Chapter 1
The trick to surviving a Monday morning on campus is timing your coffee run so that you hit the window right after the yoga girls, but before the pre-law dudes start their debate over whether a flat white is “too feminine” for a future litigator. I have this down to an art. I can even predict, based on the presence of pastel leggings and emotional support water bottles, exactly when my favorite table by the window will open up.
I plant myself there with the precision of a Navy SEAL, then proceed to spill half the contents of my backpack across its sticky surface. I am nothing if not consistent. Today’s casualties: three textbooks, a half-destroyed spiral notebook, and the ancient, dented laptop that’s as much a fixture in my life as my inability to say “no” to sprinkles on anything. I’m already sweating through my cardigan, but there’s a certain power in staking out territory on the academic battlefield, especially when caffeine is at stake.
The coffee shop is called Brewed Awakening, which makes me smile every time even though it’s such a dad joke of a name. The walls are a rotating gallery of student art, mostly moody watercolors and self-portraits that look like Tim Burton fever dreams. The air smells like burnt toast and caramel syrup. The background soundtrack is equal parts lofi beats and the hum of espresso machines, punctuated by the occasional shout of a name that is never, ever pronounced correctly. I don’t know why, but my name is always “Allyson” here, even though it’s spelled right there on my loyalty card. I’ve given up fighting it.
I glance at the line, relieved to see the usual suspects and not the Rugby Team of Doom (they once ordered thirty protein smoothies and clogged the register for half an hour, a day that lives in campus infamy). I have time. I uncap my phone, which is immediately bombarded by notifications. It’s like the universe is trying to make sure I never experience even one second of silence.
First up: an Instagram update from my friend Bailey. I brace myself, because Bailey’s life is a highlight reel of things I theoretically could do, if I were not constrained by time, money, or my own fundamental lack of chill.
Bailey is currently in Santorini, standing on a balcony that might as well have been built specifically for influencer thirst traps. She’s in a floppy straw hat, white linen dress, sunglasses larger than my actual face. Her caption is, “Manifesting love, wine, and sunsets. #blessed #wanderlust” and the photo has approximately three million likes, including mine, because even though I hate myself for it, I’m also an enabler.
Underneath, there’s a comment from her “travel soulmate,” aka her boyfriend of exactly two weeks, who somehow scored a free ticket to Greece and now refers to Bailey as “my Greek goddess.” I can’t decide if this makes me want to gag or swoon, so I opt for both. My thumb hesitates over the like button. I wonder, not for the first time, how long Bailey’s relationships would last if she weren’t always in places that look like screensavers.
Next in my doom scroll: A post from my old neighbor, Lucy, who is also traveling the world, but in more of a rugged, Eat Pray Love kind of way. Today’s update is a blurry, close-up selfie taken from the back of a scooter in Bali. There’s a monkey on her shoulder, and I’m pretty sure she’s mid-scream. Her face is red and she’s not wearing makeup. She looks happy. This makes me feel weirdly guilty for being indoors, in a cardigan, refreshing TikTok videos of cats who can open doors.
I swipe to a story from my best friend from high school, Elle. Her posts are never about travel; she’s been in the same city, with the same boyfriend, since we graduated. But somehow, she keeps finding new ways to make their relationship look like a Nora Ephron movie. Today’s story is a boomerang of them clinking mugs at a tiny French bakery downtown, and in the background you can see the boyfriend’s hand, with a ring box very clearly visible, even though Elle tries to play it cool in the captions. “Guess who’s got a surprise?” There’s a heart emoji. I click through the rest of her stories like I’m skipping chapters of a novel I already know the ending to.
There are worse things than having successful, beautiful friends, but sometimes I wish one of them would have a public meltdown just to balance the scales. Not super public—I’m not a monster—just public enough to see the little cracks in an otherwise perfect picture. Just enough to remind me it’s real life, not the movie version where everything’s tasteful and every moment lands exactly on cue.
My phone vibrates with a DM from Bailey: “You would LOVE this place, seriously. They do cold brew with a hint of rosewater?? Also, the men here are dreamy. I’m picking one out for you.”
She’s never going to let the soul mate thing go.
I set the phone face-down, feeling a twist of envy that’s as familiar as my favorite old sweater. The reality is, I don’t even have time for a relationship, not with classes and work and my side hustle (hand-painting sneakers for people who think Etsy is a personality type). But I want one anyway. It’s like being lactose intolerant and eating pizza—you know it’s going to end badly, but the craving always wins.
I reach for my textbook, intending to do the responsible, grown-up thing and study, but I get distracted by a couple sitting two tables over. He’s wearing a beanie and reading a book with no cover, which is either a power move or evidence of a tragic loss. She’s sipping something out of a mason jar and drawing in a battered sketchbook. They look so at ease with each other, like they’ve run out of things to be nervous about. It’s the kind of comfort that comes from being together so long, you’ve merged into a single organism that feeds off caffeine and mutual inside jokes.
I try to picture myself like that. In every scenario, my hypothetical boyfriend is a) taller than me, b) impossibly witty, c) able to make breakfast in bed without burning the apartment down. I imagine our inside jokes, the easy way I’d lean on his shoulder, the Instagram stories that would make Bailey proud. I can’t decide if this fantasy makes me pathetic or aspirational. Maybe both.
I’m yanked out of my reverie by the sound of my name.
“Allyson? Caramel latte, extra whip?” The barista waves the cup in the air with a flourish, like he’s presenting a Tony Award.
“That’s me!” I call, elbowing my way past a group of freshmen debating whether oat milk is a scam. I accept the cup with a smile, and the barista winks at me. It’s probably just his customer service face, but I allow myself to believe it’s more. It’s the little things.
I take my seat, triumphant, and peel back the lid. The first sip is magic, a flood of sugar and nostalgia and pure, undiluted hope. For a second, I let myself believe that anything is possible.
Then I check my phone, and Bailey has already posted another story—this time, it’s a boomerang of her and her boyfriend kissing under a sky full of lanterns.
I roll my eyes so hard, I almost get dizzy, but I like the post anyway.
Because that’s what friends do.
*
I’m halfway through my caramel latte and a debate with myself about whether to double up on caffeine (verdict: obviously yes) when I notice him. Not the beanie guy from before, but a new arrival. He’s standing at the counter, talking to the barista, and I immediately clock three things:
1. He’s wearing a denim jacket that looks authentically vintage, not the fake kind you buy at Urban Outfitters with the tags still attached.
2. His hair is the precise shade of brown that would be boring on anyone else, but on him, it’s almost heroic.
3. He’s quoting poetry. In public. On purpose.
I lean back, pretending to study, but really I’m angling to hear what he’s saying.
“I just think the whole point of the poem is that love isn’t supposed to be perfect,” he tells the barista, who is valiantly trying to pull a shot without looking like she’s about to swoon. “It’s messy, and sometimes it sucks, but it’s worth it anyway.”
The barista nods, but it’s clear she’s only catching every other word, mostly because she’s pouring oat milk like it’s rocket fuel. The guy, undeterred, continues: “My friend is reading at the open mic tonight. You should come. It’s at the campus library, but, you know, less lame than that sounds.”
He turns and leans against the counter, arms folded. I’m close enough to see a faded patch on his jacket, a sewn-on piece that reads “NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST.” I want to hate how perfectly cliché it is, but my inner rom-com heroine has already started writing our wedding vows.
He glances around the shop, and I duck behind my textbook like a coward. Did he catch me looking? Maybe he did. Maybe I want him to.
The barista says, “Name for the order?”
He smiles—a real, non-smirky smile. “Simon.”
Simon.
I taste-test the name in my head. It works. It’s unpretentious. It’s classic. I approve.
He grabs his coffee (black, no sugar, so obviously he’s the strong-and-brooding type) and heads to a two-top near the window. He pulls out a battered notebook, starts scribbling in it with such intensity that I’m briefly concerned he might be composing a manifesto.
I check my phone again, under the pretense of looking at study notes, but my brain is now a hamster wheel of possibilities. I imagine approaching him, launching into some witty banter about the existential despair of espresso shots. Maybe I’ll “accidentally” spill something near his table and spark a conversation, just like in those meet-cute YouTube compilations I pretend not to binge.
My pulse is doing double time. This is ridiculous. I haven’t even spoken to him, and already I’m picturing our first fight (he’ll brood, I’ll be dramatic, we’ll make up in the rain). But what if this is the moment—the one all my friends post about, the “we met at a coffee shop and the rest is history” moment?
I’m so deep in my own fantasy that I almost miss Simon getting up and heading for the napkin dispenser, which is—oh my god—directly next to my table.
I have exactly three seconds to think of something smart to say.
I go with, “Hey, is that a Tolkien reference on your jacket, or are you just, like, really bad with directions?”
He laughs, and the sound is warm enough to make me forget my own name for a second. “Little bit of both,” he says. “Mostly, I just wander into coffee shops.”
I’m grinning like an idiot. “That’s a solid life strategy.”
He glances at my open notebook. “You a writer?”
“No, I just… take really dramatic notes,” I say, then instantly regret how lame that sounds. “You?”
He shrugs. “I dabble. Mostly poetry. I’m supposed to read something tonight, but I’ll probably chicken out.”
“Are you kidding?” I say, channeling my inner motivational speaker. “Poetry readings are the most romantic thing ever. People would kill for that kind of attention.”
Simon raises his eyebrows. “You think so?”
I nod. “Absolutely. It’s, like, peak vulnerability. Also, girls love guys who read poetry.”
He looks at me, just for a moment, like he’s really seeing me. “Noted.”
He grabs his napkins, gives me a little salute, and returns to his seat. I’m pretty sure I black out for a full minute from the adrenaline.
This is it, I think. This is my meet-cute.
I check my reflection in the laptop screen, try to fix the disaster that is my bangs, and start plotting how to run into him again before the reading. Maybe I’ll even go. Maybe I’ll ask him to save me a seat. Or maybe I’ll just keep sitting here, sipping my latte, waiting for destiny to work its magic.
But for the first time in forever, I’m genuinely excited to see what happens next.
*
I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to look busy, but I’m really just waiting for an opening. My heart is tap dancing in my chest. I check my phone compulsively, read the same paragraph in my textbook four times, and even doodle a heart in the margin, which I immediately scratch out because I am not actually thirteen, despite evidence to the contrary.
Every so often, I sneak glances at Simon. He’s a focused scribbler, the type who bites his lip when he’s deep in thought. Once, he looks up and our eyes meet, and I instantly look away, my cheeks heating up like a busted space heater. Smooth, Allison. Really smooth.
After a solid five minutes of self-psyching-up (including but not limited to: positive affirmations, imaginary pep talks from Michelle Obama, and mentally playing “Eye of the Tiger”), I finally decide to go for it. Mostly because one more look at my phone told me I had to move within the next 5 minutes if I didn’t want to be late to class. Worst case scenario: I make a fool of myself, which is basically my brand at this point. Best case: we fall madly in love, get married in a vineyard, and name our firstborn after an obscure French philosopher.
I gather my courage, grab my latte (my emotional support beverage), and casually sidle over to Simon’s table. He looks up, pen paused mid-thought.
“Hey, poetry guy,” I say, before my brain can veto the nickname breezy or like I’ve forgotten his name. “Mind if I join you?”
He gestures to the empty chair. “Please do. I could use a distraction.”
I slide into the seat, immediately aware that my knees are knocking against the underside of the table. “So,” I say, “what’s the open mic scene like? I always picture it as… I don’t know, a bunch of dudes with acoustic guitars and strong opinions about Bob Dylan.”
Simon grins. “Honestly, that’s not far off. But it’s mostly people reading their own stuff. Some of it’s surprisingly good. Sometimes it’s just people ranting about capitalism, but, you know, with feeling.”
I laugh. “That’s my favorite genre, actually. Anti-capitalist rants set to interpretive dance.”
He snorts. “You’re not wrong. There was this one guy last week—full body paint, recited a poem about Amazon warehouses while doing yoga.”
I clutch my chest in mock agony. “See, now I’m sad I missed that.”
He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You should come tonight. I’ll protect you from the interpretive dancers.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Are you… are you inviting me on a poetry date?”
Simon blushes, and it’s so adorable that I’m momentarily stunned. “Uh, yeah. If you want. You don’t have to read or anything. Just… you know, be there.”
I’m so busy swooning that I almost miss the crucial moment where I’m supposed to respond. Instead, I make the fatal mistake of taking a giant sip of my latte, forgetting that when I get excited, my grip strength increases exponentially.
The cup crumples. A geyser of caramel latte erupts, hitting the table, my notebook, and—oh, god—my lap. It’s a direct hit, maximum splash zone. The entire coffee shop goes silent for a half-second as the disaster unfolds in slow motion.
“Oh my god,” I say, voice three octaves too high. “I’m so sorry—I—”
Simon is on his feet instantly, offering napkins and trying not to laugh. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Happens to the best of us.”
I’m mopping at my jeans, which are now marinated in sticky caramel, and trying not to cry or spontaneously combust. “I swear I’m not usually this… hazardous.”
Simon’s smile is sympathetic. “If it makes you feel better, I once knocked an entire pitcher of sangria onto my professor. In front of the whole class.”
I blink, the image softening my embarrassment by 0.001 percent. “Did you at least get an A for effort?”
He grins. “She said I left a lasting impression.”
A laugh bubbles up despite the mess. The barista materializes with more napkins and a replacement latte, and I thank her with what is probably the most mortified smile in human history.
Simon is looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing in the room, and for a second, I believe I might actually be. “So,” he says, “does this mean you’ll come tonight? I promise to keep you at a safe distance from all beverages.”
I gather the last shreds of my dignity, straighten my now-damp cardigan, and say, “You know what? I’d love that.”
We exchange numbers. I give him one last smile before hurrying out of the café, late for class but grinning anyway. My hands are sticky, my heart’s a little lighter — because sometimes, the mess is part of the magic.And this? This was definitely, sort of, maybe… a pretty great meet-cute.
