“Forget it,” she muttered, hopping down from the stool.

“Rosie,” I warned.

“Dean.” It was her turn to mimic me. She rolled her eyes. “Let me know what my new rent is before the end of the month, please. I need to make the necessary arrangements if I can’t keep the apartment.”

She walked to the door and slammed it in my face before I had the chance to tell her that her rent would stay the same if she came along.

That was fine, I had patience, as long as things went my way.

Baby LeBlanc was going to bow down to me eventually.

Her clock was ticking faster, and I was done letting her waste our time.

What makes you feel alive?

Taking a bus with a route I don’t know. Walking the long way home. Feeling my senses heighten as my body becomes more alert to the unfamiliar scenery around me.

“SICK PLAYLIST, CHICA,” MY BEST friend remarked the following Wednesday, as I plugged my USB into The Black Hole’s laptop. I made an eight-hour playlist of the best of the best, just like I had done on every other shift I had. People came in from all over New York to hear my playlists. Customers said I gave them Williamsburg from the comfort of their Manhattan residency. From French electric pop, anarchist punk to old British rock—my music was like a milkshake. It brought all the boys to the yard and made them pay five bucks for a small latte. So. Much. Win.

“Thanks, boo.” I winked, moving away from the laptop and wiping the counter in front of me for the hundredth time that morning. Even though I had one hundred percent disability because of my illness, I chose to work. Productivity spun my straw into gold. Working was my saving grace, because when you’re my kind of sick, your whole adulthood is on probation.

“How is your hot neighbor doing?” Elle asked, her elbows pressed against the counter, her legs tapping to the tune of “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” by Dropkick Murphys that played in the background. “Still mega-rich?”

“Oh, yeah. Also, still a mega-douche.” I coughed out my answer. I wish my blonde, curvy, gorgeous friend, Elle, hadn’t met Dean last month for two seconds. I didn’t think he noticed her existence as he met us in the elevator and asked if I wanted to come, and when I asked where, he said on his tongue, but she noticed him, all right. And when she found out he was one of the CEOs to the monstrous investment firm Fiscal Heights Holdings on top of being good-looking, all bets were off. She’d pretty much been bugging me about him ever since.

“We don’t care about that.” She waved her hand around, ignoring a table of desperate customers on the far end of the shop who signaled for her to hand them the check a century ago. They could dance the “Copacabana” and she still wouldn’t notice. Elle was an amazing woman as much as she was a terrible waitress. I rang their order up and printed out their check, walking over to the table and offering them complimentary lemon cakes before returning to a still-oblivious Elle. Even though I was the barista and it technically wasn’t a part of my job, I still covered for Elle all the time.

“You don’t, but I do. Anyway, he is trying to get me to go with him to Todos Santos on Friday instead of a Saturday. I don’t want to.” I munched on my lower lip, thinking about Mama and Daddy. I haven’t told Elle about my conversation with Dean. She was away all week, visiting her parents in Nebraska. The last thing I wanted was to dump my personal crap on her and ruin her vacation.

“Screw that, hell no.” Elle waved her forefinger around, her hazel eyes skimming over two young, male customers who walked into the café, foolishly expecting her attention. “Your parents are a drag, and your mom is always on your case. Also, they still don’t know you’ve broken up with Darren, right?”

Right.

On top of my parents, I would have to hang out with Vicious and Dean, two of my least-favorite people. The week was definitely going to be challenging. I changed the subject, bypassing the self-pity fest I was tempted to throw for myself.

“By the way, I need to change my plan for my sister’s bachelorette party. My new one needs to be crazy with a touch of glitter.” I unscrewed one of the jars of chocolate chip cookies that lined the counter behind us, taking two and shoving them into my mouth. “Any suggestions?”

Don’t say Vegas, don’t say Vegas, don’t say Vegas, I inwardly prayed.

“Two words: Las Vegas.” She drew an imaginary flashing sign in the air. “Do the Sin City Tour-de-Trash. Male strippers. Booze. A Britney Spears gig. All the guilty pleasures you can pack in, basically.”