Chapter Text
Alex doesn’t need to look over to know who the next customer in line is.
“Nope. Not happening, Harold. Don’t even try it today.”
She slams the portafilter into the espresso machine with a sharp click, steam hissing like a warning shot. The scent of fresh espresso curls up into the air and for all her griping, Alex couldn’t deny she kind of loved it.
Sure, the wage barely covers her MetroCard and the shoebox she shares with her best friend—because God forbid anyone under forty try to live solo in Manhattan. But still… she’ll miss it when she finally gets her big break.
Any day now. Give or take a few decades.
Harold’s voice carries easily over the whir of the grinder, “I’m a customer—”
“A very stubborn, very high-maintenance one,” Alex shoots back, jerking her chin toward the pastry case while flagging Danny, their youngest barista, to refill the croissant tray.
Harold lifts his chin, mock indignation etched into every wrinkle. “Is that how you talk to the elderly?”
“Oh, don’t you dare pull the age card on me.” She slides two steaming shots across the counter, then leans in close. “You and I both know you’re no harmless old man.”
He huffs, perched on his usual stool like he owns the corner—which, fine, he sort of does at this point. “Then maybe I’ll just take my business elsewhere. Plenty of cafés in this city. Somebody will give me my caramel macchiato.”
Alex arches a brow, sliding a cappuccino toward another customer without breaking eye contact. “Uh-huh. You say that every time.”
“And one of these days I just might mean it,” Harold shoots back, tapping his cane against the counter.
“Sure you will,” Alex says, rolling her eyes. “That’s why you’ve been parked on that same stool every morning since the Stone Age. Face it, Harold—you’d miss me too much.”
“Miss you?” He scoffs. “I live across the hall from you, for crying out loud. Can’t even check my mail without you yelling about my recycling.”
“That’s because you don’t recycle,” she fires back, grabbing the carafe and a clean mug as she keeps talking over her shoulder. “And because you are a menace.”
Harold lays on the dramatics—slouching forward, chin tucked to his chest, lower lip jutting out like a five-year-old denied dessert. He gives the counter another pitiful little tap with his cane for effect.
“Menace or not,” he says with a sigh, “a paying customer should get what he wants. And what I want is my caramel macchiato.”
“And what you’re getting,” Alex says, setting a steaming cup in front of him with finality, “is black coffee. Two Sweet’N Lows. No caramel. No nothing. Doctor’s orders.”
He heaves another exaggerated sigh, eyes wide and wounded. “You hate me.”
“I love you,” she says simply, grinning at his theatrics. “That’s why I want you alive.”
“Already lost again, Harold?” a voice chimes in. A middle-aged woman steps up to the counter, giving Harold a knowing smirk.
“Don’t rub it in,” Harold grumbles, but Alex doesn’t miss the way he sits up straighter, shoulders tugged back like he’s suddenly twenty years younger. And is that—oh, yes. A flush creeping up his neck.
Alex hides her grin behind the steam wand, pretending to fuss with the milk. “He hasn’t given up yet, Mrs. Jacobs. Give it another few years—maybe he’ll wear me down. If he manages to stay away from the pastries long enough to make it.”
Mrs. Jacobs chuckles, Harold just shakes his head, and Alex huffs out a breath, brushing a loose strand of her golden blonde hair back behind her ear before pivoting, muscle memory carrying her to a clean cup, while her attention never really leaves the counter.
“You should know by now there’s no getting around Alex,” Mrs. Jacobs says, her smirk widening.
Alex lets her own smirk slip this time. “He’ll figure it out eventually.” She lifts a finger in the woman’s direction, already reaching for another mug. “Large Americano, splash of oat milk, no room. Sound familiar?”
Mrs. Jacobs beams, delighted. “Right on the money.”
“See? She memorizes everybody’s business,” Harold tells the lady, only half serious. She can hear the amusement threaded in his voice.
“And that’s why we love her.”
Alex smirks, half-listening as the two of them slip into easy chatter. She barks another order toward the back—“Danny, those muffins aren’t gonna restock themselves!”—then moves to finish Mrs. Jacobs’ Americano before sliding the cup across the counter in one clean motion.
This is what she does. What she’s good at. Running the place with a towel over her shoulder and a joke always ready. Keeping the staff moving, the customers laughing, the whole café buzzing like it’s running on pure caffeine. She never planned on being a café manager, but here she is. And honestly? It could be worse.
Of course, it could definitely be better.
But whatever, she’s not complaining. She’s got a job, friends, and a roof over her head in one of the most expensive cities in the world. That should count as winning, even if she’s creeping toward thirty and nowhere near the kind of ‘stable’ people keep talking about. Stable job, stable income, stable relationship—pick one. She’s got none.
Not that she’s not trying, but in this economy? Stability costs money, and she’s barely making enough to keep herself caffeinated. Add that to the fact her so-called dream job is acting, she might as well buy a lottery ticket and expect the same result. She knows the odds, knows how impossible it is to actually make a living out of drama. But she’s already sunk too much time, money, and pride into it to back out now. What’s the alternative? Be practical? Get a ‘real’ career?
Please.
Besides, acting is the only thing that ever made sense to her. She’s good at people—reading them, slipping into their skin, figuring out what makes them tick. The café gives her practice, sure, but the stage is where she feels most like herself, ironically enough.
Still, reality’s reality. Odds are she’ll be running this café for years, juggling lattes and sarcasm while the rest of the world whispers about when she’s finally going to ‘settle down.’ As if that’s the goal.
Once, in the checkout line at the supermarket, a woman gave her a long look and announced she was wasting her beauty and her ‘good years’—like she was supposed to be cashing them in before they expire.
Alex never bought into that crap.
And besides, she likes how she looks. Hazel-green eyes, strong brows, a handful of tattoos that actually mean something and septum piercing that got her grounded for half of her sophomore year—those are hers. She’s not tall, not particularly thin, but she’s pretty enough. And if anyone thinks otherwise, well… There are plenty of boys—and girls—who could testify she’s been putting her so-called ‘good years’ to excellent use.
It’s not even that she doesn’t want marriage. She does. Eventually. Just not on a damn timer. She’s twenty-nine, not ninety. The real kicker is how everyone zeroes in on the ‘husband’ part, like it’s already filled in on the form. But Alex isn’t exactly straight. Her last relationship—a two-year disaster with a guy—was enough to swear her off men for the foreseeable future. She swings both ways, sure. But right now? She’s swinging as far from penises as physics will allow.
So yeah. Pick your poison: the pressure to start a family, the impossible odds of her acting dream, or the economy making adulthood feel like one long scam. Who’s she kidding? She’s far more likely to end up single, with three cats and an encyclopedic knowledge of oat milk brands.
“You will not believe who’s shooting a new show in New York!”
The voice cuts straight through her thoughts. Alex looks up just in time to catch a blur of red hair blowing past customers as Sam barrels through the café and drops onto the stool beside Harold like she’s been shot out of a cannon.
“Good morning to you too,” Alex says dryly, folding her arms across the counter.
Sam waves her off. “Oh, please, you saw me this morning already.” She leans in, lowering her voice but not her enthusiasm. “Anyway. Sabina Moretti. East Ninth Street. They’re filming there. I walked right by the set. She was there. Like—thirty feet away. But still. Gorgeous.”
“Sabina Moretti?” Harold perks up, cane tapping the counter. “She’s still on that one comedy show?”
“No, Harold,” Sam groans like he’s just insulted her religion. “That ended ages ago. This is something new.” She tries to keep talking, but instead just flaps her hands, eyes wide, practically hyperventilating.
“Breathe, baby,” Alex says, smirking as she grabs another cup.
Sam shoots her a glare. “Oh, come on—like you wouldn’t lose it if you saw her live.”
“From thirty feet away,” Alex reminds her.
“Still the most beautiful creature on the planet, thank you very much,” Sam declares, clutching at her chest like she might faint on the counter.
Mrs. Jacobs, halfway through her coffee, chimes in, eyes bright. “Sabina Moretti? Oh, she is stunning. And still working? Good for her.”
Alex keeps her expression neutral, but inside she gets it. She really does.
Sabina Moretti is basically New York royalty. The woman is one of those rare people who somehow looked even better in her fifties than she had in her thirties. Long, wavy brown hair that never seemed out of place no matter the humidity, sun-warmed skin that glowed even under bad lighting, a body that carried itself with the kind of confidence you couldn’t fake.
She wasn’t Hollywood-thin, never had been, and that only made her more magnetic—curves, presence, the kind of posture that said she knew exactly how many eyes were on her and didn’t mind one bit.
And it wasn’t just the looks. Sabina had the reputation to match—funny, sharp, and genuinely kind, which in this city was rarer than a rent-controlled apartment. She’d been around for decades but somehow managed to keep herself out of the tabloids. No messy divorces, no scandals, no screaming matches caught on tape.
If her name made the news, it was for another Emmy, or for showing up at a fundraiser, or producing some heart-wrenching documentary about kids halfway across the world. Every New Yorker knew she gave time and money to charity, and plenty of them had a story about running into her at a coffee shop or park and swearing she was ‘the nicest, most down-to-earth person you’ll ever meet.’
And, because the universe apparently likes to rub it in, she had the perfect family to match. A husband who was just as respected—some big-deal theater director with the kind of pedigree only old New York money could buy—two kids who somehow managed to be both photogenic and well-adjusted, and a brownstone that probably looked like a magazine spread inside. It was almost offensive, how flawless she seemed, like the universe had skipped right past ‘balance’ and gone straight to ‘give her everything.’
Does Alex have a crush on her? Of course she does. So does half the city. Nothing special about that.
“She’s amazing,” Sam gushes, still catching her breath. “Talented, beautiful, kind…”
“You’re drooling,” Alex says, smirking as she leans her hip against the counter.
“Fuck you!” Sam snaps, waving her hand dramatically. “So would you, if you were there.”
“Doesn’t she always shoot things in the city?” Mrs. Jacobs asks, setting her coffee down with interest.
“She used to,” Alex says, keeping half an eye on Danny fumbling with the croissant tray. “Back when she was on Good Morning, Manhattan. Then she took that three-year hiatus. Coincidentally, right around the time Sam here moved to New York.”
“God is cruel,” Sam sighs, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s in mourning.
Mrs. Jacobs chuckles. “So that’s the first time you saw her, then?”
“Yeah. But this is the new show.” Sam leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That political drama she’s shooting with that friend of hers, Anthony Collins.”
That earns Mrs. Jacobs’ full attention. “Anthony Collins? Are you serious? And they’re filming this close to here? He was my absolute crush in the late nineties. Lord, my ex-husband used to get so jealous.”
“Oh, please,” Harold snorts, shifting on his stool and tapping his cane against the counter. “Never thought he was much of a big deal. He came into the dealership once when I was working there—real piece of work. Rude as hell.”
Alex rolls her eyes so hard she’s surprised they don’t stick. “You’ve told us that story a thousand times, Harold.”
“And I’ll tell it a million more,” he says, smug as ever.
“How close is the shooting from here?” Mrs. Jacobs asks, leaning forward eagerly.
“A few blocks,” Sam says, still buzzing. “But I heard they were wrapping up early.”
“Probably because she has to get ready for Cannes,” Alex mutters, grabbing a towel and busying herself with a perfectly clean section of counter. “That big prestige drama she’s in? The one critics are already calling Oscar bait?”
Mrs. Jacobs narrows her eyes at her. “And how do you know so much about her?”
Alex feels the heat creep up her neck. “I like the show.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah, right. Don’t let her fool you. She might act all cool, but Alex here has a massive crush on Sabina Moretti.”
Alex shoots her a glare. “I like. The show.”
“Sure,” Sam says, smirking.
Harold tilts his head. “What is it with you lesbians and older women?”
“Ever heard of MILF, Harold?” Sam fires back without missing a beat.
“Sam!” Alex hisses, snapping her head around to make sure no one in line overheard. Her ears are on fire, her glare sharp enough to kill—but Sam’s grin only widens.
Mrs. Jacobs blinks. “What’s a MILF?”
Before Alex can combust on the spot, Harold waves a hand, a little desperately. “Doesn’t matter, Elaine. Just some nonsense slang the kids use.”
Alex seizes the opening like a lifeline. “Anyway—Sam. Why are you here? Don’t you have, like, a job?”
“Oh! Right.” Sam digs into her bag and pulls out a battered phone with a triumphant flourish. “You forgot this. It’s been ringing off the hook all morning.”
Alex frowns. “I didn’t forget it, I left it there. That thing is no better than a landline with a screen, considering how often it has to stay plugged in just to keep breathing.”
“Which begs the eternal question,” Sam says sweetly, “why don’t you just buy a new one?”
“Because, in case you missed it, I don’t exactly have five hundred bucks lying around in my sock drawer,” Alex shoots back. She snatches the phone, thumb already flicking across the cracked screen. “So? Who was it—my mom?”
Sam squints at her, like she’s still rolling the name around in her head. “Uh… Eliot Cornwell? I don’t know who that is, but he called, like, three times. Thought it might be important.”
Alex blinks, her chest tightening—the tiniest flutter skipping through her ribs. Eliot Cornwell. That was… something. He’d been her teacher in one of those acting workshops back in March. A producer. Kind of aloof, sure, but well connected, the sort of guy who always seemed like he knew people who knew people. He’d taken a bit of a liking to her, even lingered after class to give notes no one else got.
But still—why the hell would he be calling her?
Her stomach swoops, equal parts excitement and dread. It could be anything. A favor. A wrong number. Something stupid. She can’t get her hopes up.
“I need to take this,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady.
Danny’s already hovering near the pastry case, and she jerks her chin at him. “Hold the counter for me.”
The kid straightens instantly, chest puffing like she just knighted him. “Got it, boss.”
Alex pushes through the swinging door, the café noise fading as she winds past the kitchen and into the cramped backroom. Her pulse hammers in her ears as she presses “call back,” lifts the phone, waits.
One ring. Two. Three.
“Miss Parker!” Eliot’s voice bursts through, warm and sharp all at once. “Hi! You got my calls?”
Alex forces her voice steady, polite. “Hi, Mr. Cornwell. Yeah, I got them. Is… is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, no.” He sounds brisk, distracted, like he’s already doing three things at once. “Tell me, what are you doing this afternoon?”
She inhales sharply, heartbeat spiking up. Well, technically, her shift ends at three. After that, she is supposed to meet some theater friends for a couple of off-Broadway plays—her half-hearted way of keeping a foot in the scene. But the truth? Gone were the days she could bounce from show to drinks to some actor’s cramped after-party without feeling like she’d been run over.
“Nothing important,” she says, too careful, too casual.
“Good.” A pause, then: “There’s a screen test. Fairly big production. They’ve been struggling to cast one of the supporting roles, and the breakdown matches your profile. I slipped them your name. If you go, just mention I referred you.”
Alex’s heart jolts, then races.
Screen test.
Not a cattle call, not an open audition where you’re lucky to even be seen. A fucking screen test.
“Yes,” she blurts, way too quickly. She clears her throat, tries to sand down the edges. “I mean—yeah. Absolutely. That would be… good.”
“Excellent,” Cornwell says, unfazed. “I’ll send you the details. Time, location. It’s a closed audition, but keep in mind—it’s no guarantee. At the very least, it’s experience.”
For a second, Alex almost blurts out that she’s had plenty of experience, thank you very much. Ten years in this city, endless workshops, auditions, background work, all of it piling up like scraps in a drawer. She swallows it down. No way she’s about to push her luck.
“Thank you,” she says instead, her voice softer than she means it to be.
They hang up.
Two seconds later, her phone buzzes. Midtown address. Four o’clock. Headshot required. Nothing else—not even a project name.
Alex stares at the screen, standing frozen in what’s probably the least glamorous room in Manhattan. The fridge hums like it’s dying, fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the air smells permanently of burnt coffee. If fate was going to tilt her world, of course it would be here. Figures.
She checks the wall clock. She has just over five hours to survive lunch rush, shut the place down, and sprint west. If she hustles, she can lock the door by 3:40, cut through Union Square, dodge tourists, and hit Midtown on foot with minutes to spare. Doable.
Stressful as hell, but doable.
Her chest feels tight anyway. It’s not like she’s new at this—let’s be real, she’s done this dance too many times to count. Folders stuffed with headshots, muttering lines on subway rides, waiting in dingy hallways for her two minutes in front of a casting director who’ll forget her face before dinner. Ninety-nine auditions out of a hundred go nowhere. She knows that. She expects that.
But a referral? That’s different. That means somebody remembered her. Said her name out loud in a room that mattered. That should be worth something.
She forces herself to breathe, forces herself not to start building castles out of smoke. Odds are this is just another audition. Probably nothing. Another almost. But that thought feels flimsy, paper-thin. Because under all the cynicism she’s built up, something stubborn stirs—quiet, steady, bone-deep.
This—whatever it is—could be very much not nothing.
So, she clings to that.
With both hands.