Coffee Shop

Julia slid into the driver’s seat of the Urus, Angela buckling in beside her with the laptop bag at her feet. The campus quad shrank in the rearview as Julia pulled out, the scrap of paper with Jake Harlan’s number still tucked safely in her purse like a secret she wasn’t quite ready to examine.

“So,” Angela said, already scrolling through her phone, “you get to pick the place? Or do I?”

Julia smiled, grateful for the normalcy of the question after the morning’s whirlwind. “You promised lunch. You pick. I’m just along for the ride.”

Angela’s eyes lit up. “Perfect. There’s this trendy little café off-campus—Le Petit Jardin. French-inspired but not pretentious. Avocado toast that’s actually worth the hype, killer iced lattes, and the patio is gorgeous. We can sit outside and people-watch.”

“Sounds perfect,” Julia said, already turning toward the address Angela punched into the navigation.

Fifteen minutes later they were seated at a wrought-iron table under a striped awning, the patio shaded by climbing jasmine and strung with Edison bulbs that would glow gold at dusk. The air smelled of fresh-baked croissants, espresso, and blooming flowers. Julia ordered a niçoise salad and an iced matcha; Angela went for the truffle eggs Benedict and a sparkling elderflower lemonade. The server—a lanky twenty-something with sleeve tattoos and a man-bun—set down their drinks with a lingering smile directed entirely at Julia.

“Anything else I can get you, gorgeous?” he asked, voice low and playful.

Julia felt the flush creep up her neck. “I’m good, thank you.”

He winked before walking away. Angela immediately leaned in, grinning like a cat.

“Mom. Did he just call you gorgeous? In front of me?”

Julia rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide the small, flattered smile. “He’s just being friendly.”

“Uh-huh. Friendly like Jake Harlan slipping you his number friendly?”

Before Julia could deflect, the female barista appeared at their table with a small complimentary plate of mini macarons. She was petite, early twenties, with a pixie cut dyed lavender at the tips and a lip ring that glinted when she smiled.

“On the house,” she said, setting the plate down and looking straight at Julia. “You looked like you could use a little sweetness today.” Her gaze flicked down Julia’s sundress—slow, appreciative—then back up. “Enjoy.”

Angela choked on her lemonade, coughing into her napkin. “Okay, that was not subtle.”

Julia laughed, genuinely this time, the tension of the morning loosening just a fraction. “Stop it. She’s just being nice.”

“Nice. Right. And the two guys at the table over there staring at you like you’re the main course?”

Julia glanced over. Two college boys—probably sophomores, baseball caps backward, gym-bro builds—were indeed looking her way. One raised his coffee cup in a mock toast when he caught her eye; the other grinned and mouthed “Hey” with exaggerated confidence.

Angela leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, smirking. “You’re a walking thirst trap today, Mom. What is in the water? First the quarterback, then the waiter, the barista, and now Frat Row over there. Should I start taking notes for when I’m forty?”

Julia swatted her daughter’s arm lightly. “I’m thirty-nine, thank you very much. And it’s just… harmless flirting. Makes an old lady feel good.”

“You’re not old,” Angela said, softer now, sincere. “You’re hot. Like, objectively. And it’s kind of cool seeing you own it instead of brushing it off like you usually do.”

Julia paused, fork halfway to her mouth. The compliment landed deeper than she expected—after months of feeling invisible to William, after the headmaster’s degrading commands, after Nick’s secret obsession—it felt… validating. She reached across the table and squeezed Angela’s hand.

“Thanks, sweetheart. That means a lot.”

They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, the patio filling with the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware. Angela finished her eggs Benedict, wiped her mouth, and leaned forward conspiratorially.

“So… we should do this more. Like, actually go out. Not just lunch. There’s this new rooftop bar downtown—great cocktails, live jazz on Fridays. We could make it a thing. Girls’ night. No boys, no drama. Just us.”

Julia’s chest warmed at the idea—real time with her oldest daughter, away from the house and its growing secrets. “I’d love that. Let’s plan it. Next Friday?”

“Deal,” Angela said, pulling out her phone to add it to her calendar. “And maybe you can wear that red dress you never take out of the closet. The one Dad hates because it’s ‘too much.’”

Julia laughed. “Maybe I will.”

They lingered over coffee refills, talking about Angela’s classes, her upcoming internship interviews, the cute barista at her favorite study spot who kept giving her free scones. The flirting around them continued in waves—the waiter refilling their water with another wink, the barista stopping by again “just to check in,” the two students eventually wandering over to “ask for directions” that somehow turned into a five-minute chat about campus life—but Julia let it roll off her, enjoying the lightness of it all.

When the bill came, Angela snatched it before Julia could protest. “My treat. You saved my ass today.”

Julia smiled, standing and slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Fine. But next time’s on me.”