The barista had a whiter than white smile. “Welcome to Brindle’s!” she chirped. “What can I getcha?”
Grimacing faintly, Mila Jones peered at the girl over her sunglasses, marveling that the reflection off of someone’s veneers could be that bright. “Large black,” she said. “Six sugars. Please.”
“That’ll be four twenty-five.” The girl’s smile widened as she took Mila’s credit card and swiped it. “Name, please?”
“Da Vinci.”
The barista blinked in confusion, but her smile remained frozen in place. She snagged a cup and marker and painstakingly scrawled Dah Vinchy on the rim before passing it to the skinny, pimply-faced boy standing next to her. His own less than perfect smile was lost on her, though not on Mila, who felt a pang of sympathy as she followed him further down the counter. As he fixed an espresso for the person at the head of the line, her eyes traveled lazily over the skinny freckled arms and pronounced overbite. Poor bastard, she thought. He didn’t stand a chance with the prime specimen behind the register. Mila had seen it too many times. Hell, her own brother had been the same way in high school, always pining after one of the pretty, popular girls while ignoring the plainer ones who would have been more than happy to go out with Trey Jones. After endless rejections—because surprise, surprise, pretty people like other pretty people—he’d spent the intervening years hating half the human race.
Mila, on the other hand, had never had any illusions about her own attractiveness. And since she wasn’t one to mince words or hide from unpleasant truths, she had long ago accepted her perpetual singledom. It made things easier. Less complicated. Maybe Freckles could do with a cold dose of reality.
“Five sugars?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He turned red as a fire engine and glanced at Prime, who was happily ignoring his existence while flirting with the dark-haired, tattooed, devastatingly cute guy at the counter. Mila rolled her eyes at the predictability of it all.
“Six,” she told him. “They make a cute couple, huh?”
Freckles’ face soured. “That’s not her boyfriend. That’s just a guy who comes in here and flirts with her to get free drinks.”
“Not a bad idea,” she said. Ignoring the boy’s look of dismay, she plucked her coffee from his outstretched hand, hoping her smile was more sympathetic than amused. “Look, it’s none of my business, but from one ugly person to another, you’re wasting your time. Attractive people like other attractive people. Hell, everyone does. If we were smart, we’d go after people like us, but we don’t, do we? So we’re just as bad. The longer you fight reality, the more it’ll poison your mind. If you don’t find some other purpose in life besides getting laid, you’ll never be happy. Trust me on that.” Without waiting for a response, she raised her cup in a half-hearted salute and walked out of the coffee shop, leaving a confused and angry boy behind her. Part of her felt guilty, but another part hoped she’d shocked some sense into him. No point in wasting one’s life on something that could never be. Maybe her own hard-fought wisdom could help him.
Yeah, right, her inner voice scoffed. Would you have listened to the dickhead who called you ugly and condemned you to a life of loneliness when you were his age?
Probably not. But maybe he was smarter than her. Maybe he’d end up a decent person instead of an asshole like Trey, using and dumping every woman who had the misfortune to look at him twice. Her brother had grown out of his ugly duckling phase, more’s the pity. Mila had not. Although, in her own way, she might have been just as big an asshole as her brother. Case in point, Freckles.
Mila stepped outside, wondering if she should find a new coffee shop now that her next one was likely to have an extra shot of spit in it. But she quickly forgot about Freckles in the rush of early morning foot traffic, the army of people scurrying along the grid-like streets of Paradiso like a massive ant colony, drones walking head down, eyes on the ground, following an invisible trail sensed rather than seen. Mila inhaled her coffee fumes and plunged into the chaos, swept along by the irresistible current of humanity. At the first subway station, she broke away and jogged down the stairs, blowing impatiently on the slowly cooling brew. Two trains and a bus ride later, the stuff was finally drinkable and she had arrived in Par Heights, a place those in the know called Paradiso’s most up and coming district. The art scene there was taking off, and the newest startups—like Kelly Schulz’s interior design business, one that specialized in modern decor and high-end furnishings—couldn’t sign people fast enough. When she’d discovered Mila’s uniquely colorful and Spartan sense of style, she’d recognized the girl’s inherent talent. Mila’s prickly personality—which so often accompanied artistic genius—fit in well enough among the eclectic group that occupied the renovated high-rise in the Heights’ old warehouse district.
“This place couldn’t be any more hipster if it tried,” were Mila’s exact words during her informal hour-long interview. Kelly had snorted in amusement before offering her the job.
Three months after that interview, Mila headed in to work on this warm, sunny morning with an actual smile on her face, happier with her job than she’d ever imagined. She got along well with her co-workers. She liked and respected her boss. And she adored design. It seemed impossible that clients would pay her generous amounts of money to play with fabric samples, create color schemes, and shop for beautiful furniture all day long, but they did. How wonderful it was to create, and to be good at creating, to do what she loved each and every day. It was all she wanted from life; or, rather, it was all she let herself want. So far, it had been enough.
“Good morning!” Chloe, office administrator and personal assistant to the boss woman, called out as Mila exited the elevator into the Schulz Designs lobby. Cheerful people generally annoyed her, but Chloe was the type who never rubbed it in your face. She also possessed the uncanny ability to listen without offering unwanted advice, and somehow knew the right thing to say no matter the occasion. Mila made a beeline for her desk.
“Hello, you annoying morning person, you. Any messages?”
Chloe stuck out her tongue and handed Mila a bright yellow Post-It. “Just one. A woman wants to renovate her house and heard about you from a friend. She said she won’t be satisfied with anyone else.”
Was this what being on demand felt like? It was better than sex—or so Mila assumed. She thanked Chloe as profusely as if the admin had been the one to hire her, practically dancing across the lobby. From the big double doors at the end of the room, a stairway led left to the office space, and a hallway ran straight ahead to the design space. As one of the artists, Mila spent most of her time there, in an alcove set aside just for her, containing a drafting table, a desk, and as many shelves, cabinets, and samples as she could possibly cram inside. After only a few months, it looked like she had been there a year, and gave her a thrill every time she turned the corner and saw her belongings spread out over every surface.
Today she arrived before almost everyone else, the only exception being, as always, Marty. The pale, rather androgynous-looking man sat at his computer, muttering to himself as he banged away at the keys. He treated any piece of technology as an adversary, and was said to go through a keyboard every few months. Mila believed it. But despite his apparent hatred for electronics, he absolutely loved design. He could transform any eyesore into a thing of beauty with just a few simple tweaks, and was Kelly’s most successful and prolific designer.
For now, Mila thought as she passed his alcove. He looked up, saw her, and nodded in his usual bland way. She nodded back guiltily, sure he could read her thoughts from the expression on her face. He knew he had a big old target on his back, and he knew who was aiming at him, but it was clear he didn’t consider her a rival. He thought himself untouchable, above them all in terms of talent. Mila couldn’t wait to prove him wrong. As she slid into her chair and booted up her laptop, she glanced at the piece of paper clutched in her fist. Her skin tingled as she read the name and number, though she had no idea why. She picked up the desk phone receiver and dialed.
“Hello, is this Anoushka Nicolai?” she said. “This is Mila Jones of Schulz Designs. How can I help you today?”
Katia Cole 