Head into town

You glance at the Grounded Coffee email, read the first line—We'd love to meet you today! Can you come in around 2pm?—and close it without replying. You've pulled espresso shots in a dingy campus café for two years. You've had milk steam burns up both forearms. You've smiled through someone ordering a "venti half-caf soy vanilla latte with extra foam but not TOO much foam" at 7 AM on a Monday. You are not eager to do that again, even if the tips might be better when you look like this.

The other two will call. It's day one. You have time.

You finish the latte, rinse the cup in the sink—your movements precise, wrist flicking water droplets away—and check yourself in the dark reflection of the kitchen window. The chignon is still sleek. The winged liner hasn't smudged. The crimson lips gleam under the overhead lights. You look like someone who has somewhere to be.

You do have somewhere to be. You just haven't admitted it yet.

You grab the structured handbag, tuck your phone inside, and head for the front door. The heels click a steady rhythm on the hardwood, the pencil skirt swishing with each measured stride. HAVEN senses your approach and the front door swings open automatically.

"Have a pleasant outing, Chloe. Current temperature is sixty-eight degrees with light cloud cover. I'll keep the house secured."

The morning air hits you as you step onto the stone pathway. Cool but not cold—perfect for the wool-blend skirt and silk blouse. The estate grounds stretch around you: manicured hedges, a circular driveway, the distant shimmer of the pool behind the house. The wrought-iron gate at the road stands open, as it always does during daylight hours.

You begin walking. The country road is empty in both directions, lined with old oaks and split-rail fencing. Your heels find the asphalt's center line and hold it, the pointed toes clicking a metronome beat. The corset keeps your posture impeccable—you couldn't slouch if you tried. The garter straps shift with each step, tiny adjustments of tension across your thighs.

This is just familiarization. You need to know where things are. For when you get a job.

But your pulse is elevated, and it's not from exertion. You're aware of yourself in a way you've never been—aware of the sway the pencil skirt forces, aware of how the breeze catches the loose pieces of hair framing your jaw, aware of the weight of the handbag on your forearm and the gold chain cool against your collarbone.

Twenty minutes in, a pickup truck passes heading the opposite direction. The driver—a weathered man in a baseball cap—glances over. His eyes linger for a beat too long. You feel it like a physical thing, that brief appraisal. He doesn't honk. Doesn't catcall. Just... looks. And then he's gone.

He saw a woman walking alone on a country road. That's all.

Your cheeks warm beneath the blush.

The walk takes fifty-three minutes. By the time Main Street comes into view—a compact stretch of storefronts with awnings and hanging flower baskets—your calves are burning and your arches ache in a way that makes you understand why Chloe has a shoe collection instead of just one pair. But you haven't stumbled. You haven't broken stride.

Main Street is quiet for a weekday morning. A few people move between shops: a woman pushing a stroller, an older man reading a newspaper on a bench, a teenager on a bicycle. You step onto the sidewalk and immediately feel different. Not wrong—noticed. A woman watering petunias outside a florist looks up and offers a small, automatic smile. You return it without thinking, your crimson lips curving.

Across the street, a café with a hand-painted sign reading GROUNDED occupies a corner spot, its outdoor tables occupied by two customers with laptops. Next door is a boutique with a window display of flowing dresses—PETAL & THREAD, the very place you applied to. Further down, you spot a salon, a pharmacy, a small bank branch.

You stop at a crosswalk, handbag tucked against your hip, and realize your heart is hammering. Not from the walk. From the anticipation of what comes next—stepping into this small town as someone new, someone they haven't seen before.

A woman exiting the pharmacy nearly bumps into you. "Oh! Sorry, hon—I didn't see you there." She's middle-aged, wearing scrubs, a lanyard bouncing against her chest. She takes in your outfit with a quick, appreciative glance. "Love that lipstick. Where'd you get it?"

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up. That new voice—the one you found this morning—slides out effortlessly.

"Oh, it's just a MAC shade. Russian Red, I think?"

The woman grins. "You pull it off beautifully. I'm terrible with bold colors—my daughter says I look like a clown whenever I try." She laughs, waves, and moves on.

You stand there on the sidewalk, heart racing, lips still curved in that returned smile. Someone just spoke to you. Like you were exactly what you appear to be. No double-take, no confusion, no awkward pause.

You passed. You actually passed.