by Amelia Wilde
I lock the door behind me and take five big, deep breaths. Might as well get the acclimation process over quickly. Okay—it’s not so bad when it’s in the air and the bags of roasted beans. But late at night, when I get a whiff of it in my hair despite having washed it twice after I close? Gross.
First, grind the beans, shattering the silence of the shop. Outside in their cars, the regulars are probably sniffing the air. It’s coming. They sense it.
Tip the grounds into the filter. Filter into the brew basket. Turn it on.
My aunt and uncle would have thrown the doors open early. I’m a good person, but here in Lakewood, they’re revered as saints. You’d have to be one to let people into your shop at the asscrack of dawn because they flick their headlights on and off a few times.
I dig my phone out of my purse and perch it on the counter, in a back corner where I can still see it. Six twenty-eight a.m.
The coffee starts to come through the filter, layering Medium Roast with that freshly brewed scent. I can see the appeal. I, too, am addicted to things. Like Netflix, library books, and never knowing quite how to act.
The car’s headlights go back off. Six-thirty, on the dot, that’s when Lou’s hand will be on the handle of the door. Walt O’Hannigan, who’s probably locked and loaded for his daily gossip rounds, will be right behind him. And Mary Marshé will be here either before or after her yoga class. Probably both.
It’s time.
I spin a portafilter into my hand and lift my chin, stalking toward the door with my head held high.
For one more moment, it’s dark. I breathe it in.
We are all frozen, waiting for the battle horn to sound.
I bring my hand up, flipping on all the switches for the lights and the signs. Light explodes out onto the sidewalk. I’m the first shop on Main Street to open on the last day before all the tourists start arriving for the summer.
Let the onslaught begin.
2
Dash
I clear my throat and start singing The Song again. How many times has it been? Enough times that my voice is going hoarse, that’s how many times. The past is nothing but Baby Beluga. The future is nothing but Baby Beluga. It is all Baby Beluga, all the way down.
That’s mainly Rosie’s fault.
I’m half-kidding. Nothing is truly her fault. She’s eleven months old, which means that things like fault and responsibility don’t apply. She can’t help it if her little brain won’t relax unless someone is singing a pleasant song about a newborn whale.
That song is sending me into an early grave. I used to think it was fine. Have you heard kid’s music in your life? The obnoxious shit, not Baby Beluga. After that, Raffi seems like an angel sent to heaven. But today, I’ve had enough of the song. Especially the line about whether your mama’s home in the warm water or whatever. It makes me fucking furious, which is not something I’m going to add to the song. Still, Rosie cries if I skip the line, so I sing it every time, even if it makes my blood boil.
We’ve been driving for six hours. It’s taking forever to get to Lakewood, the town of my grandparents’ birth. It’s also where I’ll get to build a second life.
I hope.
Rosie missed her first nap and then her second. When she started screaming, I had to break out the big guns. How long has it been? I’ve lost track of time in the endless loop of my solo Raffi sing-a-long.
Wait.
It’s quiet.
How long has it been quiet? I have no idea. I’ve been caught up in the rage that comes around every ninety seconds at that stupid line. My heart goes to my throat. Nobody ever told me that a moment of quiet out of a baby can inspire enough panicked energy to power a city.
One look in the rearview mirror and my body sags with relief.
Rosie has fallen asleep, her head resting on the side of the seat, chubby cheeks pink.
I don’t know when, but I can stop singing. Finally.
Without the song, the car seems deathly quiet, so I risk turning up the radio, just a little. The moment I do, Rosie snuffles in the back. So much for the alternative pop station, whatever the hell that means.
We’re forty miles out from Lakewood. That means I have forty miles to stew about this unholy situation with Serena. We were always a mismatch. She had her head in the clouds, and I had mine in the office at the software development company. I thought things would change once Rosie was born. What a stupid assumption. Serena was never going to stop looking for the next shiny object.
She found the ultimate shiny object in Pine Deep, the man with the dumbest name in all of America. Pine Deep. Jesus. I can’t think about it without wanting to smash whatever comes to hand.
That’s the bitch of it all. We were opposites. We were different. But that was supposed to make our love stronger. Instead, I’m left hating a man named after a tree, a hollow emptiness in my chest that aches around the edges all the time. Anger is the only way to survive.
Anger, and coffee.
The coffee shop in Lakewood wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t even my grandfather’s idea, and he’s the one who willed me the downtown property. It was my grandmother’s idea entirely. They never got around to it before she died, which means it’s time to get my revenge.
Did I say revenge? I meant a clean break. I’m leaving my old life behind and building something from the ground up. Renovations have been going on all spring. We should be able to open in a week or two and make my grandmother’s dream of owning a cute little café in downtown Lakewood a posthumous reality.
My dream is to wring a fortune—or at least a nice living—out of the burning rubble of my marriage. Irony of ironies: Serena and I loved to visit coffee shops. We even signed up for classes together to learn how to make all of it at home, but the shop still lured us in.
That was all before Rosie was born. And before she fucking cheated on me with the human version of a Christmas tree.
I’ll be damned if I let her take coffee from me. I camped out in so many cafés during college that my dorm room was almost an afterthought. There’s a lot to love about it—the harsh whine of the espresso grinder, the smell of the fresh brew, the ready access to boiling water should an idiot named Pine come in and try to convince me that my wife would be better off without me.
God, what a jackass.
I shake my head, trying to rattle away the thoughts as we pull off the highway. The outskirts of Lakewood are pastoral and lovely, with cottages dotting wide properties on the lakefront. We’re going to spend the summer in one of them. The owners keep one cottage for personal use, and the other—across a massive lawn, with its own separate section of sandy beach—will be for me and Rosie. In September, we’ll move into my grandfather’s old house. Renovations are everywhere. My entire life is under construction.
But we’re not going there yet.
We’ve been on the road all day, and before I do anything else, I need a coffee. It’s the only thing that will wash the taste of thinking about Serena out of my mouth.
I know exactly where I’m going to get it.
I’ve taken a few trips to Lakewood since I got the notice about grandpa’s property. I know as well as anyone else that there’s only one coffee shop in town. I intend to be a loyal patron...right up until I put it out of business.
Does that make me a monster?
Rosie wakes with a snort. In the mirror, I can see her rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists, getting her bearings...and opening her mouth to cry. As exhausted as I am—by the drive, by all of this—my heart twists in my chest at the sound.
I clear my throat. What’s another thirty rounds of The Song in the grand scheme of things? Nothing, that’s what.
“Don’t worry, baby, I’m still here,” I tell her, and then I sing.
3
Ellery
“There were no streetlights, Evelyn! Not a single streetlight! We relied on common sense.”
Morris Townsend bangs his cane on the floor of the shop, voice trembling
with passion. He’s going to spill his coffee all over himself if he keeps this up. Morris is loyal, that’s for sure, but he’s also a human hazard. Also, he can’t hear—not me, and certainly not himself.
“I can’t imagine—”
“There are no words to do it justice,” he shouts over the rattle of the air conditioning unit. It’s installed in one of the front windows, and it leaks. I empty the tray beneath it a hundred times a day at least. “The weather was so much nicer.”
I follow his gaze out the front window. It’s another lovely day in Lakewood. The sun is gentle, second-week-of-June light. Nothing like the harsh heat of August. I don’t know what Morris is seeing when he looks out there.
“You don’t know what you’ve missed, Evelyn.”
“Ellery,” I correct him.
He shuffles toward the door, to-go cup in his hand. Morris never takes a top, even when we have them. He might be eighty-five, but he still walks on the wild side. “Evelyn, I wish you’d speak up. I can’t hear a thing you say.”
“I hear everything you say,” I murmur toward the countertop. He doesn’t hear. I’m not trying to be unkind, but boredom is fraying at my nerves this afternoon. In the corner table where she always sits to write for an hour every afternoon, Susan Liu’s shoulders sag with relief. She looks gorgeous, sitting there in the light. If photography was still my thing, I’d love to take her photo, there at the table with her laptop. Too bad the memory of the camera’s weight in my hands makes me feel vaguely ill.
The door swings shut with a creak. Alone, I take a breath and survey my tiny kingdom.
I’m brewing a fresh carafe of our signature blend—and yes, I’ll give you three guesses what it’s called. I mopped the floors during the morning lull, and dusted yesterday. The dish sanitizer is humming along, swish swish swish, onto the next batch already. Everything is in order...for the moment. We’re teetering on the edge of the coffee supply with only two bags of roasted beans left and two of espresso. Soon, I’ll make The Call. If the milk truck doesn’t show up...
I can worry about all that later. For now, everything is in place.
Except the t-shirts.
There’s a low shelf of t-shirts underneath the counter where I put the freshly filled carafes. This way customers can fill to-go cups themselves after they pay. I have time to fill cups when we’re not in the tourist season, but starting this weekend, it’s all over.
The shirts are a mess. People—Lou Brewer being one of them—cannot resist looking through them once a week minimum. There are never any new shirts. They look all the same. I’d ask Aunt Lisa about new ones, but I doubt she’d have the time.
The sidewalk outside is empty, and in this moment, so is my brain. I come out from behind the counter and move across the shop. The swish swish swish of the sanitizer gets in my head. It’s like a beat. It’s like the music of the coffee shop. Do I sway my hips in time with it? Yes, I do.
It’s the afternoon lull, which means nobody’s going to be in until Mary shows up at four after one of her yoga classes. It’ll be a different story this weekend, but for today, it’s just me and the shop and a bunch of shirts to rearrange.
Swish, swish, swish. Sway, sway, sway.
I bend down in front of the shelf and scoop up some of the shirts in my arms. They’re more manageable in a heap on the countertop. Swish, swish, swish. It almost reminds me of a Beyoncé song. In my real career as a photojournalist, that would totally be newsworthy. Sway, sway, sway. I can’t remember the words to the damn song, even with the beat in my head, so I make up my own. I don’t think you’re in here for these t-shirts, I think you want to chat. I don’t think you’re in here for these t-shirts, I think that we all know that. I laugh out loud. When life hands you lemons, dance to the beat of the sanitizer. Someone should cross-stitch that on a pillow.
There are a lot of shirts. Nobody ever buys them. What about a nice little rolled arrangement? What if I roll each one up like so and make a little pyramid? I’ll roll them all first, and then stack them.
Roll, roll, roll. Sway, sway, sway. My own words echo in my head, layering on the sanitizer’s groove. One shirt rolls through my hands, then another. This wouldn’t make a bad song. It’s kind of catchy. It’s kind of...infectious.
I get lost in the song. The swish swish swish gets louder as the sanitizer moves into the meat of this wash cycle. Moments like these, when I can be free in my skin, dreaming, are the reason I haven’t lost it yet. Try running a coffee shop without being secure in the knowledge that you will have coffee. It’s a real stress, let me tell you.
I don’t think you’re here for these t-shirts. What about some kind of backup singers? Add a fan to blow our hair back during the music video, and this could be pretty sexy.
I’m pretty sexy.
I roll more t-shirts.
Not only am I sexy, I am a good dancer.
Swish, swish, swish. It’s a powerful beat. Any dancer could make something out of this, but I’m at the top of my game. I’m Beyoncé at the Super Bowl.
I feel it coming over me. It’s a crazy idea. No...not crazy. It’s accurate. It’s within my grasp. I pop my hips from left to right. The sanitizer is reaching its climax, and my song is thrumming in my veins.
I could do it.
I could twerk.
I roll the final t-shirt and take it in my hands like a glitzy music video prop and drop it low. Am I doing it? Is this twerking? I don’t know, but it feels right.
The sanitizer grumbles to a stop, the water draining out. I imagine it like it’ll be in the video, Barista Beyoncé waking up from her work-dream about being a superstar to that same sound, going back to reality in her empty coffee shop. Strike a pose. Done.
“Whoa,” says a deep, smooth voice from the doorway. “Am I...interrupting?”
4
Dash
I’m hard as a rock.
Is there any point in denying it?
I’m also as confused as one of those unicorn drinks everyone went crazy for not too long ago. I don’t know how long. All that nasty business with Serena put me into a fog for weeks on end, but holy shit, the sun is shining and the barista working at Medium Roast has an ass like I’ve never seen.
My brain struggles to compute. This is not the middle-aged woman with coiled gray hair I’ve seen here before. That lady was working behind the counter or hovering outside near one of the little tables, wearing a sunhat.
That lady was not workin’ it, her ass a solid foot from the floor but with so much attitude she might as well have been onstage.
The first words out of my mouth tumble through my lips as she strikes a pose, looking for all the world like a rockstar with a rolled-up shirt in her hands instead of a microphone. I hear myself say them while I try my best to ignore the full-body reaction I’m having to the sight of her ass in her jean shorts, still perky. “Whoa. Am I interrupting?”
She freezes, all of her going stiff, and turns slowly toward the door. With every second that goes by, her face gets redder and redder until it outshines the trendy teal of her shirt, which is tightened around her waist with—no joke—a hair tie. It has the logo of the shop over her chest, and God help me, I can’t stop myself from noticing that too.
This woman must be on the verge of a bloodcurdling shriek. That’s the story her face is telling. But she gets one look at Rosie, staring at her too—and pulls herself back from the brink.
She clears her throat. God, if I were her, I’d want to be staring at my feet right now, not looking back at me. “Okay,” she says. “This is obviously a nightmare.” She blinks once, twice, three times in rapid succession, as if doing so will make me disappear.
I don’t want to disappear. No. Hell no. I want to stand here all day, watching her move. I’m not going to do that because I’m not a fucking creeper, but yeah, I want that. I’m not a creeper, and I have responsibilities that I care about, unlike Serena.
“Not even close,” I tell her. “This is a dream come true.
” Nope. No.
Too late. The words are already out of my mouth.
She reaches up and covers her hands with her face. “How much did you see?”
For the first time, it occurs to me that there is no music on in here. It’s silent aside from the steady drip of coffee into a carafe.
I pretend to consider the question while Rosie wriggles in my arms, losing interest in the cherry-red woman standing mere feet away. From the road, this place looked bigger. It’s not. It’s tiny as hell. Along the back wall is a countertop with two carafes on top and open shelving beneath where more teal shirts have been artfully stacked. “I saw a lot.” The image of her twerking—I think she was twerking—is burned into my brain in the most pleasant way. I did see a lot. I want to see more.
She gives a brisk nod. “Good. That’s really good. A hot guy walks into the shop and” —she claps her hand over her mouth— “and I make a total ass” —A mortified glance at Rosie. “Ash borer of myself.”
Holy shit, this is not the conversation I expected to be having when I walked in here. Not in the slightest. “It’s not as bad as you think,” I say with a laugh.
With a long-suffering sigh, she straightens up. “Well, I’d better—”
“Film a music video? You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”
“Are you calling me a stripper?” Both of her hands fly to her hips and she cocks her head to the side. “Not that there’s anything wrong with strippers,” she continues a moment later. “Everybody has to make a living, but—”
“I was not calling you a stripper.” Rosie turns and waves a chubby fist over my shoulder, squeaking the little squeak she makes when she’s noticed something interesting outside.