Four

“TIME to stress eat!” Esther announced an hour later.

By now, the police were gone, and I’d made an executive decision to close early. We locked the doors, cleaned the tables, and replenished supplies for the morning.

We also loaded most of our leftover pastries into the City Harvest van for New York’s food banks and soup kitchens. I say “most” because after our rough evening, Esther, Dante, and Matt all wanted to nosh.

My own appetite had vanished with an adrenaline rush that was still making me manic. So instead of food, I steamed up a latte with a heavy dose of our Homemade Caramel Apple Cider Syrup, a comfort drink remedy for one stupendously uncomfortable night.

I insisted our snacking be done in the second-floor lounge—an earnest attempt to exorcise the evening’s negative energy by eating with joy. And then I heard it—

Tinker-Tinker!

After all the drama, Matt was swiping again.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I gritted my teeth and civilly asked—

“What will it take for you to give your inner Peter Pan a rest?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a syndrome. You can look it up on your smartphone—later.”

As Matt waved me off and mumbled something about “just a quick check,” Esther pursed her dark purple lips. “It’s useless, boss. He’s become hooked on the idea of hookups. And there are plenty of fish in that sea, which, come to think of it, is the theme of another of those shop-and-drop apps . . .”

As Matt’s thumbs continued roving madly across his phone screen, Esther noticed my distress and elbowed the man.

“Be careful,” she told him. “Or we’ll think you’re phubbing.”

Matt’s brow furrowed. “Phubbing?”

“An abbreviation for partner phone snubbing.” Her thick black glasses slipped down her nose, and she peered over them like a goth psychoanalyst. “I should also point out that ignoring the people around you to check your phone isn’t just rude. It’s the first sign of cyber addiction.”

My ex, who was (ironically enough) seated in Richard Crest’s favorite high-back chair, flashed a smug smile.

“Okay, I’ll shut mine off, if you all do the same.”

When Esther and Dante quickly agreed, Matt’s jaw dropped. He didn’t expect two young baristas to welcome a phone-free break. But I’d shared enough shifts with them to know they were as tired as I was of Manhattan Phone Zombies.

Forced to go along with his own dare, Matt squinted with annoyance as he shut down his device and tucked it into his pocket.

Esther shot me a triumphant glance before pondering more important matters: whether to go for a melt-in-your-mouth Chocolate Soufflé Cupcake, one of our famous Banana Bread Muffins with Maple-Crunch Frosting, or another Birthday Cake Biscotti (long golden cookies baked with rainbow sprinkles and dipped in vanilla glaze with more sprinkles).

The decision was made for her when Dante grabbed the remaining two Birthday Cake Biscotti and Matt reached for the last Banana Bread Muffin.

With a shrug, Esther picked up a Chocolate Soufflé Cupcake. And since those beautifully airy treats were a light bite, she also grabbed a rustic wedge of our buttery, crumbly Espresso Shortbread before plopping into an overstuffed armchair.

“This evening made me feel really old,” she announced, dunking her shortbread into her flat white.

“Old?” Matt responded. “You’re not even thirty.”

“Yes, but I can’t get into this mobile phone culture,” she said between satisfying chews. “I prefer the way it used to be—when people hooked up by chance at concerts, clubs, or poetry slams—which is where I met my Boris.”

“Don’t forget art galleries,” Dante added, brushing confetti-laced crumbs from his T-shirt. “And museums, and sculpture parks, and street fairs.”

“Sure, and bars, buses, and subways!” Esther said. “But my point is that people did things out in the world that interested them, where they’d be open to the magic of organic meetings. Now everything is techno-polluted. It’s all phones and texts and swipes. It’s not dating—it’s shopping. You’re a product. And you’re judged, not by the depths of your soul, but by the artifice of Instagram appeal, job description, and some sort of cutesy ironic copy.”

“It’s true.” Dante nodded. “You have a few seconds to capture interest. Like a human pop-up ad. Only you’re selling yourself instead of an energy drink or cellular plan. It’s no wonder so many of the connections are lacking in . . . you know—”

“Ubuntu,” Matt finished for him, licking his fingers clean of Maple-Crunch Frosting.

Dante and Esther blinked. “What?”

“Ubuntu. It’s an African term. Bantu, actually.”

“But what does it mean?” Esther asked with her goth-eyed stare.

Matt tipped his head in my direction. “Ask Clare. She’s an expert.”

Now my two baristas were staring at me.