The brunette curls of the woman in front of me swing from side to side as she gives her order. I can’t see her face, but I know she’s young. From her bright red high heels and black leather jacket paired with white shorts a bit too short for fall, she’s definitely a downtown girl.

I smile at the thought as she waits for her coffee: pumpkin spice.

I used to be like her. Stylish and in charge of my destiny. New to the city and ready to tame it.

I thought I had.

A career and reputation in this publishing industry that I reached within only a few years. I’m an agent worth my weight now and everyone knows it. My name and brand have a meaning to them. The clients are coming in and I’m able to hire more reps and editors. It’s the business I’ve always wanted. More than that, I’m married to a man who still drips of sex appeal and has an edge to him that is irresistible. We own our townhouse near Madison Square Garden. Even if it is small, it’s the closest we could get. And it’s New York, so location is everything.

And my closet … the girl in front of me would kill for my closet. Not that she would know it based on how I’m dressed at the moment.

My name has a purpose and strength to it that made me proud. Evan and I were a powerhouse in the social scene. The couple everyone wanted to be. But envy comes with threats and in its nature, ruins. Rumors and gossip created a wedge between the two of us.

In the last few years, the highs of this world have crashed as my marriage slowly dissolved.

I let it. I spent my life not living it, wanting more and more from my work. Running as fast as I could, just to stay still while I ignored every other change in the world around me. How could I not have seen it deteriorating?

As the woman turns and I get a look at her cateye makeup that’s subtle enough to still be businesslike and red lips that match her heels, I remember that feeling that used to flow through me. The one that said I could conquer anything.

Yeah, I used to be like her. I still have the heels and even the stylish clothes, although I lean toward professional these days with my wardrobe and those shorts sure as heck don’t lean that way.

“What can I get you?” the young man asks me from behind the counter. He’s got to be in his early twenties at most. I catch a glimpse of his sleeve tattoo and it reminds me of Evan’s tattoos for only a moment.

More thoughts of Evan. Everything reminds me of him.