by Amelia Wilde
She’s right. There is light. Everything on Main Street is shut down, but Medium Roast, in its perch on the corner, is glowing from the inside. The light comes through the butcher paper like one of those flaming lanterns everybody loves to light during festivals. They’ve got to have some kind of work light in there because the regular lights would never glow so brightly.
As I pass by, a shadow stands out on the paper. I recognize her from here. Every inch of me tenses. I want to pull the car over and go in and help. I want my own store to succeed, too, but it would feel good to be there for her right now. It would feel great to be in that room with her alone, work clothes and all, side by side.
Or on the floor.
I’m hard before I can stop the thought, before I can shove it back into the Pandora’s box it came from. That’s over now unless a miracle happens, and I saw the look in Ellie’s eyes. She’s not going to suffer that more than once. She finally got herself to safety. There’s no way she’d risk it for me. Not a second time.
I want to stop, but I don’t. I keep driving, away from downtown. Under one of the last streetlights, I glance in the rearview mirror. Rosie has fallen asleep.
43
Ellery
Turns out that renovating Medium Roast isn’t a one-day job.
Honey and I discover in the course of trying to paint the walls that there are several parts that need to be plastered over, sanded, and then primed. There are chunks—actual chunks—of trim missing all around the tiny space. One good spill could do some serious damage.
To hell with Aunt Lisa’s tight fist over all the finances. I’ve been dropping off deposits every night for months. We hardly get any supplies. The bank gives me no trouble with a withdrawal—I’m authorized on the account to pay suppliers—and when Monday rolls around, I make some calls. Honey throws herself into the work alongside me. I submerge myself completely. It’s the only way I can stop myself from drowning.
Martin, who owns his own construction company, takes one look at the shop with his builder’s eyes. “Floors,” he says, and then his eyes travel up the walls. “Trim.”
“Drywall,” I say, pointing to a section of the wall down low that’s been covered by a potted plant since time immemorial.
“Yeah,” he says.
“The necessary stuff,” I warn. “We’ll paint.”
I don’t even blink when he tells me it’ll be four thousand dollars. Aunt Lisa can thank me later. And if she doesn’t thank me, she can take it out of my salary. I have savings upon savings upon savings from living in Lakewood. There aren’t many bars to party at all weekend and with Honey gone on her trip there wasn’t a lot of incentive for me to do anything but work, exercise, and devour seasons of shows on Netflix.
I keep the shop closed.
One day turns into two, which turns into three, which bleeds into four, and five. Martin and his guys come and go, ripping up the stained, worn tile on the floors and putting down new tile in a pattern that somehow reminds me of hardwood. They come and cut out entire sections of drywall, hanging the new sections in a quarter the time it would have taken me. Okay, faster than that, but give me some credit—back before my dad left his job to become a farmer, I helped him around the house on weekends.
We live on takeout, on pizza and sandwiches from the little deli a mile from my house. I’m constantly in clothes covered in paint. Six days, seven days, eight. If Lisa has heard about Medium Roast closing, she hasn’t bothered to call. I can’t imagine anyone would rat me out on this. With a project this big, they’ll assume it has her blessing. It should have her blessing if she wants to make any money at all now that Dash’s operation is in full swing. It is in full swing. In the mornings the regulars are still parked on the side streets, but I’ve seen more than one of them sneak in there for coffee when they think nobody’s watching. Mary Marshé goes before yoga, keeping her eyes on the ground. If she can’t see anybody else, they can’t see her.
Every project we finish unearths another project. The tile in the main store can’t be replaced without also tiling the bathroom, which needs a new toilet. The new toilet makes the old sink look terrible, so we get a new sink installed. Martin is good-natured and fits us in around his other jobs, so he’s my first call when I find out that some of the cupboards above the back counter have rotted through in places. That’s another day.
I go to Medium Roast. I sand. I paint. I sand again. I paint some more. I paint until my hand is a frozen claw, until Honey and I have talked through every single thing that ever happened to us from elementary school right on through graduation, and then I go home. I sleep. I wake up. I start again. It’s all I do, and I can’t imagine any other life. Reopening is out there, hovering, like a bad dream, but I refuse to acknowledge it.
I’m standing behind the counter, wiping down the new stainless steel countertop when Honey’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say. “What do we have next?”
“Ellie,” she says.
I turn to face her. She’s got a frozen drink in her hand. It looks similar to the blended hot chocolate I made for hundreds of tourists already this summer. “You look different.”
She’s wearing a sundress, for one thing, and not her painting clothes. When was the last time I saw her in her painting clothes? Earlier today? My hand stops moving over the countertop.
“So, I don’t know if you know this,” she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “but I haven’t been sleeping at your house for five days now.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“My renter moved out. I’m back home, baby.” A grin plays over her flawless face, and she shakes her head just so, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “You haven’t noticed.”
“I—” I can’t believe it. “I’ve been so busy with the store, and…” I blink a few times, taking it all in. The yellow shade we picked looks warm and lovely on the walls. The trim is gleaming. The countertops have been repaired or replaced, and so have the cupboards. I’ve sanded everything within an inch of its life and the paint has long since dried.
“Busy is a little bit of an understatement,” she says, stirring her drink with her straw. “It’s not okay, what’s happening with you. Tell me you know that.”
“This is more than okay,” I insist, stretching my arms above my head with a disgusting cracking noise. When was the last time I looked across the street at The Coffee Spot? When was the last time I saw anyone other than Honey? Do I even want to? “This is what the shop needed.”
“What you need is a dinner,” Honey says abruptly. “Get your stuff.” She turns on her heel and whirls toward the door.
I don’t move.
“Get your stuff,” she repeats, snapping her fingers in the air.
“I don’t—” Where did I put my purse? Did I bring it? No, I didn’t. All I have is my phone. “I’m not done.” I search for anything to occupy me.
“There’s nothing left to do,” Honey says gently, tipping her head toward the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”
44
Dash
“Excuse me, sir, but your coffee is terrible.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” I’m already apologizing before I’ve fully turned around, away from the sink at the back counter.
The laughter draws me up short. What the hell?
“Man, this place has done a number on you.” My brother grins at me from the other side of the counter. It’s a minute before closing time, and I didn’t hear the door open. I haven’t been listening. It doesn’t matter as long as I hear them by the time they’re at the counter. I’ve had my hands in the sink, rinsing off some mugs from people who didn’t want to carry out.
“You’re a dick,” I tell him while I load them into the sanitizer. Then I go out and give him a brotherly hug, complete with slaps on the back.
“I had a day off,” he tells me, dropping into a chair to watch me turn off the signs and lock the door.
�
��Good for you.”
“You said to come visit.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, looks at it, and puts it away again. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, casual shit, but it looks expensive. He’s doing well for himself. “So I did.”
“Well, you picked a great day,” I tell him absently, going for the broom. I sweep. I put the chairs back in their places. The one person I’ve been able to hire has been Martin, who has a cleaning person on staff. She comes in after hours to mop the floors and do the bathrooms. “Hasn’t been too terrible.”
“Where’s your staff?” Chris says to my back while I’m walking into the side room to check the furniture there.
“I don’t have any.”
“Wait.” I hear the chair’s legs scrape against the floor when he gets up. He appears in the doorway a moment later, leaning against the frame. I think of Ellie up against that frame, kissing me for all she was worth. Screw the tension in my balls just thinking about it. “You haven’t hired anyone to work for you?”
“I’ve made some calls.” I’m hedging and it’s obnoxious as hell.
Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Beer.”
“What?”
“You need a beer. This is the most pathetic I’ve ever seen you.”
“Pathetic?”
“You should see your face.” He waves his hand over his own face for the effect. “My heart is almost wrenched.”
I laugh out loud. “Get out of here. Go back to your fancy job.”
“I will,” says Chris. “After dinner. And beer.”
We go two towns over to a massive sports bar that’s loud and full of televisions all showing different games. I don’t give a shit about any of them. I blink at the menu while Chris orders flights of beer.
“So,” he says after the waitress has scampered away to bring us popcorn, “when are you going to sell?”
I must have misheard him. “What did you say?”
“When are you selling that shop?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not selling. It hasn’t been open a month.”
Chris laughs and leans forward to brace his elbows against the table. “You hate that place.”
I shake my head. “You’ve got it wrong.”
“You’re telling me that when you love something you go around making a face like—” He drops all emotions from his face and stares blankly, with dead eyes. “You look like that? It’s fucking creepy, Dash. You smile, but it never touches your eyes.”
I rub my hands over my face. Nothing on the menu looks appealing, but when the waitress comes back, I’ll order a burger to get Chris off my back. “I’m tired. That’s all. I’m single-handedly running the only coffee shop in town.”
“There was another one right across the street.”
“They closed.”
Chris’s eyes sparkle. “Permanently? You’re that good?”
“I don’t know.”
The waitress brings the beers, and I take a swig of the first one. It’s tasteless, but I’m not going to let on. “I know a good realtor,” Chris says casually. “I could have him move that store. You’ve put a lot into it, I can tell, but you’ll still make a profit.”
I stare at his stupid, grinning face across the table. “I just opened.” He nods, taking a dainty sip of his beer. “This was what I was supposed to do when I inherited the property. Jesus, have you forgotten about that already?”
“Listen.” Chris drums his fingertips on the surface of the table. “I loved Grandma and Grandpa as much as everybody else. But they’re gone, Dash. You did it. You opened the shop. Their dream came true.”
“Damn right it did.” There’s a low-key anger bubbling under the surface of my heart but it’s caught there, held back by a numbness that’s crept in little by little every single day I don’t see Ellie.
“What about your dream?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Chris stabs a finger at me. “I came into your shop today and you’re a zombie, Dash. Don’t bullshit me. I saw you before you saw me. You don’t love that place. You don’t even like it. You came here to get over Serena and instead you’re moping about her, doing some job you don’t care about.”
“It’s not Serena,” I growl. I can feel it boiling over, the numbness falling away under a heated pissed-off feeling that only my younger brother can inspire. I hate how he’s always right about this shit.
“The shop, then? Sell it. You did what you came to do. Sell it and do something else. Come back to the city if you want. I can find you a place by next weekend.”
“Jesus,” I say. Gulp some more beer. Look back at him. “I need to finish this.”
“You don’t.”
“I’m not talking about the shop.”
“What, then?” Chris gives me a level gaze across the table. “Or is it a who?”
I drain the rest of the first beer and reach for the second. Is there a point in lying to him? He saw me before I saw him. He already knows. The rest is details. “It’s a who.”
The waitress is on her way back. Chris turns and sees her coming, then looks back at me. “I don’t need her name, but I’ll say this—do whatever it takes.”
“You don’t know—”
“Do whatever it takes. You look dead inside. If you want to run that coffee shop, which I don’t think you do, you can’t do it looking like a sad puppy all the time. Are you having a burger?”
45
Ellery
“Cocktails,” Honey says solemnly.
“No.”
“Cocktails,” she intones. “We’re having some, and I’m buying, so don’t make a big fuss.”
“Fine.”
I don’t feel like cocktails. I feel like crawling into bed and sleeping for as long as humanly possible and then going back to work on projects at Medium Roast. That’s not an option because there are no more projects unless you count opening the store again. I’m not sure I can face that.
Honey flags down the nearest waiter and orders two glasses of something pink and fruity, and the first sip gives me life. It’s like waking up after sleeping for a straight month and discovering you’re in a tropical resort with hot men on either side of you, fanning you with oversized leaves.
“You were right about the cocktails.”
She takes another long sip of hers. “Let’s get down to business. What are you going to do, Ellie?”
“I don’t—” I take another sip of the fruity goodness and stare at her across the table. “What do you mean? I’ve been working on the shop for days. I can finally—” I can finally do what? Let all those customers back in? Pretend to care about what they’re doing between trips to Medium Roast? Never, ever look across the street at The Coffee Spot again? I can’t glance over there for as long as I live.
“You’ve become obsessed,” Honey says simply, cocking her head to the side so that her perfectly messy bun flops another inch toward the earth. “You did not notice that I moved out, or that I went back to work.”
“That’s not fair. You work weird hours when you’re in a painting phase.”
Honey purses her lips. “It’s not a phase. Don’t try to deflect. It’s time to face facts about Dash.”
Hearing his name squeezes something in my chest.
“You’re in love with him.”
“I am not. I’m over him.”
“Ellie,” she says my name softly, and it brings me back to the truth. I look into the eyes of my best friend since elementary school. They’re full of compassion, and I hate that they have to be like that in this moment. “I see you every day trying to forget him. But when you stop thinking about it, you’re always looking toward that store.”
“I gave him the finger,” I say mournfully, the alcohol already taking effect. “I let him know we were done.”
“You’re not going to be done with this man until you talk to him. So text him. Call him. Do whatever you need to do.”
“I can’t—”
&nb
sp; “I’m not done. It’s time to move on from Medium Roast. It’s been, what, three months? You need to be behind the camera.”
A choking panic rises in my throat, but it’s followed immediately by a strange ache. I want to feel the weight of it in my hands. I haven’t touched it since the day I went to the park. Shit, those photos...
“I’m not going back to the city,” I say, and then I take a deep breath to try and release the fear. “I don’t want assignments like that anymore.”
“Nobody’s saying you have to go back to the city,” Honey says with a laugh. “I like it better when you’re here. But there’s no reason you can’t start up a little business. You’re professionally trained, for God’s sake.”
“But I’ve never—”
“You can get the hang of it. I’ll start you a page on Facebook tomorrow. I promise you, you’ll have enough clients to quit Medium Roast by the end of July.”
“I can’t abandon my aunt and uncle.”
“This plan also gives you time to train your replacement. Replacements, if we’re being honest about it. That shop in the summer is not a one-woman job. Even if you are amazing. Which you are.” Honey looks around for the waiter. “Where did he go? We need food.” Then she turns back and eyes my glass. “Drink up. After this, it’s back to work.”
I can’t find the cord to the camera.
That’s the first obstacle when I get home, the sweetness of the drink still on my tongue. I forgot all about these pictures, and I made a promise. What if they’re terrible?
I rifle through my stuff until I find the cord wedged in my computer bag. The computer itself is under my bed. It takes twenty minutes of charging before it’ll turn on. I make popcorn while the photos load, and then fire up my editing program.
Oh, God, are these terrible?
Once the images are on the screen, my nerves settle a little. I feel like I’m back in school, hunched behind a desk in the wee hours, finding the perfect shot for class.