Living The Dream
Eleven Years Ago, A Parker Tech Department Store.
Downtown Cambridge, Mass, Central Square.
Nia carefully repackaged the refurbished laptop, sealing it with a neat strip of tape and a silent prayer that this time Mr. Baker would keep his browsing habits out of malware-infested territory. He was one of their regulars, shuffling into the store every few months with a sheepish smile and a laptop so riddled with viruses it could qualify for quarantine.
Every few months, she’d go through the same routine: wipe his not-so-hidden stash of porn, cleanse his hard drive of enough malware to make her want to bathe in hand sanitizer, and reboot his system. It was tedious, sure, but a job was a job—and she needed this one.
Grad school wasn’t going to pay for itself, and as much as she hated working at Parker Tech, it was a goldmine of practical experience. If nothing else, it gave her plenty of material for eye-roll-inducing anecdotes.
“Here you go, Mr. Baker. Good as new… again,” she announced, sliding the laptop across the counter with a practiced smile that was equal parts professional and please, stop doing this.
Mr. Baker gave her a timid smile in return, mumbling his thanks as he shuffled out like a squirrel hoarding acorns. Once he was out the door, Nia reached for her trusty bottle of hand sanitizer, liberally coating her hands. You couldn’t be too careful, not after handling one of his machines.
A glance at the clock made her heart lighten. Shift over. With a satisfied sigh, she clocked out and headed home, her steps quick and purposeful. Tonight, she and her roommate, Imani, were hitting up a massive mixer day for Harvard and MIT students—a rare chance to let loose and pretend she wasn’t perpetually drowning in coursework and side gigs.
As a kid, MIT had been the dream. She’d worked her ass off to make it a reality, clawing her way through every obstacle life threw at her. Hours of studying, relentless applications, and endless nights dreaming about her future—all fueled by her adopted dad, Calvin. He’d been her biggest supporter, dragging himself to every MIT event she begged to attend, cheering her on like she was already a student.
When he passed, her world nearly fell apart, but the dream? That stayed alive. She’d made it. For herself. For him.
Now, it was just her and that dream, with no family to speak of. She didn’t often dwell on it—she’d learned early on that self-pity didn’t pay the bills. Growing up in the projects of Brooklyn, it had always been just her and Calvin. That was enough. And then, for a brief, shining moment, Imani and her family moved in next door, and Nia got a taste of what having a real friend felt like.
When Imani’s mom remarried a successful lawyer and moved her family out of the projects, Nia assumed their friendship would end. But surprisingly, Imani’s mom seemed to like her, even going so far as to invite Nia along for family trips and dinners. Those moments—however fleeting—gave her a glimpse of belonging she rarely allowed herself to yearn for.
But tonight wasn’t about the past or what she didn’t have. It was about dressing up, letting loose, and, if the universe was kind, sipping a drink that wasn’t paid for by her part-time job at Parker Tech.
Nia had carried on the tradition with Imani when she got into Harvard Law and Nia landed her spot at MIT. Something was grounding about having a best friend who understood both the life she was running from and the life she was sprinting toward.
When Calvin passed, it was Imani’s mom and stepdad who stepped in, giving Nia the stability she needed to finish high school and claw her way into college. She owed them everything. Without their support, she might not be here—on this path, living this dream, chasing everything Calvin had believed she could achieve.
The buzz of excitement was palpable when she got back to the apartment she shared with Imani. Wasting no time, Nia dove into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the day. She was halfway through drying off when she heard the door slam open. Imani was home, and judging by the rapid-fire energy radiating from the hallway, she was ready to drag Nia out of the apartment immediately.
Imani was usually the calm one in their trio—her, Nia, and Imani’s sister, Avana—but when she was itching to get somewhere, she turned into a human tornado. This was one of those moments.
Times like these made Nia miss Avana’s chaotic energy. When Avana was around, Imani focused her efforts on keeping her sister from getting them arrested—or banned from yet another venue. But Avana was currently in San Francisco, spending the holiday weekend with her boyfriend Kayden and his picture-perfect family. Which left Nia to bear the full brunt of Imani’s pre-party hype.
“Nia! Girl, you better be ready—we gotta go!” Imani called, her voice carrying from the front door as she slammed it shut behind her.
“Almost!” Nia yelled back. “But I’m stuck on colors!”
She stepped out of her room, holding up two options for Imani’s expert opinion: an orange v-neck halter top that skimmed just above her belly button or an oversized Dipset shirt she’d stolen from an ex and refused to return out of principle.
“Which one?” Nia asked, wiggling the tops for effect.
“The orange one,” Imani said immediately, her face lighting up. “You always look good in orange. Plus, if there are any fine-ass men there, you gotta be ready.” She raised an eyebrow and gave Nia a knowing smirk. “Especially you. You’ve been single for months now. It’s time we get you back in the game. Do you even remember how to flirt?”
Nia rolled her eyes, tossing the Dipset shirt onto her bed. “Please, flirting is like riding a bike. I just haven’t been… motivated.”
“Well, tonight’s the night,” Imani declared, hands on her hips like a coach prepping her star player. “And if you’re not motivated by the end of the night, I’m going to start taking applications for you myself.”
“Oh, so you’ve got jokes now?” Nia shot back, rolling her eyes in exaggerated annoyance, though the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.
She tossed the oversized shirt onto the couch with a dramatic flourish and held up the halter-neck top. “Fine, you win. I’ll go with this. And you’re right—I do always look amazing in orange,” she added with a wink, the corners of her mouth quirking up in mock arrogance.
“Damn right, you do. Now get it on and let’s go!” Imani urged, practically bouncing on her toes. “You know the caramel apples disappear if you’re late!”
Nia raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Girl, are you seriously dragging me to this thing for caramel apples?”
“Caramel apples and fine-ass men,” Imani corrected, waving her hands in an exaggerated shooing motion. “Now hurry up before both are gone!”
“Okay, okay! Relax before you sprain something,” Nia laughed, shaking her head as she threw on the crop top.
Grabbing her keys and her purse, she shoved her phone into the back pocket of her faded gray, high-waisted mini skirt. “Happy now?” she teased, striking a quick pose as if she were about to grace the cover of a fashion magazine.
“Ecstatic,” Imani quipped with a grin, already halfway to the door. “Now move it, diva. The caramel apples—and the men—won’t wait forever!”
With a playful roll of her eyes, Nia followed her out. It wasn’t every day she let herself be dragged to one of these things, but tonight? She was ready to see what all the fuss was about.
“Okay, I’ll grab some ride tickets while you keep trying—and failing—at Skeeball,” Imani teased, her grin as sharp as ever.
“I’m just rusty, okay?” Nia shot back, narrowing her eyes at her best friend’s retreating figure.
Imani laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender as she backed away. Left to her own devices, Nia refocused on the game, determined to reclaim at least a shred of dignity. She hadn’t played since her Fridays with Calvin, back when skeeball was their thing—a ritual to unwind after his shifts at the precinct. But that was nearly a decade ago, and her rust was on full display as she struggled to land a single decent shot.
She lined up another throw, but a sudden shift in the air made her falter. Goosebumps rose along her arms, and she instinctively blamed the dropping evening temperature. Nia shook it off, rolling her shoulders and trying again. The ball veered slightly better this time, but it was still far from impressive.
“Keep your wrist fluid,” a deep, smooth voice suggested from behind her.
Normally, Nia would have whipped around with a razor-sharp comeback, something snarky to put the guy in his place. But this time, she froze. The goosebumps prickling her skin doubled down, her pulse kicking into overdrive like it was running a marathon. How a voice alone could have that effect, she had no idea—but the moment she turned to face the stranger, she forgot all about his voice.
