Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“That’s kind of you.” She darts her gaze to the chalkboard behind the front counter. “I’m dying to try that flat white thing, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. We’ll be right back.”
“Is this place for real?” Vinnie murmurs as we head toward the barista.
“I kind of like it,” Robin says.
“You don’t think it’s trying too hard?” I ask.
“Oh, absolutely.” She chuckles. “But that’s what’s perfect about it. It seems created for the outcasts of society. For those who go against the grain. Like Juno there.”
I nod. “Or my friend Lavender from culinary school. She has—seriously—light-purple hair. I guess she likes her name.”
“Or that’s not her real name,” Robin says. “Lots of young people these days are changing their given names.”
“May I help you?” the barista asks.
“Yeah. We’ll need a Cardamom Honey Flat White.”
“Size?” she asks.
“Uh…I don’t know. Venti?”
“That’s Starbucks.” She points to a board. “Those are our sizes.”
I look up along with Robin and Vinnie.
Coffee Cup Sizes: Been There, 8 oz; Done That, 12 oz; Seen Some Things, 16 oz; Spill the Beans, 20 oz
Seriously?
“Well,” Robin says. “I guess let’s do the Seen Some Things. And make that two. I’ll try it as well. What do you guys want?”
“Uh…black coffee,” Vinnie says.
“Which roast?” She points to another board littered in fanciful roast names. “Personally, I recommend the Crème de la Bean. It’s bright and lively, with a citrus twist. We highly recommend it to our customers who are big dreamers.”
Vinnie blinks. “Um… Okay. And what’s your dark roast?”
The barista widens her eyes. “Oh, you’ll want the Bitter End, then. It’s bold, intense, and deeply satisfying. For those who have been there, done that, and are back for more.”
Vinnie nods slowly, his entire body stiffened. “Then I’ll have that, and just give me the biggest size.”
“That would be Spill the Beans.” I nudge him.
He exhales sharply. “Yeah. Whatever.”
“And you?” the barista asks me.
“I’ll have”—I quickly peruse the board—"the Daily Grind roast, Done That size.”
“Perfect.” She taps onto her iPad. “I’ll need a name for these.”
“Robin.” Robin swipes her card and leaves a tip. “Thanks.”
We get back to the table and take our seats.
I give Juno a more assessing look. There’s a faint smear of gold paint on her wrist. She hasn’t noticed it. Or maybe she has and just doesn’t care.
Robin leans back in her chair. “So I have to tell you, Juno, that your work is inspiring. I’m not sure I’ve seen anything like it.”
“Thank you.” She smiles. “I like to think I have something unique to give.”
“You definitely do.” Robin smiles. “Let me in on your secret. How do you get your paintings to exude such perfect motion? I swear I couldn’t stop looking at that one piece on your site, Lunar Whisper. I moved my glance to the left and the whole nebula shifted.”
Juno smiles, her eyes sparkling. “It’s mica pigment. Crushed mineral powder. I layer it in resin with a dry brush, so depending on the angle, you see different textures and light.”
“That’s not just technique,” I say softly. “That’s magic.”
“I like the in-between moments,” she says. “Right before dusk, just after dawn. I want the paintings to feel like that—like they’re breathing.”
Robin exhales. “Okay, now I need to buy one. Or steal one. I’m not above crime for art.”
Juno laughs, the sound low and melodic. “You wouldn’t get far. My frames are made of reclaimed oak. Heavy as hell.”
“So why celestial bodies?” I ask.
Before she answers, the barista calls out, “Robin!”
“I’ll go.” Vinnie rises. He seems glad to be away from this conversation.
Juno shrugs. “I grew up in the mountains of Antioquia, a province of Colombia. I was ten years old when we left. Before that, the sky was everything. We didn’t have much, but I’d sit outside at night and make up constellations. Stories to match. My grandfather taught me to read the sky.”
Robin tilts her head. “Do you ever go back to Colombia?”
She shakes her head. “I miss some of it. But I miss parts of it in ways that don’t feel good. There was beauty. But also…danger.” She frowns. “We left because my mom said it was time. She never said why.”
Shocking, I think to myself. Does she know what her uncle is involved in? Her mother no doubt did.
“I think that’s why I paint space,” Juno adds, voice softer now. “There’s so much room up there. So much silence. And I get to decide what fills it.”
Something twists and settles in me at her words. Like I’ve just stepped into one of her canvases and let the dark surround me—not to be swallowed, but to be still. To listen.
Robin breaks the silence with a sigh. “I want to live in your head for a day. Just float around and watch stars be born.”
Juno smirks. “It’s crowded up there. But you’re welcome anytime.”