"Jules," Jon said, cursing himself a moment later, but it was too late.
The barista scrawled it on the first cup with a black marker and a little heart dotting the 'J'. Jon watched it happen and said nothing. Just a day prior, Jon had been a straight-A student in his senior year of high school. He could recite the periodic table backwards, had aced every AP exam the school offered, and kept a mental catalogue of historical footnotes that made his teachers either impressed or mildly concerned. Now he was a busty intern in a too-tight silk blouse standing at a coffee counter trying to remember if a cortado had milk in it.
He waited near the pickup station, arms crossed beneath his chest — which only served to push the two heavy mounds upward against the straining silk, a fact he realised three seconds too late when a man in joggers and a beanie openly stared. Jon dropped his arms, face burning, and shifted his weight from one heel to the other. The balls of his feet ached in a way that was becoming background noise.
The barista called out "Jules!" and slid a cardboard carrier across the counter. Six drinks, somehow all upright. Jon grabbed it with both hands, the warm cardboard pressing against his stomach, and turned toward the door. The carrier was heavier than expected. His wrists, thinner and weaker than Jon's had been, trembled under the weight.
