The Last First Kiss

Chapter 2: The Opposite of Chemistry

The next morning, Maya woke to the sound of a pigeon having a crisis on her windowsill.

She opened one eye. The ceiling still had the frown-shaped water stain. The floor still creaked. Her suitcase was still open, revealing the single roller skate she couldn’t explain owning. For a moment, she panicked—where was she?—and then remembered: fired, evicted, hired, pub, Gertrude, 8 a.m. meeting.

She looked at her phone. 7:52.

“No no no no no.”

She vaulted out of bed, which was really just a mattress on the floor, and pulled yesterday’s jeans from the pile of things she’d labeled “clean enough.” She found a sweater the color of a bruised tangerine. She brushed her teeth with her finger and baking soda because her toothpaste had exploded in her suitcase. She ran a comb through her hair exactly three times before giving up and embracing the feral look.

She made it downstairs at 8:03.

Gertrude was already there, sitting at the bar with a cup of tea that smelled like licorice and regret. Across from her sat a man Maya had never seen before, and he looked exactly like someone had carved him out of grumpy and then forgotten to add the smile.

He was tall—annoyingly tall—with dark hair that fell over his forehead like he’d just run his hands through it in frustration. He wore a faded flannel over a t-shirt that said “Hops Don’t Lie.” His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were brown and tired and, when they landed on Maya, immediately skeptical.

“You’re late,” he said.

Maya blinked. “Good morning to you too, sunshine. I’m Maya. You are?”

“Leo. The person who values punctuality.”

Gertrude made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a death rattle. “Children, play nice. Leo is our secret weapon. He owns Chen’s Fermented Fantasies—the brewery down the street. He’s going to help us relaunch The Stubborn Duck.”

Maya looked at Leo. Leo looked at Maya.

“No offense,” Maya said, “but he looks like he’s never had fun in his entire life.”

“No offense,” Leo said, “but she looks like she’s never met a decision she couldn’t regret.”

Gertrude clapped her hands. “Perfect. The hatred is already blooming. Now sit down, both of you. We have work to do.”

Maya slid onto the barstool next to Leo, who immediately shifted two inches away. She noticed he smelled like coffee and cedar and something else she couldn’t name. She decided not to notice that she noticed.

Gertrude unfolded a piece of paper the size of a small tablecloth. On it was a hand-drawn calendar of the next eight weeks, covered in arrows, question marks, and what appeared to be a sketch of a duck wearing a crown.

“Here’s the situation,” Gertrude said. “The Stubborn Duck has thirty days until our liquor license renews. If we don’t turn a profit by then, I lose the building. If I lose the building, I lose my home. If I lose my home, I move in with one of you.” She pointed at Leo. “You have a couch.” She pointed at Maya. “You have floor space. Neither of you wants that.”

Leo crossed his arms. “What’s the budget?”

“Zero dollars.”

“What’s the timeline?”

“Thirty days.”

“What’s the theme?”

Gertrude smiled. “Chaos.”

Maya laughed. It was loud and bright and startled a pigeon outside the window. “I love her,” she announced.

Leo rubbed his temples. “You’ve known her for twelve hours.”

“And I would die for her already. That’s how loyalty works.”

Leo looked at Gertrude. “Can I request a different partner?”

“No.”

“Can I at least request a different pub?”

“Also no.” Gertrude stood up. “I’m going to the back to count our inventory of pickled eggs. You two are going to come up with three ideas for a relaunch event. When I return, you will present them. If you kill each other, I will hide the bodies.” She walked toward the kitchen, then paused. “And Leo? Try to smile. It won’t c***k your face.”

She disappeared behind the swinging door.

Silence.

Maya turned to Leo. “So. Pickled eggs. That’s… a choice.”

“It’s a health code violation disguised as cuisine.”

“See, that’s the energy we need.” Maya pulled out her phone and opened her notes app. “Okay. Event planning is my thing. Before the donkey incident, I was the most sought-after planner in Seattle. I once threw a birthday party for a cat with 200 human guests.”

Leo stared at her. “Why would a cat need 200 human guests?”

“The cat was very popular.” She started typing. “Idea one: ‘Blind Date with a Book Night.’ We partner with the library. People come, get matched with a mystery novel and a mystery drink. Romance, tension, low cost.”

Leo considered this. “That’s… not terrible.”

“Wow. High praise from the Grumpy Gazette.”

“Idea two,” Leo said, surprising her. “’Brewer’s Table.’ Five courses, each paired with a different beer. I supply the beer at cost. We charge fifty bucks a head.”

Maya raised an eyebrow. “That’s actually good.”

“I’m not just a pretty scowl, Rivera.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Leo almost smiled. Almost. “Idea three. Something that combines both. Books and beer. Call it ‘Hopeful Romances.’ Stupid name, but it’ll bring in the college crowd.”

Maya felt a tiny, unwelcome flicker of respect. “You’re better at this than I expected.”

“I own a business. I know how to market.”

“Do you know how to have fun?”

“Define fun.”

“Laughing until you snort. Dancing badly. Eating something deep-fried at 2 a.m. for no reason.”

Leo considered this. “That sounds like a list of things I actively avoid.”

“Wow.” Maya leaned back. “Who hurt you?”

The air changed. It was subtle—a tightening around Leo’s eyes, a shift in his posture. For half a second, he looked like a man standing on the edge of something deep. Then he blinked, and the wall was back.

“No one,” he said. “I’m just realistic.”

Maya didn’t believe him. But she also knew that pushing a stranger on day one was how you got fired from a pub before you even started. So she let it go.

“Fine, realism boy. Let’s present our ideas.”

Gertrude loved all three ideas. “We’ll do them on consecutive weekends,” she declared. “Blind Date with a Book first. Then Brewer’s Table. Then Hopeful Romances. If those work, we keep going. If they don’t—” she shrugged, “—I always wanted to live in a van.”

Maya spent the rest of the day cleaning the pub. It was disgusting in the specific way only old buildings can be—dust that had formed actual ecosystems, a men’s bathroom that smelled like regret, and a walk-in cooler that contained something fuzzy that might have once been lettuce.

Leo stayed to help, which surprised her. He didn’t talk much, but he worked efficiently. He scrubbed the bar until it gleamed. He fixed the leaky ceiling with a patch kit he’d brought from his brewery. He even unclogged the sink without being asked.

Maya watched him from across the room while she wiped down the jukebox. He moved like someone who was used to fixing things—not just physical things, but probably other things too. Broken plans. Broken promises. Broken people.

She shook her head. Stop it, she told herself. He’s not a project. He’s a coworker. A grumpy, annoyingly competent coworker.

At 6 p.m., Gertrude announced they were done for the day. “Leo, go home. Maya, you’re closing. Lock up when you’re finished.”

Leo grabbed his jacket. He paused at the door. “Rivera.”

“Yeah?”

“The pigeon on your windowsill. It’s been there all day. I think it’s hurt.”

Maya looked up. “How do you know which window is mine?”

Leo’s ears turned pink. “I don’t. It’s the only window with a pigeon that looks suicidal.”

“That’s… weirdly observant.”

“I notice things.” He left before she could reply.

Maya stared at the door for a long moment. Then she went upstairs, found the pigeon (it was fine—just fat), and sat on her mattress to check her phone.

A notification from Ask Auntie Heartbreak.

FermentedFiction had replied to her message from last night.

“Hopeful – The worst job I ever had was at a haunted Dairy Queen. I was seventeen. The soft serve machine would start on its own at 3 a.m. I quit after I found a note in the freezer that said ‘RUN’ in ketchup. Your turn: what’s the best thing anyone’s ever said to you?”

Maya grinned. She typed back:

“Skeptic – My abuela once told me: ‘Mija, you are not too much. The world is not enough.’ I think about that every day. Now you: what’s a memory you’d relive if you could?”

She hit send and waited.

Ninety seconds later:

“Hopeful – My mom teaching me to ride a bike. She let go and I didn’t fall for three whole blocks. I felt invincible. Then I hit a mailbox. But for three blocks, I was flying. Your turn again.”

Maya’s chest did something complicated. This stranger—this anonymous, cynical stranger—had just made her feel seen. She wrote back:

“Skeptic – I think flying for three blocks counts as a win. What’s something you want but won’t admit out loud?”

Longer pause this time. Two minutes. Three.

Then:

“Hopeful – I want to believe in happy endings. I write them for other people. But I don’t know if I deserve one myself. What about you?”

Maya’s eyes stung. She typed carefully:

“Skeptic – I want someone to stay. Everyone leaves eventually. But I keep hoping someone will prove me wrong. Stupid, right?”

“Not stupid. Human.”

She fell asleep holding her phone, the conversation unfinished, the pigeon still on the windowsill, and somewhere across town, Leo Chen read her last message four times before he could bring himself to close the app.

The next morning, Maya arrived at the pub at 7:45. Fifteen minutes early. She was not going to give Leo the satisfaction.

He was already there.

He stood in the middle of the dining room, holding a clipboard, wearing the same flannel from yesterday but a different t-shirt underneath. This one said: “I’m Fine. It’s Everyone Else.”

“You’re early,” he said without looking up.

“You’re earlier.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Me neither.”

He finally looked at her. His eyes were tired in a way that suggested he meant it. “We have a lot to do. Blind Date with a Book is in six days.”

Maya pulled out her own notebook. “I already made a list. Decorations: fairy lights, secondhand books, mismatched teacups. Drinks: we’ll do three signature cocktails—’The First Chapter,’ ‘The Plot Twist,’ and ‘Happily Ever After.’ Food: small plates. Nothing fancy. People don’t eat when they’re nervous.”

Leo raised an eyebrow. “You planned all this last night?”

“I don’t sleep much either.”

For a moment, something passed between them. Not friendship—it was too early for that. But maybe respect. The grudging kind. The kind that came from recognizing someone else who carried their weight.

“Fine,” Leo said. “I’ll handle the bar. You handle the rest. But if that donkey shows up, I’m leaving.”

Maya grinned. “The donkey’s name is Sir Reginald Fluffington the Third, and he’s a gentleman.”

“Of course he is.”

They worked in silence for the next hour. It was surprisingly comfortable. Maya found herself stealing glances at Leo when he wasn’t looking—the way his hands moved when he polished a glass, the furrow between his brows when he calculated something, the way he bit his lower lip when he was concentrating.

She caught herself and looked away.

No, she thought. Absolutely not. He’s a grumpy cactus. You don’t fall for cacti.

But then Leo looked up and caught her staring. His ears turned pink again. He looked away first.

And Maya thought: Oh no.