Meeting up with Priya

You wheel the Bianchi out of the shed at five-forty, the late afternoon light turning everything amber. The block heels are not ideal cycling footwear—you can feel the ankle straps pulling slightly as you push off—but the suede skirt is the revelation. Where denim shorts compressed everything, the A-line mini rides up naturally as you settle onto the saddle, the fabric draping away from your body rather than pressing against it. Your tucked anatomy finds space without the painful compression you experienced earlier.

Huh. Miniskirts: the practical solution nobody asked for.

The country road unfolds beneath you, tree shadows striping the pavement. The Bianchi responds beautifully—light frame, responsive steering, the freshly lubricated chain whispering as you pedal. Wind catches your hair, pulling strands free of the headband, and the sage cardigan flutters behind you. You feel fast. Free. Like the estate is a launchpad and the road is a runway.

Twenty-two minutes. That's all it takes. Half the walking time, none of the Uber cost.

You arrive on Main Street at six-twelve, slightly flushed, hair windswept in a way that probably looks intentional. You chain the Bianchi to a bike rack outside Grounded Coffee with a lock you found in the garden shed, straighten your cardigan, and push through the door.

The coffee shop is warm and smells of espresso and cinnamon. Saturday evening crowd—scattered tables occupied, a couple by the window, a man with a laptop. Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-thirties with dark curly hair pulled back in a messy bun glances up.

"Hey! Welcome in. What can I get you?"

You check the menu board. Lattes start at five dollars. Your wallet contains twenty-eight dollars and change that needs to last until your first paycheck.

"Just a water, please. Tap is fine."

She nods, no judgment, and sets a glass of ice water on the counter. "Meeting someone? You can grab that corner booth if you want."

"Thanks."

You settle into the booth, the leather seat cool against your bare thighs where the skirt has ridden up. You tug it down a fraction, then stop. It's fine. You're fine. You sip your water and check your phone. Priya's last text: "omw, janelle's changing out of her work shirt lol"

Six-eighteen. You have a few minutes. You pull up your email and find Iris's referral—Dr. Elena Vasquez in Millbrook, Tuesday and Thursday afternoon availability. You draft a quick reply confirming interest and asking about the sliding-scale fee structure. Send.

The door chimes at six-twenty-nine. Priya enters first, blazer swapped for a cropped denim jacket, laptop bag slung crossbody. Behind her, Janelle emerges from what you assume is the back room—she's changed from her work polo into a fitted mustard sweater, box braids now loose over her shoulders.

"Riley!" Janelle waves, weaving between tables. "You rode a bike here? In a skirt? That's iconic."

Priya slides into the booth across from you, eyes already scanning your outfit. "The suede. With the sage. Riley, you're killing me." She opens her laptop. "Okay, before we do anything else—you need to see this."

The screen fills with a Pinterest board labeled Petal & Thread Window Revamp. Dozens of pins—color palettes, fabric swatches, mannequin poses, seasonal themes.

"I've been making these for months," Priya says, and there's something vulnerable beneath the confidence. "Margot keeps saying she'll think about it. But now you're inside." She looks at you with an intensity that's half excitement, half plea. "Tell me you'll at least mention my ideas to her."