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DISASTER STRIKES

SHILOH

N o matter how much I clean my workstation, the prospect of being someone’s plus-one to a wedding looms over my head like a rather intimidating venture. Fulton Cazzarelli isn’t your average caffeine addict. He isn’t some freakishly attractive stranger you only ever see once in a blue moon. He’s Riverside’s local celebrity, and the man I’ve secretly been crushing on ever since he fumbled over his coffee order and asked for a dairy-free macchiato instead of a dairy-free cappuccino.

I’m not a big personality. I don’t command the attention of every room I walk into. I prefer to stay in the shadows where I can people watch from a safe distance and avoid socially straining situations. I’m just shy, I guess. Quiet. And I don’t mind being invisible. But never in a million years would I have ever imagined that a world-renowned NHL player would ask me on a date. Or is it a date? I don’t even know. Maybe it’s a friendly furlough? Some kind of last-minute my-initial-date-abandoned-me-and-you’re-the-backup? I mean, that alternative seems more believable than him reciprocating my unspoken feelings .

When he was standing in front of me, asking me to be his plus-one and looking like a heavenly angel, I wasn’t even really considering the logistics of this whole agreement. I was too distracted by the way strands of his hair fell effortlessly into his espresso-colored eyes, how his bone structure was hewn to utter perfection by God’s very own chisel (yet he still has some baby fat on his cheeks), how his ears turned the slightest bit pink when he tripped over his words. Hell, I was all sweaty and nervous and my heart was skittering like some startled barn cat against the shelter of my ribs.

Why didn’t you just say yes, Shiloh? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you! The Fulton Cazzarelli asked you to be his plus-one. You should’ve hung up your apron right then and there. Who knows if Mr. Right will come along again.

Well, there’s always the possibility that Fulton’s a serial killer moonlighting as a hockey player, and you would’ve been found limbless and stuffed in a suitcase somewhere off the coast of the Bahamas if you said yes.

But on a more realistic note, let’s not forget that you have a full-time job to think about and a family business that you’re trying to save because of how much your two loving, yet workaholic, parents sacrificed for you.

In my family, we follow the unspoken Vietnamese code of conduct, where a strong work ethic reflects a strong conscience. A sense of responsibility.

I’m Deja Brew’s manager, and soon—fingers crossed—I’ll be the sole owner of the business. My parents founded Deja Brew on nothing but a loose-pocketed down payment and an equally risky dream. They’ve nurtured this family-run shop for two and a half decades now, sharing generational recipes with the hoity-toity locals of soul-sucking SoCal. And when I was conceived on a not-so-platonic back seat rendezvous three nights before their wedding, I unknowingly became the inheritor of this quaint little legacy .

Work is…it’s my partner, in simpler terms. I breathe, bleed, and sweat coffee. There’s never a moment when I’m not thinking about my job. I haven’t had a day off in…God, I don’t even know how long. And it’s not just because my parents are getting older and need the help.

My parents worked hard to build Deja Brew and keep us afloat when I was growing up, and I refuse to even imagine a future where money insecurity plagues my parents’ retirement. Especially since my education ate up their nest egg. Not a day goes by where the guilt doesn’t plague me. I never would’ve chosen a college degree over the well-being of my family, but that choice was made for me, and my parents are the ones (who shouldn’t be) suffering the consequences. Because they went behind my back to pay for everything, I couldn’t have declined their offer even if I wanted to, but I just…I wish I’d known so I could’ve fought harder—could’ve shown them the mistake they were making.

The business was rough when I was younger, until we saw an uptick in sales and lines were out the door. But now payroll is becoming a strain on the finances. Last month we had to lay off three baristas, which broke my mom’s heart.

With the avaricious overflow of big chain coffee shops, our tiny, homemade, hole-in-the-wall shop is about to blink out of existence if we don’t do something to increase revenue. My parents love this place. I love this place. It’s an integral part of who I am as a person. Not only do I love having a purpose in life—especially if that purpose involves hospitality—but I’ve always wanted to help people ever since I was a little girl. I saw what poverty did to my family, and if there was a way for me to even be the smallest sliver of light in someone else’s life, it was a role I’d take in a heartbeat.

My parents put their blood, sweat, and tears into this coffee shop for twenty-plus years, and now it’s my legacy to uphold. Losing it isn’t an option—it’s just not. And maybe somewhere in my Fulton-uninfluenced subconscious, giving him an obscure answer was my way of choosing the business over some impromptu, too-good-to-be-true vacation with the man of my dreams.

I thought I had found the man of my dreams once before. Only my life turned into a nightmare when he demanded that I choose between my family’s business and him. Which, as you can imagine, didn’t turn out the way he wanted it to.

I’ve always wanted to feel special, wanted . Don’t get me wrong, my parents treat me like I’m special and hold me in the highest regard, but it’s not the same as being special in the sense of a romantic connection. Sometimes it feels like my parents are obligated to love me because we’re bonded by blood.

I want to be loved by someone for my strengths, my flaws, my past, everything .

“Lo, this is so exciting! I can’t believe you got asked out by the Fulton Cazzarelli!” my best friend, Revlon, squeals with a dreamy bat of her lashes.

I scrub meticulously at an impossible mystery stain, refusing to give her even a hint of satisfaction. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It so was! Ooh, what are you going to wear? Where is he taking you? You should definitely pack that sexy one-piece bathing suit.”

Anxiety coats the back of my throat with the sour taste of nausea. “I didn’t agree to go with him. I just said I’d have to see?—”

Revlon sits up like she’s personally offended, and I’m glad our lack of revenue justified an early closing, otherwise she’d attract all kinds of attention with her theatrics. “What do you mean, you ‘ didn’t agree to go with him ’?!”

I wince, finally surrendering to the discolored blemish staining my workspace. “I can’t just abandon my job, Rev. ”

She pouts her bottom lip, disappointment suffusing her expression. “But we’re talking about the guy you’ve liked for four years, Lo. Four. You finally have an excuse to get away from this hippie-infested dump, and you’re not going to take it?”

“I wish I could take it, I do. But I can’t just go off gallivanting whenever some decently attractive man asks me to,” I insist, tossing my dish towel aside and wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. My legs are sore, my feet have sprouted some painful blisters, and this wooden death pit is hotter than Satan’s ball sack.

Revlon deadpans, “Fulton Cazzarelli is more than ‘decently attractive.’”

Touché, Revlon.

“You know what I mean.”

My best friend hops down from the counter, sighs rather exasperatedly, and points at me with both hands. “I know you’re not gonna want to hear this but…”

“Then don’t say it,” I singsong, slipping past her and working my way over to the tables, where I employ the last of my energy to haul the chairs overtop.

I’ve already had this exact talk with her a million times. She makes a comment about how I’m a prisoner of my job, I assure her I’m not, she doesn’t believe me, I change the subject, then we repeat the same conversation every few months.

I don’t have the mental bandwidth to endure one of her appreciated—yet unnecessary—motivational speeches. My bloodstream’s part caffeine, and my eyes burn from keeping them open for so long.

She hovers around me like a pesky fly, her words buzzing in one ear and out the other. “When will you start putting yourself first? I know this job means a lot to you, but surely you can take some time off. You deserve a break. If you keep going on like this, you’ll?— ”

“Work myself into an early grave,” I finish for her, situating another chair on the weathered tabletop.

Going through the motions, I make my rounds and clear the floor so I can sweep, stacking chair after chair as deep-seated regret begins to unspool in the tight clutches of my chest. I was perfectly content keeping that regret buried under employee schedules and inventory, alright? But nooo, Revlon had to go and dig it up like she always does just because I don’t live the same life as her—a life full of spontaneity and adventure, unburdened by financial instability.

I’m not imprisoned here, okay? I like to work. I’d rather feel productive than waste away a perfectly good Friday night with booze, bad decisions, and men that’ll tap it before inevitably ghosting you.

Revlon cuts off my trek toward the janitor’s closet, standing in front of me with her arms crossed menacingly over her chest. She’s huffing like an angry bull, the natural curls of her raven hair bouncing against her shoulders. But at the last moment—before I get the ass ripping I’m expecting—the anger dissipates from her body, soundless, colorless, odorless.

“Just picture it for a second. Please,” she begs.

My heart pinches. “Picture what?”

“Picture actually being happy for once.”

The statement catches me off guard—wounds me like a gun with the safety off—and I blink a couple of times to stave the pressure cropping up behind my eyes. The pressure that prefaces a waterfall of unshed, bubbling tears waiting to mangle my vision into nothing but a blurry mirage.

I am happy. I am. I love helping people, even if it’s just something trivial like serving them a coffee order. Even if it’s an act of kindness they’ll probably never remember because they don’t live their life wishing they were somewhere else.

What Revlon doesn’t know is that I constantly war with the prospect of escaping—escaping from my responsibilities, escaping from Riverside, escaping from the hellscape that is my overactive imagination. My head and my heart want two different things, and I can’t choose one without hurting the other.

“Think about it: you’d only be gone for what? A week at most? I’m sure your parents can handle the shop until you return. Hell, I’ll pick up some shifts if it means getting your ass onto some fancy private jet with some overpriced champagne.”

Realistically, my leave shouldn’t be too long. And though I hate to admit it, my parents wouldn’t keep me from going on a personal vacation. In fact, they’re constantly bugging me about getting out of the shop and doing something out of my comfort zone. They’d be ecstatic if I told them a handsome stranger had swept me off my feet.

“You always put everyone before yourself,” Revlon says, sympathy bleeding across the fine lines of her face. “Maybe it’s finally time that you go after what you really want instead of always doing what’s expected of you.”

“I—”

Before I can even try to scrounge up a rebuttal, there’s a knock on the glass, and we both instantly turn our heads toward the source of the sound.

Fulton waves sheepishly at us from behind the door—backlit by a warm-toned ombre dripping across the sky—and I’m fast-walking toward him before my sensibility can stop me. I know I just saw him a few hours ago, but I can’t help the excitement that flares inside me like an out-of-control firework…excitement that I haven’t felt since I was a child.

Once I come face-to-face with him, the air is punched from my lungs, and I’m half-positive I’m sporting a pretty vibrant blush that he’ll have no trouble seeing in the fading light.

“Hi,” I whisper breathlessly.

One disarming smile, and he’s suddenly jump-starting all my hormones. “Hi. I, uh, sorry. I just forgot to get your number. And I also forgot to tell you that the trip is three weeks long…in Cabo.”

Cabo? Oh my God. Cabo has been on my top five places to visit.

But three weeks is a long time. What if something bad happens to the shop while I’m gone? What if it gets taken out by a very realistic hurricane? What if my dad has a stroke out of nowhere? What if my mom gets hit by a getaway car full of dangerous fugitives while she’s crossing the street?

I try to masquerade some of the internal panic. “Wow, that’s…”

Fulton scratches the back of his neck, shaking free some more of that distractingly irresistible hair of his. God, it looks even softer up close. “I know it’s a lot, so I totally understand if you’re not on board with it, but everything will be paid for if you’re worried about expenses.”

That wasn’t what I was worried about. Yet somehow, even with all the delusional disaster talk, a calm settles over me like the gentle suspension of waves over a shore of sun-warmed sand—sand I could feel curling between my toes a week from now. And I think it’s solely because of Fulton. Like, his presence sedates me, which is ironic considering he’s noticeably nervous.

He hands me his phone so I can input my contact information, and it takes everything in me not to accidentally drop it while he’s watching my every move. When I give him his phone back, I’m aware that he doesn’t ask for mine.

Just say yes, Shiloh. You’ve had a crush on this guy for four years. Don’t you think it’s time you finally did something about it?

But even as those words linger on the tip of my tongue, I don’t say what I’m dying to say, and instead of taking that leap out of my comfort zone, I hold my hand out for a fucking handshake. A handshake! Of all things.

I’d keel over from embarrassment if my body wasn’t still trying to comprehend the unthinkable that I’ve just subjected us both to witness. My hand—slightly shaky and way sweatier than usual—just kind of protrudes between our bodies, waiting for some concession that’ll allow me to slam the door in his face as soon as possible.

Being stuck on a beach with Fulton, in our swimwear, sticking it out for the long haul, is bound to be the most reckless decision I’ve ever considered. The last time I was intimate with someone was my ex, and that was nearly four years ago.

Not to mention that nobody—and I mean nobody —has had the effect that Fulton does on my psyche. Even the thought of touching him in any capacity (and yes, I do mean a handshake) makes me inexplicably lightheaded. I don’t trust myself around him. Just look at him! He’s so gorgeous that it shouldn’t be possible for someone like him to exist—with his perfectly proportioned features and his hard hockey muscles and his boyish smile that makes everything south of the border tingle.

After minutes of contemplation—or shock, I really don’t know—Fulton shakes my hand, and we both maintain an unnerving amount of eye contact with each other.

His weighted stare cuts through me, and I feel electricity sizzle between our fingers, imploring me to step closer and give him a real goodbye—a goodbye of the lip variation that definitely won’t make him regret asking me to be trapped in an aerodynamic metal can with him.

“I’ll get back to you,” I mumble, curbing those animalistic cravings with a too-wide smile. I can feel Revlon’s eyes on me, and I can practically hear her screaming at me to take life by the balls.

Fulton nods. “Yeah, of course. We leave in a few days. Friday.”

His arm falls away—leaving a distance that’s colder than the frosted air on an early-morning shift—and as I watch him walk dejectedly away from me, I can’t help but think I just gave him my unofficial answer.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, which is probably very apparent by now. Both in regard to my job and my love life.

Seeing Fulton didn’t make my decision any easier, and Revlon’s pro-Fulton agenda definitely didn’t resolve any of my stress. The opportunity of a lifetime has just fallen into my lap—knocked there by a man who possesses one thing a red-blooded woman like me can never resist: genuine interest in me—and I’m not jumping for joy. Cabo is the commitment of all commitments.

The business is in hardship. Taking a self-indulgent trip during a time when my help is needed the most is selfish on so many levels. This isn’t just my parents’ business—it’s mine too. It’s a group effort. I have a responsibility to do my part just as much as they’re responsible for doing theirs.

There’ll be other Cabo trips, right? I’m sure there’ll be other opportunities for me to hang out with Fulton during my free hours, preferably close by where I can still monitor things.

I set the salad down at the table—its strips of green papaya looked far more appetizing ten minutes ago than they do now—and I shuttle around robotically, placing the rest of the plates at everyone’s designated spots.

When I got home from work, the first thing I did was relay Fulton’s invitation to my parents, trying to keep my bias at bay so I could gauge their genuine reaction. And while a part of me was relieved when they said it would be good for me to expand my social circle, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since. They practically gave Fulton their blessing! (Yes, I’m aware that’s a term reserved for something more life-changing than this, but still!)

They didn’t even seem worried about the potential state of the business after my three-week leave of absence. They should be freaking out, right? They should be running around like chickens with their heads cut off. But no, they’d rather prioritize their own daughter’s happiness than the business that puts a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and money in our pockets.

After spending far too long tossing the salad and garnishing it with roasted peanuts, I stubbornly take a seat and stare down at the perfectly grilled slab of beef sitting on my plate. Crispy on the outside, a little pink in the middle, glazed with a garlic herb sauce that I normally would’ve devoured by now.

But my belly binds, and I don’t even bother with picking up my fork. “Do you really think this trip is a good idea?” I ask my parents.

My mother—Mai—hums an affirmative, raking the prongs of her fork through her mix of carrots and bean sprouts. “Of course it is, sweetheart. You haven’t had a day away from work in years. Not even when you got pneumonia; you still insisted on overseeing the new hires. Plus, this could be your chance to make some new friends.”

“Your mother’s right. You worry too much about things that may never even happen, con gái . We’re gonna be fine without you here for a few weeks,” my father—Cadeo—says around a mouthful of meat, not bothering to close his mouth as he chews.

I redirect my attention to the unripe papaya soaking in an excessive amount of sweet fish sauce. “I don’t have time to go on a trip. I was just doing payroll. Unless things turn around soon, we only have enough money for the next three months.”

“Your father and I have been talking about it, and we want to take out a small business loan,” my mom tells me.

Prickling with disapproval, I pick up my fork, pressing the handle firmly against my palm. “I’m not letting you take out another loan. You already did that for me in college.”

“You do everything for everybody else. It’s time you did something for yourself. Three weeks away isn’t going to make a difference. Maybe you need to come back with a clear head.”

My dad nods encouragingly, shifting his focus to his pile of white rice and digging in like he hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks. “We’re already speaking with the bank. I know you feel like this is solely your problem to fix, but it’s not. Just because we’re handing the business over to you doesn’t mean we won’t stop helping where we can.”

I forlornly push the beef around on my plate, and I know I have a penchant for pessimism, but the weight of my decision froths in my stomach. My pathetic attempt at a parry sticks sideways in my throat before I eventually speak.

“I don’t know if I can just uproot my life to spend three weeks with a bunch of people I’ve never even met before.”

Going to Cabo could be the greatest mistake of my life. One, there’s no guarantee my parents will be able to get a business loan, and the odds of that happening goes down drastically without my assistance. And two, what if nothing even happens between me and Fulton? I don’t know his friends, I don’t know the itinerary, I get easily overstimulated, and I have so much on my mind. This is a disaster just waiting to happen.

A frown splits my mom’s lips, and she reaches her hand out to rub my father’s arm. “Can you give us a second, c?ng ?”

With a resigned nod, my dad evacuates the premises, and the prospect of not only having to face my mother, but also the raw truth, pistols through every fiber of my being.

“I think you and I both know this is about more than just nerves,” she says sympathetically.

I hate that she’s right. I hate that she’s not-so-forcefully forcing me to confront my stupid past and the baggage I’ve accumulated from it. No matter how hard I try to smoke the memories out, they’re always lingering in the liminal spaces of my mind .

“Love and business don’t mix,” I state, brooking no room for argument.

“Not everyone is like Ace.”

Ah, yes. Ace Jameson. The first boy who ever broke my heart, and the last one who will ever get the chance. He can shit in his hands and clap for all I care. He preyed on my naivety and forgiveness in the first serious relationship I was ever in, and if you ask me, life dealt me some seriously fucked-up cards. I was stupid to believe that he truly loved me, though the flowers and the tide of expensive gifts were convincing.

When the business started to falter, requiring me to work more hours, he gave me an ultimatum—either I could choose to be his girlfriend, or I could choose to be my family’s “pack mule.”

It was never a competition. My family was always going to come first.

“He said he loved me, Mom. But clearly not enough.”

“Don’t let him ruin other people for you, Shiloh. If you don’t make time for love, you’re never going to find it.”

In the moment, I imagine what it would feel like to be wrapped up in Fulton’s arms somewhere far, far away from the mundaneness of my less-than-extraordinary life. What it would feel like to be kissed by him.

“Right now, I don’t have any extra time,” I insist.

My mother—love’s number one supporter, having been happily married to my father for thirty years—just smiles at me knowingly. In fact, her optimism is nauseating.

“Sure you do. Your dad and I just gave you three weeks off.”