Jules' POV

[nine months later]

While standing in the aggravatingly long line at the coffee shop, I shift from foot to foot. An impatient sigh expels from my lungs as I glance at my wristwatch. Twenty minutes have already passed and I swear I haven't moved an inch.

Mikah told me to come back "quick" with everyone's coffee, tea, and bagels but what how quick did she mean? Is half an hour okay? Maybe even forty-five minutes considering the rate that the cashier at the front lazily types in the orders?

Finally, it's my turn and I frantically read off the long list from my notepad, but not too fast to ensure that I get all the orders correct. Balancing the drinks and bagel boxes in my arms, I carefully walk back down the block, across the street, and up twelve stories to the floor I work on.

"Ah, there's the new intern," says Mikah when the elevator doors spread apart. "What took you so long?"

"The line was ridiculous," I answer apologetically, hoping it's enough.

She plucks a bagel from the box and her cup of coffee, just as a guy in thick-rimmed glasses scrambles up to her holding two identical images in his hands.

"Mikah, which one is better as a leaflet for a new restaurant launch party?" he breathlessly asks.

After a half second glance up from her tablet, she points to the one on the left.

"Oh! I was thinking the same thing. You're a genius!" he gushes, before running in the other direction.

A woman with sky-high platforms scurries toward us. "Mikah, Tom from McQueen is on line one," she says.

"Tell him to reschedule, I'm already backed up on the orders for this week."

The tall lady obediently nods and paces away.

Mikah turns and peers at me through the boxes stacked in my arms. "Deliver the rest to the others. You do remember whose is whose, right?"

"Right," I reluctantly say. I think I'd rather lie a bit than add to her growing mountain of problems.

All the bagels look the same and so do the drinks, so I think I'll be safe this time. I'm still learning the names of everyone around the studio. Luckily, they remember my face (people normally do when it comes to their food), so all I have to do is circle the floor about three times and everyone begins to claim their midday snacks.

"Oh, there's my coffee."

"Christ, finally, I'm starving."

"Thanks, June."

"This is low-fat, right?"

"Yes, it's low-fat," I say. I don't mention that all the cream cheese is low-fat because that's the only kind they had left.

"Wonderful, thank you," says the girl with strawberry blonde curls, before she turns back to her computer.

After the load has disappeared from my hands, I head back to Mikah's office. She's on the phone, which she seems to be about 90% of the time, so I stand patiently at the door frame.

My eyes roam around her workspace. Framed diplomas and degrees hang on the wall behind her while a clutter of sketches and prints are pinned on the other cork board walls. A Mac computer bigger than my TV sits on one side of her wide desk while her half eaten bagel and coffee cup sit on the other side. The oak surface is plagued with neon post-it notes. In the very front and center, etched on a metallic bronze nameplate, are the words Mikanna Thomas, CED.

Chief Executive Designer.

I sometimes daydream about my name next to a title like that, being in charge of making important design decisions and having my own office much like Mikah's. But for now, I have a small table shared with another intern just outside her office. For now, that's fine with me. I know it will take me a while before I can even think about the pressure and demand that Mikah is under everyday. And by the looks of today, there's plenty that I have yet to learn.

"What is it, Julie?" Mikah asks, placing the phone back on the receiver.

"It's Jules," I say quietly, "and I'm done with the deliveries. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

She thoughtfully taps a long, manicured fingernail against her chin while her eyes gradually scan her tablet. "Ah, yes, there is."

She pulls open a cabinet drawer and lugs out a thick stack of papers, which lands on her desk with an intimidating thud. "I need these made into booklets for the gallery we're having next week. The pages should be in order already so all you have to do is staple them three at a time. Can you do that?"

"Of course," I answer.

I carry the paper block out to my desk and get straight to work. As I'm stapling, I find myself idly observing everyone else on the floor. Some are in private studios, sketching their next design. Some are inches away from their giant Macbook screens, diligently creating digital concepts on computer programs. Some are in meeting rooms, presenting and discussing their ideas for similar things. And a couple others, just like me, are making copies or stapling papers.

As an intern, it doesn't feel like the work I'm doing amounts to anything. Some days it doesn't feel like I'm going anywhere at all in this career path. But I tell myself that it's all a process. It will take time before my good grades and hard work in school and the hours put into my portfolio will pay off. I just have to be patient.

Everybody has to start somewhere, and this desk, half the size of everyone else's, is where I start. In the grand scheme of things, I don't mind spending eight hours a day at London Studios stapling 600 sheets of paper at all. It beats sweeping popcorn crumbs for a bald douchebag any day.

During my wait for the subway after work, I decide to give my parents a call. When I divulged to them that I'm moving to London for good, they reacted the way I had prepared myself for: shocked, then excited, then more shocked, and then sad. I thought it would stop at that but in an unexpected turn, they perked up again and were extremely supportive about me pursuing my ambitions.

Still, it was harder than the first time saying goodbye at the airport. More of my relatives had accompanied my parents, so my cousins, great aunts, and nephews were all there waving from the giant glass walls as I sat on the plane and I waved back from behind my tiny plexiglass window, getting ready for lift off.

I haven't had much time to speak to my parents on the phone lately. "You're a grown lady now," my mom told me. "You've got things to do." But I don't want them to think I've abandoned them completely.

My dad picks up after the second ring. The TV plays faintly in the background and it sounds like a football game.

"Hey, munchkin."

"Dad," I grumble, "Stop calling me that. I'm 20 years old."

"I don't care if you're 90. You'll always be my munchkin," he says with a hearty chuckle. "How are ya?"

"I'm fine, just wanted to see how you and Mom are doing."

"We're doing great, hun. Mom said not to worry about us, remember?"

Before I can respond, he adds, "Yeah, yeah, I know. Whenever your mom says not to worry, you definitely need to worry. But trust me on this one. Would your old man lie to you?"

"No," I giggle. It's comforting to know that there's at least one guy in the world who would never do me any harm.

"Exactly. I'd let you talk to Mom but she's studying right now. Did she tell you she's going back to school?"

Oh shit... did she? I hope I haven't been tuning out too much of their lives.

"I don't think so," I reply. "When was this?"

"Couple weeks ago. She's getting her master's so she can become a professor at the University of Connecticut."

My parents are both astronomy teachers at a local high school. It fascinated as well as baffled me that two people who are so similar and who work and live with each other everyday never grew tired of each other.

"Tell her I said good luck."

"Will do. And how's your interning coming along?"

"Good," I say, and truly mean it. "They're closer to getting my name right, so that's good."

"Jesus, Jules, you've only been away for a year or so and already you're picking up that English accent."

"Am not!" I laugh, but in all honesty, there was no way for me to know for sure. I'm surrounded by English accents on a daily basis.

The TV noise grows louder when the spectators roar at what I assume to be a touchdown. I hear a hushed cheer coming from his end of the line.

"I'll let you get back to your game, Dad. Love you, bye."

"Love you too, munchkin. Be safe."

Notes