Before my shift, I stopped by my favorite coffee shop, a cozy little place that was only a few minute's stroll from the beach. Holding a large iced coffee with an extra shot of caramel in one hand and the journal in the other, I sat down at a table by a window that faced the calm morning waves. I glanced around, relieved I recognized no one around me, knowing how easily distracted I was.

I set the currently unlocked yet still unopened journal on the table in front of me and thumbed through the pages, taking in just how many entries there were in my mother's half-cursive, half-print handwriting. I used to beg her to teach me how to write like that, but it'd turned out she never had to show me how.

Over the years, the black ink had faded, and the pages didn't quite lay flat anymore, giving the illusion the journal was thicker than it was. When I set it down on the table, it opened to the first page automatically.

This Journal Belongs to Annie K. ♡

There was no going back.

September 10, 1992

4:44 p.m.

You know what will always suck about college out of the many things that suck about college?

When people steal your seat in class.

Yes, this was actually the tipping point to me buying this journal today because apparently my roommate, Samantha, is tired of hearing me rant about this 'non-issue.' But what she doesn't seem to understand is that a seat is actually one of the most important parts of the classroom experience.

Sitting in the back and still seeing the chalkboard is something I can only dream about, thanks to the phenomenal vision I got from Dad. Sitting in the front is basically inviting the professor to call on me when no one answers a question. Sitting in the middle of any row is yet another no, ever since some guy last year accidentally brushed my ass trying to get to his seat and thought that was an invitation to hit on me for the rest of the semester.

So, last year, I decided on what constitutes the perfect spot, down to a T.

1. The second row, for the sake of my poor vision

2. The last seat on the end, so I can step out into the aisle when someone tries to get to their spot

3. Right side of the classroom. No specific reason for the preference.

4. And, of course, as far away as possible from any guy who seems like he thinks accidentally touching a female's backside means she wants him

This meticulous combination was working like a charm—until today.

The thing is, I already knew Real Analysis at 8 a.m. was going to be beyond painful—and not because of all the arcane theory—since I never have been, nor ever will be, a morning person. I pity whoever will marry me and have to deal with me before 10 a.m. because I simply do not function before that time of day.

So, when I walked into the classroom at 7:57, almost late but still on time, the last thing my grumpy morning self was anticipating to see was HIM in my seat. See, I would have cut the guy some slack had he just registered for the class today, but he knew.

Oh, he definitely knew.

We've made eye contact the past three classes, and he even awkwardly attempted to talk to me on Tuesday.

And today he was sitting in my seat.

Asshole.

I looked up and chuckled to myself, not expecting my mother to have had a witty personality like this, at least in writing. The last thing I thought I would feel while reading this journal was amusement, and now I couldn't wipe a smile off my face.

I tapped my phone screen, relieved I still had time to spare before work. Tempted to hear more about the seat-stealing asshole, I flipped to the third page of the journal. My eyes caught onto someone standing in line, a very welcomed distraction.

I trailed my gaze down his six-foot-something self, admiring the way his sculpted body, adorned by a perfectly even tan, made our red and navy uniform look like it belonged in a luxury clothing catalog. I stole a glance at his side profile, finding his eyes shielded by eyelashes nearly longer than mine. He flicked them to the right, and they landed on my curious face. Heat spread across my cheeks, and I ducked my head down, pretending to be deeply interested in my iced coffee.

Through my peripheral vision, I could spot him coming my way with a coffee in one hand and a small bag in the other. I threw my hands over the journal and attempted my most casual pose.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Jesse asked, grasping the back of the chair across from me.

You think I mind?

"No, of course not," I said, offering him a warm smile and straightening up a little.

He slid into the seat, setting his breakfast down on the table. It seemed like it could feed more than one person.

"Good book?" he asked, pointing to the journal sheltered under my forearms.

I looked down and then back at him, blinking. "You could say so." Nervously chuckling, I slipped it back into my leather tote and tucked a strand of thick hair behind my ear. "But I only just started it, so I can't be sure just yet."

"I never read as much as I'd like to in the summer," he sighed, taking a sip of coffee. He set an elbow on the table, hand flattening across his cheek. "Now that I've graduated college, I have time to get back into reading, at least before I start work."

Graduated college. That would make him at least two years older than me. Not bad. "I used to devour books when I was a kid. And then high school English came along, and now all I do is math in college. Voluntarily."

He appeared amused. "Someone who willingly chooses to do math. You're a rare one, Hanna." I laughed lightly, tucking another piece of hair behind my ear. Damn it, stop doing that. "Would you like one? I bought two."

He pushed a blueberry scone towards me. Having already eaten two doughnuts with Colin, I wasn't sure I needed the extra sugar, but my heart swelled at the kind gesture.

"Thank you," I said, taking it from his hands.

As I did, our fingers brushed, and our eyes locked, brown against blue. We stayed that way for a second longer than pure happenstance. Jesse tore his gaze away and found his coffee cup again, fiddling with the cap. I popped a small piece of the scone into my mouth, not disappointed with the flavor. I admired him again when he wasn't looking, wondering who his parents were to have made such an attractive human being.

Sipping my coffee, I broke off another bite of the scone and floated through a few mental images.

I think I found my new favorite thing in this coffee shop.

***

The day went as usual. A run to warm up, a quick check-in with our captain, several loudly blown whistles, a bathroom question or two.

And, as the day was especially uneventful, lots of waiting around, during which I made small talk. I'd always despised small talk, simply because it served no purpose. It wasn't actual relationship-forming conversation, neither was it peace and quiet, which we all needed in a world that never stopped buzzing. But with Jesse, I didn't mind the small talk; actually, I loved it. For a nosy person like me, small talk gave you more to work with than what longingly staring across the beach at your hot coworker ever could.

"So your dad founded the consulting firm?" I tilted my head away from the bright mid-afternoon sun. "I think I've heard that name around before."

"Well, actually," he began, his fingers dancing against the stubble on his chin. "The firm is originally my grandfather's. He started it with his brother in Boston in the seventies. My dad worked there as an associate after college and then became partner around ten years ago. So, you could just say I just spelled out my career path to you."

"Do you have any other siblings vying for partner as well?" I asked, partly joking.

"I have Bella, who you already met, but she's pretty dead set at five-years-old on becoming a professional golfer." He'd managed to get through half of that sentence with a straight face, before his mouth morphed into a smirk and out came a full-blown laugh. "My other sibling—uh, he's not really into family affairs. How many siblings do you have?"

I shook my head for none, bright expression fading. "I still wish I had a brother or sister." Being an only child with divorced parents was as lonely as it could get. "As embarrassing as this sounds at twenty, I used to ask Santa for a brother every Christmas. Until, of course, I learned that he wasn't real and began pestering my parents for one every waking moment."

"But why not a sister?" He added, "You know, since you're a girl."

I smiled half-heartedly. "It's stupid. I thought for some reason that a sister would take—I thought she'd take my mother's attention away from me. You know, because only baby girls are whiny and in need of constant attention."

"For what it's worth, sometimes siblings can really complicate a family." He stared off at the roaring waves for a moment, eyes following the ebb and flow of the water. "But I'm sorry your Christmas wish was never granted."

"Thank you, but it's all good now. Friends help." I sat up in my chair and fished for my phone in my bag, remembering my ten-minute break and my one and only friend. "I'll be right back."

As I walked up the uneven sand to the pavilion, I checked my phone again. To my surprise, five messages from Stella popped up.

Stella

I quit that job. That's why I haven't shown up to work in three days

Okay that made me sound like an asshole. But then again when am I not?

God sorry, I'm really not okay right now

Help me Hanna. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared and I don't know what to fucking do

My thumbs whirred across the keyboard as I texted her back in a frenzy. Was she in danger? Having a medical emergency? In a family crisis?

As I continued trekking up the beach, anxiously waiting for three dots to appear on her side of the conversation, I collided into someone exiting the pavilion.

"Sorry, didn't mean to bu—" I cut my words short when my brain registered it was Alex that I'd barreled into. Between two blinks, that night at Colin's party replayed in my mind, down to the feeling of his fingertips just touching the edge of my thigh. I snapped out of the memory and took a few steps back.

"Hanna, I—" Alex hesitated upon noticing my wary expression. He dropped his eyes to the sand in shame, rubbing his hand over the nape of his neck. I didn't know why I kept waiting there, but the heat of the sand seemed to have melted the bottom of my flip flops, gluing them in place. "I wanted to ask you something."

"What?"

"Have you heard anything from Stella?" he asked. "She hasn't showed up to work in days."

I grimaced at the audacity. "And why would you care? You dumped her, remember?"

He drummed his fingers over his stubble, jaw clenching. He tilted his head up slightly, eyelids heavy over his brown eyes. "Look, I know, okay? But I can still give a crap about her, and I've been worried sick these last few days. Has she really not said a word to you? You're her best friend."

I began to walk away, shaking my head to myself. Turning around, I mumbled, "I'm sure if she wants to tell you what's going on, she will."