Chapter Text
You will not wonder how simple decisions ripple into life changes. Your son will. He will never tell you about it. He will tell his friend instead, someone he trusts, someone who listens open-heartedly and who smiles at his wandering thoughts. He will choose to tell his friend and that friend will fall for him and neither you nor them will realise the irony of that. Decisions and ripples and changes.
You will not wonder about that. You’ll wonder how she seems unable to understand exactly how precious, how incredible, how breathtaking she truly is. You’ll wonder how you managed to grow into someone who is good enough for her and for your son and for your daughter and for the life you’ll have.
And that night, the one where your hair is tied too far up on your head and your apron is too big and lays sagging over your old cardigan (and even older jeans) and the coffee machine is just an asshole, that night you will wonder why the fuck a class-A celebrity is walking into your shop.
(later you’ll wonder if it’s possible to die of a full heart)
lovelovelove
One of these days, you will toss the hissing piece of machinery in front of you in the garbage. You will kick it for good measure and maybe set it afire. One day, you will rule it and you’ll feel damn good about it. For now, you jump back as the coffee maker decides to spit out a jet of steaming hot water.
“Stupid piece of sh-” The ringing of the bell by the door stops you, forcing you to put a smile on your face and push back the loose strands of hair by your forehead. “Good evening!”
“Hey.” The woman making her way into the shop smiles apologetically, the man behind her only nods his greeting.
“I am so sorry, but I’m just closing up.”
The more you work with coffee, the more you understand the addictive nature most human beings have. The woman visibly deflates.
“Oh.” She exchanges a look with the man, her disappointment clear by the frown she’s now wearing. “Well, thank you anyway. Do you know anywhere around here that might still be open?”
“Have you tried Noonan’s, two blocks down?” You suggest. The smaller coffee machine in the corner blinks at you, still on, still relatively fast at brewing a cup.
“Oh, yeah, actually, we have. Closed.” She sighs, shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.
You know who she is, you’d have to live under a rock not to. You know her songs, actually enjoy them, have even caught Non mumbling along to a few. She’s a good singer, is one of the few celebrities you can actually stand.
The light on the coffee machine is still on.
“Well, I guess that’s it, then. But thank you, have a good night.” She smiles genuinely, turns to go.
You should really allow her to leave. You’re tired and still have to clean the mess you’ve made while trying to master the beast behind you.
You should really let her go, but the more you work with coffee, the more you know how it can make or break someone’s day, the more you learn how it can be a tiny comfort in the midst of confusion.
“What were you going to order?” You ask, kicking yourself internally for being so over the top. Cat is right, an author’s soul is always dramatic.
She’s almost by the door, but she stops, turns slightly.
“Uhm, just a half-caf. Skinny, no sugar.” She must see something in your face, because she turns around fully. “And a quad?” She looks at the man with her for confirmation. He nods. “And a quad.”
You’re really tired.
“All right, come on.” You motion for them to come back in. She smiles wholeheartedly, then. “Venti?”
“Yeah." She sighs, taking a seat in front of the counter. "You’re a lifesaver.”
You chuckle politely while setting to work.
You’re comfortably quiet for a couple of minutes, the soft noises of the coffee maker filling the room. After three years of working here, it’s easy for you to lose yourself in the motions, in the setting of the cups, the steaming of the milk, the gurgling of the coffee as it drips down. It’s even easier to drift into thinking about writing, about the soft clicks of the keyboard, the switch between computer screen and paper as you check your notes, the small voice in your head, whispering words before you type them.
Your fingers feel the press of the keys as you pick up the lid for the first cup.
“Is this your usual closing hour?” She brings you back to reality. You’ve been brought back enough times to barely flinch anymore.
“Give or take fifteen minutes, yes.”
“And do you guys deliver?”
Closing the second cup, you walk over to the pastry corner and sigh. If they are drinking this much caffeine this late, they should at least eat something.
“Depends on the time, the size of the order, and where to.” You answer, throwing a couple of sticky buns in a paper bag.
“So, if we were to call, say…. around nine p.m.?” She follows your movements with her eyes.
“Our barista has usually already left by then.” You place the cups in a holder, bring everything over by the register. “Sorry.”
“Ah, it was a long shot.” She shrugs.
You give her a smile as you ring up the order.
“That will be $6.40.”
She gives you a ten.
“Keep the change.” She reaches for the holder, ignoring the paper bag. You push it towards her as she pulls the cups. You both stop briefly, eyes meeting. It’s almost a standoff. She quirks an eyebrow.
“On the house.” You nod. She smirks.
“Thank you, uhm…” Her eyes flicker to the tag on your apron. “Astra.”
“Have a good evening, ma’am. Sir.” You refuse to acknowledge her status. She may be famous, but, truthfully, you don’t particularly care.
The man, still standing by the door, chuckles.
She holds your gaze for two more seconds before turning away and leaving.
lovelovelove
When you get home later that night, you forget to tell Non, your mind occupied by the damn coffee machine and the idea of an article you’d love to write. You go to sleep without jotting the idea down and, as usual, you dream about it and forget it as soon as you wake up.
It’s a constant, one you know will only end when you pick up a pencil and start writing again.
You long for it. You can feel this unsettling anxiety, deep and never-ending, behind your every thought. You’re a writer, through and through; One addicted to writing, at that, and three years without giving in is a long time.
As you go through your morning routine the next day, moving silently around your husband, a mindless rhythm brought on by years of marriage, you wonder if Cat was right, if a five-year break had really been a mistake.
Maybe it wouldn’t feel like a death sentence after all, to see your name on another book cover. Maybe it would feel like coming home, to spend late nights with your editor (your friend) reviewing pages and pages and pages of your work. Maybe your life wouldn’t feel like an endless sea of identical days.
Maybe.
You help Non open up the shop, place down the chairs you’d put up minutes (hours) earlier and receive the day’s deliveries.
Going to your little office in the back when your half-time baristas come in, you open up your email as you cradle a mug of tea, knees drawn up towards your chest. And there, in your inbox, as if the woman had somehow read your mind, sits an email from Cat.
Your heart skips. Your throat squeezes. Your hand shoots away from the mouse as if electrocuted. You stare at the screen for a while, your foot bouncing against the seat.
DO NOT IGNORE glares accusingly at you from the subject line.
“Hey, have you seen my recipe book?” Non knocks on the open door. You don’t startle and he starts looking around the room. You softly slap his hands away when he goes for the papers on your desk.
“Yeah, it’s behind that waste of metal you bought.”
“Just because you don’t know how to use it doesn’t mean it is bad.” He kisses your head before leaving. You can still remember when those kisses would warm you, if not for affection, then by the simple fact of having someone who cared.
When he disappears, you place your feet back on the ground.
You close your email, open Excel and pull up the expenses sheet instead.
Cat's waited three years, she can wait a bit more.
lovelovelove
It takes her four days to come back and, when she does, you’re wearing the same sweater, but with an apron that actually fits. It’s earlier this time, a few students from NCU hunched over books in the corner. When the doorbell rings and you all have time to look, you hear a muffled squeal from one of the students. They have wide eyes and you watch as the woman gives them a tight grin, waves. She’s answered with three frantic waves back.
This time, she doesn’t leave. She and the man sit at a table in the opposite corner to the girls, and eat a sticky bun each. You mind your business, try to catch up on inventory. Once they’re done, she brings you the trays with an easy grin.
You don’t tell Non and you don’t reply to Cat and it becomes a routine.
She shows up, always late at night, always with the same guy and always ordering the same thing. It goes on for a month.
Cat sends more emails. You begin to read them, but still don’t reply.
They start marking your weeks, that woman’s appearances. The only breaks in the repetitive cycle of your life.
You don’t actually talk much past mindless chit-chat while you prepare her order, but you can feel her looking. You meet her eyes once or twice, and you see the spark, feel a kindred one flashing deep in your chest. You indulge yourself. It’s been forever since you’ve felt anything similar.
After another two more weeks go by, you just assume she’s moved nearby and is too lazy to work a proper coffee machine.
One day, it changes. She comes by herself.
“No friend today?” You greet her. The shop is busy for this time of night, and the song currently playing on the radio pulls on your headache.
“Nah, I know my way around by now.” She smiles, a habit of hers, and sits on her usual stool.
You give her a half grin in response as you retie your hair.
“Just the half-caf, then?”
“And a sticky bun.” You both say.
Turning to wash your hands, your smile is a bit more genuine.
Once her order is done, she doesn’t look ready to move, so you place the mug and the plate on the counter.
“How did your sister like them?” You recall something she’d said on her last visit as she bites into the pastry.
“She freaked out. Wouldn’t stop talking about ‘em for the whole day.”
“Well, I was aware that they were good, but not that good.”
“Kara takes carbs very seriously.”
She washes the bun down with a couple of sips of her coffee and looks at you. Your headache is too strong today for the spark, so you take the rag tucked into your apron and wipe non-existing stains from the counter.
“Can I ask you something? It might be a little weird.”
You feel a jab through your brain, but you tuck the rag back into your pocket and nod.
“Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
“Ever since I first came here, I just had this feeling I’d seen you somewhere.”
“Perhaps I just have one of those faces.”
“Oh, no, you definitely don’t.” She deadpans.
You don’t know how to react to that.
lovelovelove
When you see the figure walking past the shop’s window, you ponder whether or not you’re fit enough to escape through the backdoor and actually outrun her, because you have no doubt that Cat Grant can absolutely run in heels.
She pushes the door open and you’re grateful the café is empty.
“Oh, so you are alive.” As usual, she bypasses greetings. Your editor’s never been fond of unnecessary words, neither on paper nor spoken.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” You concentrate on putting the washed mugs away, almost feeling the click of her stilettos on your skin as she comes closer.
“Well, after my thirteenth email went unanswered, I did begin to wonder.” Cat stops some feet away, drops her purse with a heavy thud on a nearby table. “Honestly, Astra, you could at least have given me the courtesy of a ‘fuck off’ .”
“Last time I chose to do that, you showed up here and gave me an ear-full regardless. So, same result, less work, I suppose.”
The fact that Cat is right doesn’t escape you. It would have been easier to reply, kinder too. You, however, are already aware of the discussion you’re about to have and you’re also incredibly conscious about how much it will hurt and how it will not change your mind.
“Don’t be a fucking smartass right now.”
“Look, I am sorry, all right?” You close the cupboard, actually step around the bar. “I’ve read them. I know you want me to come back, part of me wants to come back as well, but I am not going to. Not right now, perhaps not even once my five years are up.”
“Ah, you read them, did you? How nice of you. And did you by any chance also read the part where we want to offer you a thirty-five percent royalty deal for individual material? We’ve never done this for any other writer.”
“Yes, well, I hope you are all aware that the shitshow that was my last book was a once in a lifetime event. You'd probably lose money if I were to take you up on that offer.”
“Astra, I’ve told you this before, I’ll tell you again: that book was one of the best pieces of writing I have ever read and you did it effortlesly. You should be proud of it.”
“And I will tell you again: I am not going to blow up my life another time, Cat. Not for the publishing house, not for you, not for anything." Your voice raises an octave. You refuse to let it waver. "Everything that man said, everything he put out on the media about me did twice the damage my book ever did to him.”
“When you say that, you not only sound naive, but also selfish. His reputation is tainted, yours is not.”
You stare at her, waiting.
A few seconds later, you see her deflate (as expected), perfectly manicured fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. And you see how she changes from the mogul, the no-nonsense, almighty business woman, and morphs into your friend (a very irritated friend, but a friend nonetheless). Cat sighs, takes a deep breath in and:
“At the end of the day, all the stories he leaked to the press were bad, but none close to being as bad as what you wrote about the awful things he's done. It was traumatizing, I know that. I cannot tell you enough how I wish you hadn’t had to go through that or how much I despise him. Trust me, I’ve had him blackballed from any and all reputable publishing houses this side of the Atlantic. But you cannot give up. I refuse to allow you to let him win.”
Leaning your back against the counter, you shake your head and cross your arms.
“Allow me?” You smirk, Cat rolls her eyes. “I’m not letting him win, I am simply protecting myself.”
“That man didn’t like what you had to say, so he tried to silence you, render you untrustworthy-” Cat stops when the bell rings.
You twist your neck to see your famous customer walking in and regretting doing so almost immediately.
“Hey, are you closing up?” She looks between you and Cat, both with crossed arms and frowns. It doesn’t take much to read the room.
“Oh, no, no, I am not. Come on in.” You catch Cat’s eyes as you settle back behind the bar. You know she recognized the newcomer as quickly as anyone else would.
“It’s okay if you are, though. Really.”
“No, today is just a slow one.”
You make her coffee, ears tuned to what’s behind you.
“Cat Grant, owner and main editor of Grant Books.” Cat’s tone is as professional as you ever heard it and you can practically see the smirk she wears and her extended hand.
“Oh, uhm, nice to meet you. Alex Danvers.”
“I’m familiar with your work, Miss Danvers. How's the new album coming along?”
A pause.
"How do you know about that?"
"A lot of ears in a lot of places."
Another pause.
"It's good, just finished recording today, actually."
"Well, I can't wait to listen to it."
Turning around, you set the mug and the plate in front of your customer.
“Would you like anything, Cat?” You offer, more out of politeness than anything else.
“Yes, but I’m still not sure if you’re selling it.” She meets your eyes and the sharpness she’d put aside to talk to your company is suddenly back. “So I’ll wait in your office.”
“There really is no need…” You give up when Cat shoulders her purse. There’s little room for opposing when the blonde decides on an argument.
“Miss Danvers, if you’re ever in the market for publishing your story, please don’t hesitate in calling me.” Cat takes a card from her coat’s pocket, hands it to the woman before disappearing to the back of the shop.
There’s a minute of silence as Alex starts eating. You begin to clean what you’d dirtied to make her order.
“You’re Astra In-Ze, aren’t you? The one who wrote that exposé on Max Lord?”
You don’t flinch. You are not ashamed. You’re not.
“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” You dry your hands, lean against the sink.
Something that’s always struck you about her is the openness she exudes. When you meet her eyes, they’re still kind, so you let your shoulders drop.
“But yes, that’s me.”
“See? I told you I knew you.” She bites into her sticky bun.
“I don’t know what you read on those papers, Miss Danvers, but I can guarantee you know less than you think.” You twist the cloth in your hands, grip it more tightly than you need to, the fibers burning your skin.
“Oh, I’m aware.” Alex sips her coffee. You wonder why this feels like a revelation. “I learned a long time ago to not trust Max too much.”
“So you've read the book, then?”
She looks sheepishly down into the remainants of her coffee.
“I bought it, but then I went on the road and things got… busy.”
“Got it.” You chuckle.
“But everyone I know in the industry has read it.”
“That sounds… scary.”
“No, they all loved it.” She places two bills beside the plate, you know it’s way more than what she owes. “Could you give me a couple more buns to go? My sister’s been on my case about bringing her some and today is my last day here.”
“Oh, of course.” You grab the tongs and the paper bag, your stomach twisting, your belly cold. Back to repetitive, never-ending days for you.
As she leaves and you prepare yourself for round two with Cat, you catch a glimpse of the small coffee machine in the corner. You turn it off.
lovelovelove
Months later (you don’t bother to check exactly how many) an email pops up in your inbox that should have gone to spam. Curiosity gets the best of you.
Date: Tues, 4 may 04 08:33PM MET
From: “AD” <[email protected]>
To: “Astra In-Ze” <[email protected]>
Subject: Finally read it
It was brilliant. Your writing is incredible.
AD.
You delete it and wonder how the fuck a company got your email address.
Another month. Alex announces her new album.
You get another email. You still don’t understand what’s happening.
Date: Wed, 16 June 04 05:11PM MET
From: “AD” <[email protected]>
To: “Astra In-Ze” <[email protected]>
Subject: Read a couple more
I picked up two other titles of yours to read during the promo junket. Went through them over the weekend. They are fascinating.
AD.
You delete it.
Three more weeks pass.
Date: Thu, 1 July 04 09:57AM MET
From: “AD” <[email protected]>
To: “Astra In-Ze” <[email protected]>
Subject: Burning the competition
Your first book has officially entered the list of my top favorite novels. Why did you ever stop writing? Also, I hope your editor gave me the right address.
AD.
PS: I never realized how much I came to rely on carbs until I started craving sticky buns in the evening. How much do you want for the recipe?
Your eyes are fixed on AD for ten minutes. You can’t bring yourself to delete this one.
lovelovelove
Remorse, although ever-present in your life, is not something you’re entirely comfortable with. It isn’t at all useful, since it usually only appears after it is much too late to fix whatever its cause may be.
There are a plethora of things which you regret. The way you left your country, hurting your sister, agreeing to write that last book.
You have never been madly in love with your husband, nor have you ever felt the need to share everything with him. He’s known you since you were both young and naive and the worst had yet to happen. He has been by your side since your need to run was greater than your sense of responsibility, your sense of family.
The two of you have always been more or less loyal to each other and, through him, you’ve learned about self-control. He has always centered himself, consciously moving through life and respecting your boundaries, your limitations, and you’ve made yourself accept his love through a mixture of osmosis and complacency.
You think he knows that, never demanding a wild demonstration of affection.
He’s your safety, your known land in a place that in many ways is still foreign.
When you start writing Alex Danvers back, a stiffness begins to appear in your throat every time you meet your husband’s eyes.
Non is patient, but blind. He sees nothing wrong with the extra hour you now spend on your computer.
There is, in fact, nothing wrong, not really. You talk about your books and her music, and it’s been an incredibly long while since you last had a conversation with someone so genuinely interested in the possibility of your stories.
Alex doesn’t seem to think much about what she says or writes, barely seems to read through her emails before hitting send, judging by the one or two typos her messages usually encompass.
Still, you look at Non, throat tight, betrayal reverberating in your mind.
You realize that, this time, you have the power to prevent this particular remorse from entering your collection. This time, you can demonstrate, if not love, at least loyalty.
He pops into your office on a Thursday, placing a cup of tea in your hand and a squeeze on your shoulder, his way of saying goodbye as he leaves the shop for the day. Marriage is an active choice, you remind yourself.
“Non, could you stay for a moment?”
He nods without a second thought, leaning against the bookshelf.
“What’s up?”
You tell him slowly, mindfully keeping any heaviness from your voice. It is not a big deal.
At first, he seems thrilled. A celebrity frequenting his café has never crossed his mind as a possibility. As you continue to mention encounter upon encounter, however, his smile begins to diminish.
By the end, his lips are pressed in a thin line, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. You can only imagine the words he is forcing himself to withhold.
(A small, confusing part of you is almost eager for him to unleash them, break his controlled demeanor. You are generally thankful for how centered he is, but after so long together, you know how isolating it can be. If he lets go, at the very least, it would signify he too chooses honesty.)
“I’m glad you’re making a new friend.” Non walks to you, kisses your head.
Instead of remorseful, you’re strangely irritated.
Yet another emotion that makes you shift in your seat.
lovelovelove
Looking at the calendar, it’s been six months. Alex Danvers’ album has been on the top of the charts since its release eight weeks prior and has seven grammy nominations. The CD is on the café’s constant rotation.
You’re about to step out of your office and go to the front of the store, force yourself to officially start your day, when the landline rings.
“Fort Rozz coffee shop, how can I-”
“Listen, I don’t know how the fuck you managed to pull this off, but you’re taking this deal if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Cat? What are you talking about?” It’s too early for this.
“Alex Danvers wants to publish a memoir and she wants you to write it.”
It’s a good thing you’re still sitting down.