Pilot smiles, pulling out the flyer to check the address and looking back at me. “You think when
they said quirky coffee place they meant corporate block of cement?”
I smother a laugh. “Maybe it’s camouflage. It says
hidden café,
Pies. There’s gonna be”—I hold
up air quotes—“a ‘
secret elevator
.’”
He snorts as we climb the steps. I throw the fancy glass doors open, a little excited now. There’s
a lobby desk much like the one in Pilot’s building. This one’s unmanned. A string of silver elevators
line the wall to our left. Straight ahead at the far, far end of the room, a hallway stretches off the left
and right corners.
The flyer says the elevator’s down that hallway on the right. I power walk toward it, and Pilot
strolls behind me.
I clack around the corner into the hall and skid to a stop.
Holy wow.
The entire corridor is painted black. Fifty feet away at the end of the hall is an elevator. This
one’s covered in words. It looks like someone ripped a page from a giant book and plastered it onto
the wall.
“Whaaat!” Pilot exclaims behind me. “That’s pretty sick.”
“It really is.”
I suck in a breath as we start toward it. I wasn’t expecting to go somewhere this cool—I can’t let
myself get too distracted. We’re now moments away from sitting
down and getting deep in
uncharted conversational waters. I reach out and jab the up button, or the button; there’s only one
button next to this elevator. It’s a tad sketchy, but the bookish decor on the doors has sort of put me
at ease. They slide open a moment later to reveal a shiny black interior.
We step in silently. There’s one button inside as well. It’s labeled
REWRITE
, the name of the cafe.
“Check this out.” I point, before pushing it. We lurch upward.
“This
is kind of creepy,” he notes.
“Me or the elevator?” I half joke.
“Oh, definitely you, but the elevator too.” He grins.
I hesitate. “I’m sorry if I am actually creeping you out with this surprise visit. I didn’t mean to
—”
He interrupts, “Shane, that was a joke. You’re way too … you to be creepy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?
I can be creepy,” I protest.
“No, not really, no, you can’t.”
“I can creep if I want to—” The ding of arrival interrupts my argument. We spin around as a
second set of doors behind us slides open.
“Whoa.” Pilot’s jaw drops. I echo the sentiment.
We must be at least twenty stories up. Before us is a quaint rectangular space. One full wall is
just window, providing a fabulous view of the city. The other three walls are plastered in the aged,
browning pages of books. The ceiling is covered in words. Lanterns hang off long chains hovering
over delicate-looking French tables and chairs scattered throughout the room. Even the floor is in
theme. It looks as if it’s been littered with thousands of discarded book pages.
There’s one other customer: a middle-aged man in a business suit reading a paper and having a
cup of coffee in the corner. A barista stands behind a large counter on our left. I stumble forward,
gawking at everything.
“Welcome to Rewrite!” the barista greets us.
“Thanks, good morning!” I reply automatically as I make my way to a table near the far wall
(aka the giant window). Pilot follows closely behind me.
The metal chair scrapes lightly against the floor as I pull it out and sit. Pilot sits across from me,
still glancing around at the decor.
“This place is really cool.” He nods, impressed.
I’m smitten with the ambiance, but nerves chase away further comment from me. The barista
comes over and places two small Rewrite menus in front of us. I glance up at her. She looks
familiar.
“Thanks.” Pilot shoots her a smile before she leaves us be.
The menu’s typed in Courier New so it looks like a movie script. I put it aside and bring my
attention back to Pilot. He’s
watching me, waiting.
He raises a brow. “So this mysterious meeting we’re having?” he prompts.
My eyes travel up from the raised brow to his unfamiliar haircut. The sides of his head are
shaved,
and the top is long, flopping over his forehead.
I blow out a breath. “So—”
I’m cut off as the barista steps up to our table. “Can I take your orders?”
I look up at the woman again. She’s maybe in her late forties, pale and freckled, with a nest of
bright red hair tied up on her head.
“I’ll have a cup of English Breakfast tea with milk and sugar please.” I hand over my menu,
studying her features.
“I’ll
have a cappuccino,” Pilot says, handing her his menu as well. The woman retreats.
Our gazes fall back to each other. I press my lips together, trying to gather how best to start this
conversation. “So…”
Pilot scoots a little closer. “So, I was trying to crack this visit open…”
I gaze out at the view of New York, take in a deep breath, and—the woman’s face snaps into
place.
“Oh my god.” I jump up out of my seat and whip around. My hair smacks me in the face before
resettling over my shoulders. The woman’s moving around behind the bar.
“What?” Pilot asks.
I look back at him with wide eyes. “Do you see that redheaded lady over there right now?”
He glances between the bar and myself with a confused expression. “The woman making our
coffee? Yeah…”
My eyes zips back and forth between the two of them a few times before I swallow and sit back
in my chair.
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