Page 17

REMI

He thinks he’s slick, sitting there in his car at the end of the lot.

Newsflash: he’s not.

Even if he had been in a car that camouflaged right in with the others, I would know that someone was watching me. Every step I made, I could feel the weight of a person’s gaze weighing me down. It wasn’t terrible, per se, but it was different.

A good different.

A different that I’ve never felt before.

I’m not the type of woman who pulls attention from the opposite sex. I’m the one who hides in the background because I can’t imagine being the center of attention. In fact, I don’t want to be the center of attention. The last time I was, it didn’t end well for me.

I was fifteen and a sophomore in high school. Needless to say, my size is one of the reasons I was the butt of everyone’s jokes back in the day. I’m not the small, svelte omega that everyone is used to seeing. I have curves for days, and even in high school, they were the cause of my torment.

I’ve heard everything from fat ass to wide load and the various names in between. None of that bothers me anymore. During the years, I encased myself in a thick exterior wall so that no one could hurt me in that way. Instead, I’ve grown to love myself.

There’s only one me.

That’s all there’ll ever be.

And if people can’t accept me the way I am, then they can shove off. I’ll still be me at the end of the day, and they’ll still be them—useless and disappointed.

No one has the power to bend and break me if I don’t let them. I have all the power, and I’ll never again allow someone to say that I’m not enough.

I am.

I’m more than enough.

Both inside and out, I’ll be more than enough until the day I leave this earth. Because the fact of the matter is, you come into this world the same way you leave it—alone.

I move through the coffee shop with the quiet confidence I’ve worked so hard to cultivate.

The evening rush has settled into a gentle hum, the kind of rhythm that feels almost soothing—the soft clink of cups, low murmurs of conversation, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine.

With a carafe of steaming coffee in one hand and my notepad in the other, I make my rounds, refilling cups and jotting down orders with practiced ease.

A young couple by the window, lost in a bubble of whispered affection, barely notice as I top off their mugs.

I catch a fragment of their conversation—something about an upcoming vacation—and it makes me smile as I move on to the next table.

At the counter, an older gentleman nods his thanks as I refresh his cup, his crossword puzzle nearly complete.

"You’re too quick for me," he jokes, tapping his pen against the paper.

I laugh softly, a genuine warmth rising in my chest.

The regulars greet me by name, and I greet them back, a small but meaningful exchange that adds richness to my day.

There’s an unspoken camaraderie we share, a mutual acknowledgment of our little routines.

I glide between tables, taking new orders with a mix of efficiency and care, making sure to note a preference for oat milk here or a splash of vanilla there.

Near the back, a woman taps away on her laptop, her concentration so intense it seems like she’s in another world.

I pause, setting her fresh latte down quietly so as not to disturb her.

She glances up just long enough to mouth a "thank you," and I nod in return, feeling a quiet satisfaction in these simple acts of service.

By the time I circle back toward the espresso machine, the carafe in my hand is nearly empty, and my notepad is brimming with scribbled orders and requests.

As I pass the counter, I exchange a quick smile with Charlene, the other barista, who’s already pulling shots of espresso for the next rush.

This isn’t just a coffee shop; it’s a tapestry of lives intersecting, and today, I’m one of its threads, weaving between tables with purpose and poise.

Yet, no matter how busy I get, I can’t stop myself from glancing in Tripp’s direction.

My mood sours when I notice that his car is no longer there, where it’s been sitting for the last six hours, and I hate myself for it.

With the way they treated me at the restaurant the other night, I shouldn’t want their attention.

However, I find I crave it. Need it. Want it more than anything in this world.

They’re my scent match mates, the men I’m supposed to be with for the rest of my life. I feel a strong need to be with them twenty-four-seven, which is a significant difference from a week ago. A week ago, I was content being by myself. I actually yearned for the stillness of my little house.

Now, though, it’s like I need their presence more than I need air. My body comes alive in their presence, making me feel things I’ve never felt before, only read about in romance novels. The intense need that rages through my body is legendary. It’s so fierce and sharp that it takes my breath away.

I let out a soft sigh, shaking off the lingering ache of my thoughts, and redirect my focus to the flow of the shift.

My movements become automatic, like a well-rehearsed dance.

The espresso machine hisses and sputters, its familiar melody keeping me grounded.

I wipe down counters, restock sleeves of paper cups, and keep an eye on the tables, ensuring no one is left waiting too long.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten about Tripp or the insatiable pull I feel—no, the feeling simmers under the surface, impossible to ignore. But here, in this space, I find solace in routine.

The gentle rhythm of the coffee shop wraps itself around me like a comforting blanket.

My hands work without conscious thought, steaming milk to the perfect foam, sprinkling cinnamon over lattes, and sliding mugs across the counter with practiced ease.

Customers come and go, their voices weaving a soft tapestry of sound that fills the air.

A toddler claps their sticky hands against a table, giggling as their mother tries to corral them, while a group of friends erupts into laughter over a shared anecdote.

Every interaction is a small distraction, a momentary reprieve from the storm brewing inside me.

Yet, my mind drifts as I pour cup after cup, sliding deeper into the quiet labyrinth of my thoughts.

Images of Tripp and the others flash in my mind—his teasing smirk, the way his voice seemed to reverberate through my bones, and the unshakable connection that defies logic.

I go through the motions, but beneath the surface, my emotions are rippling and churning.

I replay every look, every word, dissecting them for hidden meanings, searching for clarity in the chaos they’ve left behind.

The hours stretch and blur together, the coffee shop gradually emptying until only the hum of the refrigeration units and the faint scrape of chairs remain.

Charlene waves as she heads out, leaving me to lock up.

I find myself scrubbing the counter a little harder than necessary, the physical act giving me something to focus on, even if my mind refuses to quiet.

By the time I flip the sign on the door to "Closed" and turn off the lights, the weight of the day feels heavier than ever.

Walking out into the cool evening air, I tilt my face to the sky, hoping the humid breeze will carry away some of the tension coiled in my chest. But even as I head home, the thoughts linger, clinging to me like shadows, refusing to let go.

As I walk into my house, my thoughts are once again enveloped in the guys.

Each one has a distinct personality that complements the others perfectly.

They complete each other in ways I have only dreamed of.

And I wish I could be part of that. The need to bond with them is so intense at times that it nearly takes my breath away.

I don’t care about Knox’s claim that I’m not fit for them.

If I weren’t fit for them, I wouldn’t be their scent match mate.

The universe wouldn’t have paired us all together.

No fate can be so cruel as to pair people together who don’t mesh well.

I refuse to believe there is cruelty anywhere near fate’s design.

That’s why I’m going to wait them out. I’m a very patient person. I need to be with the way I grew up and the job that I have. Patience is a virtue, but so is diligence. I am nothing if not diligent when it comes to things I want.

Now, I may not get everything my heart desires, but I work my ass off to make sure I get as much as I can. And I want them. All of them. From the grumpy, stoic Knox to the fun-loving, eccentric Tripp.

Kicking off my shoes by the door, I let out a long breath and head straight for the bathroom.

The cool tiles under my feet seem to anchor me, their grounded presence a welcome contrast to the swirling storm in my mind.

I flick on the lights, their soft glow illuminating my reflection in the mirror.

My face looks tired, my eyes carrying the weight of a day spent both in routine and in restless thought.

I turn on the tap and let the water run warm before splashing it over my face, hoping it will wash away the lingering tension.

As I reach for my toothbrush, I can’t help but let my mind wander back to them.

To Knox’s unyielding gaze that somehow hides a quiet vulnerability, to Tripp’s playful laugh that feels like sunshine breaking through clouds, and to Boone—each one unique, intricate, and impossibly magnetic.

The pull towards them is undeniable, like gravity itself has shifted to revolve around them.

As I finish brushing my teeth, my thoughts pivot to strategy.

What can I do to break through their walls?

Knox’s stoicism, for instance—it’s more than just a defense mechanism.

He’s cautious, protective, maybe even scared to hope.

I need to show him I’m not a fleeting presence, that I’m here for the long haul.

And I really need to break past that thought that I’m not the image he wants to portray.

It shouldn’t be about image. It should be about connection.

For Tripp, it’s different. He thrives in connection, in shared laughter and moments of unfiltered joy. Perhaps I need to meet him on his level, show him that I can let loose and match his energy without losing myself.

For Boone, we can share our love for literature.

The moment I met them and he told me he was a professor at the university, I knew he was a professor of literature.

No doubt about it. His confirmation was all I needed.

I’d even go a little further and guess that his favorite is Jane Austen, among some of the others.

I need to show him that we have that, among other things, in common.

I slip into my favorite worn pajamas, the fabric soft against my skin, and settle onto the edge of my bed.

The room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the ceiling fan, but my thoughts are anything but.

I pull my journal from the nightstand, flipping it open to a blank page.

With pen in hand, I start jotting down ideas—small, seemingly insignificant actions that might carve a path toward them.

A knowing smile here, a moment of quiet understanding there.

I sketch out little encounters we can share and imagine how I could build upon them.

It’s not manipulation; it’s heartfelt determination.

I don’t want to change them or force their hand.

I want to find the spaces where our lives fit together, like puzzle pieces clicking into place.

I want to prove to them, and perhaps even to myself, that this connection isn’t just a coincidence—it’s a design, a destiny I refuse to let slip through my fingers.

As I climb under the covers, the cool sheets brushing against my skin, I stare up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Tomorrow is a new day—a new chance to show them who I am, what I bring to the table, and why this bond is worth fighting for.

The ache of longing is still there, but tonight, it feels different.

It feels like purpose. With that thought, I close my eyes, letting the hum of the fan and the promise of tomorrow lull me into a restless but hopeful sleep.