1. Build Me Up Buttercup

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SKYE

Hollywood runs on three things: gasoline, caffeine, and the crushed hopes and dreams of young artists.

Which is why I'm waiting at the counter of the coffee shop down the street from my apartment.

For the caffeine that is. Not for the crushed hopes and dreams.

"Are you gay?" the barista asks from behind the counter.

Is she flirting with me or do I just come off as a woman who likes women?

"Um..." I say, pondering how to answer. "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend."

The woman stares at me with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

"I uh... have a caramel macchiato for Gay?"

Oh hell.

This is exactly why I need to learn to think before I speak.

I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks and I try to resist the urge to cringe at my own awkwardness.

I'm guessing they managed to spell my name wrong again.

I stand up and walk over to grab my drink, avoiding further eye contact with the barista. When I told the cashier "Skye with an E," I was pretty sure she got it wrong. But looking at the name scrawled across the cup, she got it really wrong.

GEY.

Naturally.

I scurry off to our table in the back corner, relieved that Greg picked a spot far away from the front counter.

"I'm never coming here ever again," I say, sitting down beside him as he reads on his iPad.

"Should I ask why?" He raises an eyebrow but doesn't look up from what he's reading.

"Let's just say I had the world's most awkward encounter with the girl who made my coffee and I can never show my face in a Starbucks again."

I sigh and take a sip of my macchiato. It's far too early for me and I'm desperate for the caffeine.

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"You're probably right, but not the best way to start off my day."

"When's your shoot?" he asks.

I glance at my phone. It's 7:30 am. Uggh.

"In an hour. I don't know why they insisted on booking the studio so early, but it's a good gig."

I'm photographing four models today for a local up-and-coming lingerie designer. It's an all-day shoot so I guess they wanted to start first thing in the morning.

Greg hums slightly and takes a sip of his own coffee before returning to his reading.

A soft guitar rhythm plays from the café speakers and I recognize it as a personal favorite. I grab my coffee and begin to quietly sing the words into my straw as if it were a microphone.

"Why do you build me up? Buttercup, baby, just to let me down! And mess me around and then worst of all..."

I pass my faux-mic to Greg for him to join in, but he looks up at me like I'm insane.

Whatever. Your loss.

I continue to dance in my chair, lip-syncing the words. I only get one or two strange looks from the other patrons, but this is Hollywood after all—people are used to a lot of weird behavior around here.

"Excuse me," a man says with a tap on my shoulder.

Hopefully this is not the manager telling me to take my basic-bitch dance moves out of the café. I've already embarrassed myself enough for one morning.

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