The Christmas Pic

9. Ava

CHAPTER 9

AVA

When our rental car pulls up to the town’s coffee shop, Sugar Daddy’s, I can’t help but laugh–and not because of the name. Being a female CEO in tech is a complicated line of work. You are expected to perform above and beyond the men in your field, otherwise you’re a failure. You’re also expected to be a celebrity, upholding that untouchable level of chief executive maintaining a multibillion dollar corporation, while being unavoidably tied up in the drama of fielding off paparazzi and fake tabloid stories.

Which is exactly the sad sight that stands between me and my morning brew. Two local suspects loiter outside the shop’s door with their phone cameras out, awaiting my approach. Max is a fine enough bodyguard to handle these two. I slide on my sunglasses and bury myself in my phone, bracing myself for these backwoods wannabe paps pre-coffee.

“Gentlemen,” I say as I waltz past their recording devices.

“One smile!” one of them pleads. I easily ignore; that whole ‘smile, sweetie’ thing men do doesn’t work on me anymore.

“Are you in Harmony Springs to repair your sinking reputation?” the other zings.

I’ve had a lot of practice in this arena, so I’m able to take a sharp, wintery breath through my nose and exhale my way into the warmth of the shop, ignoring his question. The inside smells too much of freshly baked goods and not enough of espresso. I haven’t actually been in a coffee establishment in ages–Max always does these errands for me–but when I have, I’m used to lengthy lines of Los Angeles latte lunatics. The shop here is totally empty, save for the teeny-bopper standing behind the register.

“Welcome in! What can I get you?” she chirps.

As I’m about to order my Gibraltar, the door jingles open and Max jumps around to shoo off the paps.

“None shall pass!” they shout, right into the face of a twenty-something girl whose haircut and septum ring scream ‘I’m transitioning out of my emo phase.’

“Whoa,” the girl says, remarkably chill after nearly getting knocked on her ass by a bloodlust-y former dungeon master.

“Sorry,” Max exhales. “Thought you were those guys.” They point outside to the sad excuse for press, checking their photo rolls for ‘the shot.’

A woman enters the coffee shop and the emo girl waves her over. She’s slightly taller than me, which is especially rare in my heels, and sports the most Midwestern flannel I’ve ever seen. Her hair is tucked into a messy bun that she probably slept in and her cheeks are rosy from the cold.

“A Gibraltar, please. And whatever Max wants,” I turn to Max, getting another glance at Bobby Flannel in the process. She’s sneering, like she knows something I don’t.

“Uh,” the teen behind the counter stammers.

“It’s like a Cortado,” I say, totally unhelpful.

She stares at me, like a short-circuiting AI bot prototype from our labs. She points to the menu above her, which reads: COFFEE and GAY HOT CHOCOLATE.

“I thought gay people loved coffee,” I sigh. “A coffee with oat milk. ”

“We’ve got 2%.” The woman behind us lets out a snort.

“Black.”

“And definitely a gay hot chocolate, whatever that is,” Max giggles.

“Coming right up!” the teen assures.

“You’re not in Silicon Valley anymore, Ms. Garcia-Greene,” the woman snickers behind us. Of course she knows who I am.

I snort as I turn to face her. “That much is apparent. And it’s Silicon Beach, not Valley.”

“You’re here to–” the emo girl beside her starts. But the woman cuts in.

“Planning to sprinkle some of that Silicon magic on us, are you?” she asks, smirk broadening.

“Actually, yes. I’m here to save a photography business that’s currently being purposely run into the ground by a stubborn buffoon.” I bat a Christmas streamer out of my face. “It could use a little less Christmas kitsch and a little more innovation–something this entire town could apparently benefit from.”

“Ah, trying to save us from our quaint ways?” She chuckles. “Very altruistic for a tech mogul.”

I lean in, my words clipped. “No matter how you slice it, I’m doing that business a massive favor.”

She steps closer. “Here’s a newsflash–you might find we’re quite attached to our ways here in Harmony Springs.”

My smile thins. “Nostalgia is a delusion worshiped by cowards afraid to face the future.”

“Or maybe nostalgia is the wisdom to understand new isn’t always better,” she fires back, eyes flashing.

“I’ve witnessed more depth in emoji reactions.”

"Emojis probably feel profound to someone who's never had a genuine human interaction,” she quips darkly.

The barely-barista hands me a soggy paper cup with a rainbow-striped candy cane stuck inside, already polluting my coffee, then gives Max the gayest, most elaborate hot chocolate creation I’ve ever seen.

I take a sip of my watery-mint concoction and grimace. “This place is stuck in a cursed holiday Groundhog Day.”

Max nudges me, their gaze fixed on the ceiling above. I look up and see a tiny, rainbow-berried weed hanging from the ceiling. I squint. Is that…?

I jolt back from the strange woman. Rainbow mistletoe?! What will this town think of next?

I turn back to her, expecting another contemptuous glare, but what I get is much worse. She’s covered from face to waist in my lukewarm black coffee. Outside, the paps eye their phones with glee.

“That was not my fault,” I nearly shout. The coffee drips off her face, right along with that smirk. It’s too bad; I sorta liked someone giving my level ten snark right back to me. Instead, she takes a deep breath through her nose like I do when a moment of rage-xiety comes over me.

“Not a problem,” she says, sputtering through the coffee on her lips. “I have wipes in my truck.”

She hands the girl some cash and glares at me one last time. “Welcome to town, Ms. Garcia-Greene. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other.” She walks out the door.

“I thought this town was called Harmony Springs , ” I mutter as Septum Ring steps up to the cashier.

“The ushe,” she says.

“I–I didn’t get your names,” Max tries to assuage the situation. “Let us pay for that.” They elbow me.

“Sure, let us pay.” It’s the least I could do, I suppose. Not trying to come to this town and pick fights with random strangers.

“You better,” Emo Girl says, smug. “I’m Emma, assistant to the photographer. That’s Jo. I think you can guess what she does. ”

I follow her gaze outside and see Jo opening up the back of a multi-colored monstrosity– The Photo Truck. Emma grabs their bagels from the cashier and swiftly takes her exit. We stare after her, slack-jawed.

“Ohhhhhhh, she’s–”

“Yep. Got it, Max.”