were going to pick it up, but they just called back to ask us if we’d bring it to them instead.”
“Okay, I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” I say. “Can you wait till I get back to take it?”
“Okay, but everything is ready now. Also, my car is getting detailed. I can’t do the delivery. They want it right now. I don’t know what to do.”
“Fine. I’ll deliver it then. Can I just take five minutes to pee?” I ask.
“Well, that’s the other thing,” Carlos says. “Hurry. That guy from earlier is back. The one with the Brooklyn accent? He said he found a fly in his coffee, and he needs you to make him a fresh one.”
