by Amelia Wilde
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t, don’t,” he says with another laugh. “I’m calling to check in.”
“You couldn’t have called later in the day?”
“I thought you might be at work already. Dad said—”
“This isn’t his thing, Chris. He’s never been interested in this. Why do you think Grandpa willed it to me and not his own son?”
“Shit,” says Chris, astonished. “I never thought of it that way.”
“You never think.” I stretch one arm above my head, then the other. Now that I’m talking out loud, Rosie will hear me and wake up. Guaranteed. I want to strangle my brother for calling this early. He knows I always answer. “Uh, things are going fine. Renovations are done, and I’m going to have a grand opening this week.”
“Grand opening?” he shouts. “Do you have people? Oh, my God, Dash, I thought you were shooting for fall.”
“Things are done now,” I tell him. I leave out the part where this new project will consume me, leaving no room for being furious with Serena or being obsessed with Ellery. “I got some good advice to open as soon as possible. The summer rush, and all that.”
“That makes sense,” Chris says. He doesn’t bother asking who gave me the advice. I don’t think my general contractor would impress him. He, after all, stayed in his investment banking job, unlike his dumbass of an older brother. On the plus side, I’m tying up loose ends for the entire family, which should earn me some major credit. At some point. I don’t know. I’m fucking tired. “How’s Rosie?”
The mention of her name twists my gut. “She’s good. She’s really, really good. Loving the new daycare situation.”
The pause hangs heavy between us. “Have you heard anything?”
He doesn’t say her name and thank God for that. “Not a word. Not a call.” I exhale sharply and let him have it—the thing that forms a hard, cold knot in the pit of my stomach all the time. “I don’t know if she’ll ever come back, Chris.”
“You okay with that?”
“I’m okay with it for me. If I never see her again, that’s fine. But one day I’m going to have to explain it.” I don’t say Rosie’s name out loud. If I do that in this context, I might cry, and I’m not doing that on a phone call with Chris.
“Yeah,” he says.
We sit in silence for a moment.
I clear my throat. “How are you doing with the new condo? Do you need any help finishing things up?”
“I might,” he says. “We’re still waiting to close. It’ll probably be toward November.”
“I can make a trip.”
“I’d like that.”
“Come see the shop if you ever have a day off.”
“Unlikely,” he says, laughing. “Hey—did you make any new friends yet?”
One, and then I promptly alienated her by telling her the truth about what I’m doing here. “I’ve been busy.”
“Keep an eye out,” Chris tells me. “It’s not hopeless. You never know.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ellery
Technically, Medium Roast is open seven days a week.
Practically, I would die if I never closed the shop.
I’m restless in bed, my mind pulled back to Dash again and again like he’s the world’s sexiest magnet and I’m the opposite end of another magnet. I enter that hazy state of half-sleep a dozen times, only to be jerked back out again when embarrassment floods my cheeks. I owe him. I don’t take from people without making things even between us. Even working at Medium Roast like this doesn’t make up for what Aunt Lisa and Uncle Fred did for me.
It’s almost two in the morning by the time I call it.
“Nope,” I say out loud, into the sad emptiness of my bedroom, and then I lurch out of bed in the dark. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
I shrug on a hoodie and sweatpants and go out to my car in the cool nighttime air. It’s not quite cold enough for the getup but I don’t like that humid night air against my skin without it. My flip-flops are loud on the gravel of the driveway. I’m staying in a little rented house out near the ball fields, a couple of miles from the center of town, and the crickets are a kind of slow chant in the grass around the edges of the lawn.
My heart beats fast while I unlock the car. Being outside at night is scary as fuck when there’s nobody waiting inside for you. This is going to be worth it, though.
In town, I park right in front of the shop and pop open my glove box. I know I’ve got a permanent marker in here.
There it is. I’ve also got a legal pad and some tape, in case of emergencies like this one.
I scrawl the message on the first page and tear it off.
I can feel them out there—the regulars. They might be sleeping now, but they’ll turn underneath their covers, knowing that something is wrong. They won’t know what it is until they get up tomorrow morning and they see my sign. But guess what? My eyes are burning and my muscles are sore. I haven’t taken a day off since I got here in the spring. It’s past time.
Downtown is fucking creepy, too, so I look in all directions to make sure nobody’s out there. There’s nobody parked in front of the bar and nobody coming out. This is my moment.
I get out of the car and dart across the sidewalk, into the recessed entryway of Medium Roast’s building. The tape sticks to itself, making this little project a real pain in the ass, but I get the sign onto the door. My heart leaps, zigging and zagging. Is someone about to show up? God, I hope nobody shows up. I would not be surprised if Lou Brewer climbed out of his bed right now to find out what’s happening. I swear, they can sense it.
There. Done.
Back in the car, back across town, back to the driveway, back inside. I close the door behind me and lock it, not bothering with the lights.
In my bedroom, I strip off the hoodie and sweats and crawl under the covers.
I won’t see him tomorrow.
Why am I disappointed?
I ignore it.
Sleep is closing over me, finally, and I let it come.
“Come with me,” says Dash, smiling down on me, holding out a hand. “You’re going to get wet.”
“I’d better.”
“God, you—” He runs a hand down the side of my face as his other goes to my waist. “You’re a tease. What about those shirts?”
“What shirts?” His touch is already disappearing. “No, don’t—”
I wake up to the sound of rain and frown into my pillow. That had been a nice dream, right up until the end, but my momentary sadness is covered in a burst of joy.
It’s raining, and I closed the shop.
Yes.
I hate rainy days at Medium Roast. Everyone tracks rain in onto the tile floor. Leave that to sit all day and you’ve got a recipe for a lawsuit. In between all the coffee-related business, I mop the floors. I picked the best day.
I spend it in my pajamas, napping on and off on my sofa. This? This is the good life.
Right around closing time, the clouds break away and the sun comes out. Everything looks fresh and new and green, and for the first time, I feel inspired to put on clothes.
My camera sits on top of my dresser and it catches my eye after I’ve pulled my shirt over my head. Why the hell not?
The park is the perfect place to go. It’s even farther from the center of town than my house and has a looping trail around a “lake” that’s more of a pond. Miraculously, it’s still charged. I haven’t taken any photos since...well, since what happened in the city. That made it easy to come to Lakewood and do my aunt and uncle a favor.
I test the camera’s weight in my hands as I walk the trail. A couple of shots here, a couple of shots there. I get a nice one of a drop of rain settled on the leaf. I spent so long in college taking photos that all the settings come back to me like I never put the camera down.
“Excuse me—Miss?”
The voice is a timid one, and I lower the camera and turn aroun
d to find a petite woman standing there, her dark hair in a braid over her shoulder. She has a girl by the hand and her husband stands back on the other side of the trail, looking awkward as hell.
“Hey,” I say, the discomfort crawling up my spine. “What’s, uh, what’s up?”
She smiles shyly. “You’ve got a fancy camera. This is probably weird to ask, but could you take some pictures of us?”
“Oh, I don’t—” It’s on my lips to say that I don’t do that anymore, at least not right now, but here I am snapping away at the plants. “Sure.” I took a class or two in portrait photography. I still remember the basics.
I line them up in some open shade. The woman beams and the husband cracks a smile as he lifts his daughter in his arms.
“Lean in close,” I call. I haven’t used these muscles in a long time. “Like you like each other.”
That makes them laugh, and I raise the camera to my eye, dialing in the settings, saying whatever comes to mind to keep them at ease. I shoot twenty or thirty frames, getting a few of the little girl by herself. Then she catches sight of something on the trail, ducking down to see it right at my feet.
“You two,” I say softly, not wanting to attract too much of her attention. “Hold hands.”
They do, leaning into each other in such a cute fashion that it breaks my heart. A few more frames and I’m done.
She gives me her email, and I promise her to send any good ones.
If it’s slow this week, I’ll have the energy to edit them.
When Tuesday comes, I know that plan for what it is: a total pipe dream.
Chapter Eighteen
Dash
If I thought I’d thrown myself into the new shop on Sunday, it was nothing compared to Monday.
My heart beat out of my chest all day once I saw that sign. I didn’t know what it meant until the second morning rush came around...and there was no rush. Only a bunch of people pressing their faces up to the glass, peering in, and walking away.
Of course, my mind went to the worst possibility. Something happened to Ellie. I made an ass of myself, trying to get her to come visit me, and now my shot is gone.
I can’t be the crazy man asking everyone in sight where she lives, so I hold back, channeling all that energy into the finishing touches on the shop.
There’s a storage unit in Lakewood Storage full of furniture and other decor, including the big sign that’ll hang behind the counter with my sleek new logo on it. That’s one of the first things I have Martin hang on Monday afternoon once I’ve exhausted all the other available projects. The sign is a two-man job.
“Nice!” he says when he sees it. In five minutes, he’s brought in a pair of ladders from his truck and a toolbox as big as the new espresso machine that’ll arrive sometime tomorrow. Between the two of us, it takes twenty minutes to get it secured to the wall in the right spot.
Anxiety aside, it feels fucking satisfying to see it hanging there. Martin and I stand in the middle of the shop, checking it out.
“The Coffee Spot,” he reads out loud, then laughs. “That’s clever.”
“I thought so too.”
He helps me get a few other things moved in and heads out to another job. “You’ve got my number!” he calls over his shoulder as he goes.
I give the sign a long second look.
Is it too much? I paid someone to design it. It’ll be easy enough to franchise but it’s not too corporate, and I’m damn proud of it. But now, facing off with Medium Roast’s weathered wooden sign that looks like it was hand-cut, it seems pushy.
Why is it that thinking of Ellery always makes me want to quit this and start over?
No. It’s not too much. People are going to love it. And even if they don’t love it, they’ll get used to it.
By the time I have everything in place, I’ve only got ten minutes to spare before I need to pick up Rosie. I spend one of them standing in the alley, looking across at Medium Roast. My chest goes tight. I’m dying to know what the sign says, and this is my big chance. She’s clearly not in there. It’s closed up tight.
I wait for a gap in the traffic and jog across, my stomach in knots. What if it’s permanently closed? What if she abandoned ship because I told her I was opening another shop? What if she’s gone forever?
Jesus, I’ll have to give this up, then, because it’ll take all my time to find her again.
I go right up to the door. The sign is folded in half, the last piece of tape barely hanging on. I yank it off and flatten it in my hands.
In permanent marker it reads: We are closed this Monday. Back on Tuesday at 8:30. Count on it!
If that’s not for me, then my name isn’t Dash Huxley.
Back at my car, I discover that I’m still holding the sign in my hands like a talisman, and I can’t wipe the smile off of my face.
She left me a note.
Tuesday morning, I drop Rosie off bright and early.
Today is the biggest day I’ve had since Serena left. That was a day.
I don’t like to think about it.
By seven, I’m standing inside The Coffee Spot, pulling down the butcher paper I taped over the windows. Martin pulled all the plywood down yesterday, revealing the gleaming exterior. It gleams exactly as much as bricks can gleam with a few fresh coats of white paint on them, covering up a disgusting brown shade that someone thought was all the rage.
The last thing I put up is the banner.
It’s huge, neon, unmissable. Up at the top, it has The Coffee Spot’s logo. Then, below that, it says GRAND OPENING THIS FRIDAY.
Yes, I had to make a couple of assumptions when I had the sign printed, but it turns out Friday is as good a day as any to have a grand opening.
Once the banner is in the window, I put up a smaller sign in the corner of the largest pane of glass: HELP WANTED. I can run this place on my own if I need to, but I’ve seen the situation Ellery’s in. Not interested.
It’s eight o’clock exactly when I see her hair flash in the sun on the other side of the street.
She looks refreshed. Perky, even. Her ponytail bounces as she walks, but she keeps her eyes on the sidewalk in front of her.
Right up until she’s about to go inside. She turns, looking over her shoulder. Then she does a double take.
Her expression is unreadable.
Back in the shadows of The Coffee Spot, I know she can’t see me, but a thrill runs down my spine anyway. We’re not on good terms. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. But I know that note was for me. I’m willing to answer.
I’ll give her a minute, though. She’s got to get things ready for a late opening. Three shops down, I see people swiveling their heads toward Medium Roast. One of them, the ancient man who’s hard of hearing, points with his cane.
I wait to see what he’ll do.
As I predicted, they make their way to the sidewalk in front of Medium Roast. These people have been waiting. They want their morning coffee, and they wanted it two hours ago when the store usually opens. So they’re going to hover right outside.
And what is there to look at?
My store.
I see them notice the banner.
I see them reading it.
The old man raises his hands to his mouth.
I hear the word from all the way inside the shop.
It’s a long, sustained boooooo.
Chapter Nineteen
Ellery
“Morris, what was that?”
I ask him as soon as he shuffles in. I’m between customers, putting a new carafe over on the serving counter. Morris slams his cane against the floor. “People these days, Evelyn. They have no respect.”
He comes up to the counter to pay for his coffee. “Did something happen?”
Morris raises his bushy eyebrows. “You saw the sign, didn’t you?” He jabs one finger across at the banner hanging in the window. “Grand opening. Somebody’s opening another coffee shop, right next to this one.”
Don
’t I know it.
“I saw that,” I say neutrally. It’s one thing to be totally bewildered by what Dash is doing in private, but I wouldn’t dare embarrass Aunt Lisa by saying a word about it to customers. I have plenty of other things to say to them, like we’re out of coffee and I hope you like decaf espresso. “This Friday, huh?”
He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “I’ll never go there. That city slicker’s never getting a dime of my business.”
I hand Morris a to-go cup and consider him while he turns away to fill it up. This doesn’t exactly make sense. I know for a fact that some of our regulars wish Lakewood had a McDonald’s. Cheaper coffee and they usually don’t run out. “How do you know it’s a city slicker?” I shout at Morris’s back.
He shrugs one shoulder. “City slickers, Evelyn. They always think they know best.”
“But how do you know—”
“Anybody with a banner that fancy has to be from the city. Look at that hideous thing.”
I look out the front window toward Dash’s store. It’s a nice banner. The logo for the shop—and shit, it’s a cute name, too—looks professionally designed, unlike the sign for Medium Roast, which was carved in someone’s barn as a favor to Aunt Lisa. How long have they had the shop now? Five years? Maybe it’s closer to eight. Either way, it needs a fresh coat of paint...or three.
“It looks nice,” I say in spite of myself.
Morris is already shuffling back toward the door. “People these days,” he spits. “No respect. Could have chosen any other building.”
It only gets worse.
The tourists are largely oblivious—most of them will be gone by Friday—but the locals are in a tizzy. Mary Marshé clutches her latte cup and looks at me with huge, bugged-out eyes. “What are you going to do, Ellie?”
“Sell coffee,” I tell her with a smile.
She leans in, whispering. “But you can’t always do that. What if the new place is a hit?”
