The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Four LIV

Chapter Four

L IV

I wait for Emily by the front of Community Brew and Chew, an indie coffee spot midway between her home and university office.

Emily rushes down the sidewalk, her bag flapping against her hip. “You okay?” she asks, concerned because it’s rare I send a 911 text. “What happened?”

“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, was I too cryptic? No emergency. I just wanted to have a conversation that didn’t involve my tatas,” I reply.

“No problem, I was happy to leave. Wait till you hear why.” She pauses, looking me up and down. “Although I will need more explanation about the tatas business first.”

Emily and I were touch and go before we became best friends. We’d emailed a few times over the summer when we found out the housing department placed us together at Michigan, thinking it was so great that we were both from the Chicago area. Like, how different could we be?

On our first day, I have to admit that she scared me. She was loud and bold and didn’t care what anyone thought of her. That made her wildly popular. My very first impression of Emily was that she was a badass. I could hear one of the girls on our floor fighting with her boyfriend as I approached our shared room with my cart full of suitcases. Before I could even introduce myself, Emily took off like a shot down the hall and strong-armed that guy to the elevator, telling him not to come back until he could control himself. And he was at least a foot taller than her! She was instantly everyone’s hero.

As the trimester progressed, Emily went out every night, yet still managed to ace all her classes. To this day, I don’t know how she did it. When Emily wasn’t cheering her face off in the Big House, she was organizing campus protests and sit-ins. She had so much passion and energy that everyone started calling her Action Emily. She was always doing something to push the envelope. I knew she was destined for big things. What I appreciated is that she could look at me, her polar opposite, and see all I had to offer too. She made it her mission for me to believe in myself like she believed in me. If Emily took a person in, it was like the sun shining directly on them. Everything in her orbit flourished.

I missed her so much when we graduated and she went off to travel the world. She was never quite the same when she got back. She’s no longer who she used to be, but in many ways, I wonder if it’s a bit of a relief. I wonder how anyone could sparkle as brightly as she did for that long.

It’s always quiet here in the shop, perfect for conversations, largely because their in-house roasted, sustainably sourced, ethically farmed, GMO-free coffee product is sort of awful. It’s hard to make coffee equally bland, bitter, and acrid, but they manage. That there are a handful of other patrons here today is surprising.

“So, what’s up with your boobs?” she asks.

“I bought this new shirt. I hesitated this morning after I put it on because I realized it’s a tiny bit lower cut than the stuff I normally wear. But it was so cute with its little daisy print and the ruffled sleeves.”

“Mmm hmm. Nothing says pornographic like a floral Ann Taylor blouse,” Emily adds. Her humor is a lot drier now, but she can still make me crack up.

“LOFT, actually,” I say.

“Same difference.”

“Anyway, the problem is, it gaps a little in front, which you can only see if you’re taller, or you’re standing over me while I’m seated. I made the mistake of trusting my coworkers to conduct themselves like adults. All morning long, they’ve been passing by my desk, trying to drop office supplies in my cleavage. It turned into a game.” I purse my lips. “They’re calling it Tittyball.”

“Jesus.” Emily clamps her hand over her mouth. “This is outrageous, but a small part of me wants to laugh at the sheer audacity. How does the game work?”

I’m prepared for this question because they wrote the rules on the dry-erase board in front of me, like I was a willing and enthusiastic participant. “Points vary depending on what office supply they use, like, a wadded Post-it is two points. I actually have a paper clip wedged in there right now—five points—but I refused to pull it out for them to verify, so now Trevor’s mad at me for being a ‘poor sport.’”

“What made them think this was okay?” Emily assesses me with a gimlet eye. “May I assume you didn’t put one of them in a choke hold and say, ‘This is not fucking acceptable,’ but instead you tried to peace keep in a situation where you were the victim?”

“Ah, I see you’ve met me.” The guys I work with aren’t evil; they’re young and immature and no one’s ever demanded their respect, including me. Especially me. I just want to get them on the right track before they pull this with someone who has an actual spine and they experience real consequences.

“Although it’s not like I’d have put anyone in a choke hold either. Not lately,” Emily says, wistfully.

“Spring break, senior year to be exact,” I remind her, remembering what little I can of that wild trip down to Daytona.

Emily laughs. “What can I say? I warned those frat guys not to touch the loggerhead turtle. They should have listened to me.”

“It’s been a while since I bailed you out of jail, huh?” I say, nudging her shoulder with mine. I don’t want to admit how afraid I always was for her when she was with BlueLove. Secretly, I’m glad she came home and went to grad school. I doubt she’d have seen thirty otherwise.

“Too long. Don’t worry, though, you’ll always be my one phone call.”

My favorite barista is working. B-Money wears his hair in twists and he has swagger to spare. He does a cool dance spin when he sees me, thrusts his chin up, then says, “’Sup, queen? How you livin’?”

“Hey, B-Money, nice to see you!” I reply with a big smile. Give him a word and I swear he can rhyme it with anything, not just the most obvious choice. He’s working on something about how the expression of transgression leads to dispossession and succession.

“B-Money?” Emily says. “Hold on. Shit. Why have I been calling you Blake for the past year?”

He shrugs. “Maybe because it’s on my name tag?”

“His shift manager won’t recognize his MC name,” I explain. “But it’s a respect thing. I mean, would you call Jay-Z Shawn ?”

“If it were on his name tag, yes,” Emily says. B-Money and I exchange a look . She doesn’t get it yet, but that’s okay. We’ll get her there.

Emily notices our eye contact and says, “Wait, how am I the bad guy for reading a name tag?”

“What’s your poison?” B-Money asks. As sour and pungent as the house blend is, that may not be the best question.

“Chamomile tea,” Emily replies.

“Since when?” B-Money asks.

“You’re Ms. Americano! I never see you without a proper coffee,” I add.

“Miles has me on an herbal tea kick. He says that coffee feels ‘too confrontational,’” Emily says with a sigh.

I’ve seen her date a number of men since our first year, and I have no idea how she ended up with Miles. Don’t get me wrong, he has a lot going for him. He’s honorable and kind. He’s successful in his field. Lots of women would swoon over his almost androgynous, pretty-boy looks. I’ve never met anyone as smart as he is. Sometimes I’ll text him when I get stuck on the daily Wordle and he always nails it, and he’s so happy to have been of help. Plus, he’s devoted to the same causes as Emily. He’d never lie to her, never cheat on her, but he’ll never excite her. Therein lies the problem. There’s nothing mysterious about him, no enigma. Emily’s always been drawn to men who challenge her, who don’t let her call all the shots. She thrives on that push and pull. Without it, she seems lost and bored.

“How about you, Queen?” B-Money asks.

“Whatever you’d like to make,” I reply. “I trust you.”

“One large confrontation, coming up. Leave room for cream today?” he asks.

“Always, thanks so much!” I whip out my credit card before Emily can get to her wallet. “These are on me. Don’t argue.”

We sit while B-Money preps our drinks. There’s usually something interesting and local posted on the bulletin board, whether it’s a place to volunteer or an open spot in a community garden. The board is where Emily found the rescue’s adoption ad for Chairman Meow. I was so happy she brought him home. He was the first thing I saw that genuinely made her smile, after everything.

There’s a man in the corner I recognize, humming to himself as he types. He has such a nice aura that I’d love to talk to him, but he strikes me as both shy and busy, so I don’t bother him. He’s sitting one table away from a LuluMom I’ve bumped into before. She was one of the women who liked pinot noir but didn’t like pinot noir. She’s serving her child quartered grapes while she sips a green juice. (The juices here are also vile.) In the other corner, there’s the older, impeccably dressed man who practically camps out here, and he is grumbling at his phone.

Emily fills me in on the spider incident. I don’t want to pressure her, but I have to inquire. “I thought you were going to break up with him after the Incident.”

We talked about the Incident a lot after it happened.

The gist of it is, Miles recently came home with what was clearly a women’s pocketbook. He proudly told Emily, “The salesperson called it a satchel.” She replied, “Yet, Tory Burch calls it a purse.” She argued with him, but he was resolute. Even after she’d proved that it had been part of Tory’s 2023 spring women’s handbag collection, he thought it was too useful to give up. Emily said she didn’t mind what he carried, but between the handbag and his social media, she worried people would mock him. However, his social media comments are super positive—everyone loves his account and he’s popular with his students. Emily claimed that she was trying to save him from himself, but I suspect she was just embarrassed by how happily he embraces being uncool.

“I was going to do a lot of things,” Emily replies. Her self-loathing is almost palpable. Action Emily wouldn’t recognize this person.

I shift, and the paper clip stabs me in the ribs under my right breast. “Ouch.” I reach into my shirt and pluck it out. “Five points for me.” I hear someone gasp, but before I can look around, my phone pings. I glance at my texts and whisper, “Dang it.”

“Such offensive language from a proper lady.” Emily motions toward my phone. “What was that about?”

“The other agents found out I’m here. They just texted me their drink orders.”

Emily smacks her hand on the table and it startles us both. “Olivia Louise Bennett. You are their supervisor . Stop taking orders from that overgrown pack of beer-funneling Peter Pans, literally and figuratively.”

“I know.” I sigh. “And I would, but I’m already here, so ...”

“I thought you said you were going to make a stand.”

I nod, ashamed. I was going to do a lot of things too.

B-Money delivers our drinks, plus a couple of chocolate-covered cement biscotti, and we sip in silence, content to observe the rhythms of the shop. A well-built guy comes in and posts a new notice on the bulletin board. Now, he looks like Emily’s type. In college, we’d joke that no neck was thick enough for her. The big guy and the LuluMom chat for a bit, but his back is to us the whole time. Emily practically stares a hole through him. There’s no way she can be happy with mild Miles. Just zero chance.

I catch Emily’s eye and we smile at each other. The nice thing about an old friend is there’s no need to constantly fill the silence with words, as I so often do. Sometimes just sitting with Emily is the balm that soothes my soul.

B-Money busses an empty plate from the happy-as-a-clam guy, whom he calls Vishnu. Vishnu’s just so jovial, relishing whatever it is he’s doing on his computer. I love seeing folks delighting in going about their lives when they think no one’s watching; you learn so much about them.

When the LuluMom takes a phone call, B-Money reaches into a basket by the counter and pulls out a pack of crayons and a blank place mat. He brings them to the little girl with the grapes, and she claps her hands appreciatively. “Here you go, Ms. Hazel. Maybe you can draw me something,” he says. (Ahh, her name is Hazel! Just like my great-aunt!)

I watch as B-Money brings a refill to the man who’s flummoxed by his phone. “Hold up, you struggling again, my man? Lemme see what the problem is, Michael,” he says, setting down the pot.

A young guy, likely a Northwestern student, enters. He’s wearing a backpack and surgical mask. B-Money nods at him. “’Sup, bro, I’ll get your order in a second.”

The guy shrugs, looking up at the menu board. “It’s Gucci.”

“Let’s see what you did.” Michael hands B-Money his phone. I can’t help but admire Michael’s immaculate manicure, with his smooth nail beds and moisturized cuticles. Presenting your best self isn’t vain; it’s a shortcut to demonstrate your professionalism.

Selling real estate is a detail-oriented business, where a single missing check mark can mean the difference of thousands of dollars. Dirty fingernails, for example, speak to a level of carelessness. While you can be great at real estate and sloppy, perception really is half the battle. I’m friends with an agent in another office who now owns two cars, one for transporting her kids and one for clients. She lost a buyer when he sat on a Go-Gurt tube and ruined his pants. That’s when she bought the second car.

“It’s broken,” Michael says.

“I promise you it’s not,” B-Money replies. B-Money taps the screen and hands the phone back to Michael. “You just had to X out of the app. See? All better.” To the new customer, he says, “Okay, my man, what’ll it be?”

“How do you think he knows everyone’s name?” Emily asks.

“Probably because most of us are regulars. Plus, he writes our names on the cups,” I reply. “There are so few patrons, it’s probably not hard to remember us all.”

“But he didn’t ask me,” she says.

“You serve the same people all the time, you learn who they are. See? Mine says Ms. Olivia . And he drew a crown on it.” It’s really cute.

Emily turns her cup around. She tightens her lips into a thin line. “Mine says Liv’s Sarcastic Friend .”

“Show me the lie,” I say, but before Emily can dole out one of her snappy retorts, everything goes utterly and completely off the rails when the guy in the mask pulls out a gun.