My sister’s uncanny ability to waggle her eyebrows at the best possible moment shines through and I can’t help but burst into laughter, giggling like we’re teenagers on a sleep over. Canned frosting, no cookies, and talking about boys.
“You’re a perv. We were kids. When we were that age, things like that weren’t going on,” I say, shaking my head.
“But ...” Steph prods from her perch on the front steps of my house, chasing the frosting with a sip of wine.
“But he was a bad influence when we were kids, nonetheless.”
“Are you sure this is okay? I don’t think we’re supposed to be here after dark. We’re going to get caught,” I giggle as Keith grabs my hand, pulling me closer to the fence, closer to him. The community pool closes at dusk and it’s well past dark. There is no way we’re going to be able to sneak in and swim without getting in trouble.
“You’re always such a good girl, you know that, Stella? Live a little!” I wish he wasn’t right, but I am. I’m the straight-A student, the kid who wouldn’t know drugs if someone walked up and put them in my hand. I tried beer once, but my dad walked into the garage mid sip and put an end to that.
Stella, the good kid. That’s me.
I follow Keith, laying my towel over the jagged top and sticking the toe of my shoe through a diamond-shaped hole in the fence to boost myself up. Swinging my leg over, I feel my heart pounding in my chest.
Stella ... the rule breaker.
“You know, I think I hate him. Part of me does, anyway,” I say finally, squinting at the thought like that’s going to clear up my feelings on the situation. “I’ve never hated anyone in my entire life, Steph, but he’s hurt me just enough hate might be the only thing I feel for him. Is that wrong? We had a life together; shouldn’t I still be wallowing in self-pity?”
The security of being in a loving marriage is gone, demolished in the blink of an eye. It’s been four months since he left, but the sting is still fresh and every time I clean another box and find another card, another “I love you forever” signed at the bottom, it’s like grinding salt in the festering wound.
“No. I don’t hate him. I can’t hate him. He’s just bored with me. I’m boring. This is just going to prove to make me stronger, right?” I say aloud, trying to convince myself more than hold a conversation with my sister. “I want to cut his testicles off with my pruning shears, but I wouldn't call that hate.”
Snip. Snip. Snip.
"Who needs therapy when you have rose bushes?" Steph says from behind me, arms crossed over her chest, sunglasses perched on top of her head. She's supposed to be here helping but instead she’s eaten my frosting, drank my wine, and is now practicing the art of pissing me off.
I give her my most withering stare. It doesn’t work.
"Rather than be a snarky bitch, why don’t you make yourself useful and help me with these plants? Now that my marriage has fallen apart I finally have time to devote to these sons of bitches," I say gesturing to the dying rose bushes. They must hate how I’ve neglected them.
I pull my hair back off my neck and the sweat cools enough that I shiver. September just started but there’s a chill in the air already, which means jack because this is Western New York and tomorrow it could be 75 and humid. Mother Nature’s mood is as mercurial as mine lately.
Stupid New York. Stupid husband. Stupid life crumbling to dust.
Thank God Keith and I hadn't started a family yet. I don’t think I could do this — have my life fall apart, that is — and try to keep up with kids at the same time. I can barely take care of myself right now. Caryn or Steph or my parents have been here with me or I’ve been at their homes almost every night since he left, just making sure I don't completely fall apart when the sun sets. Or I’ve been at the office. Work will set you free? Nope, work only reminds you the other side of the bed will still be empty when you finally fall into it too exhausted to bother crying.
"Stephie, I hope you know how much I appreciate all your support," I say, turning serious for a minute. I know without my baby sister I would have buried myself in the bottom of a bottle of wine every night just to ease the ache in my chest until my heart sewed itself back together. "You've kept my head above water. Thanks for having no life so you could be here with me," I tease. The moment got too tense and that's just not us. Even serious moments are filled with teasing and jokes.
"Shut up, I don't want to hear your sappy boohooing. Come help me get this sapling out before it takes root in the foundation of the house." She really just gets me. Steph’s always let me say what I need to say and then we move on. When we were little our mom used to remind us in the midst of our arguments that we only had each other and that being sisters meant she’d given us each a built-in best friend. I know plenty of people that isn’t true for, but for me and Stephanie it explains our relationship to a T.
“Have you been to that new coffee place in town?” Steph asks as she pushes her shovel into the dirt, trying to free the tree, and I’m so thankful for the change in subject. I really don’t want to talk about the divorce any more than I have to.
“I went in with Caryn to check them out. She’s planning a story for the business page to promote them since they just opened a few weeks ago. I use the term ‘planning’ loosely because I swear every time we go in all she does is flirt with the guy at the front counter. And we’ve been there a lot. Like a lot a lot.” My best friend is the biggest flirt I know. It’s just her personality, she’s naturally talkative and inquisitive, so she makes a great reporter. “If she can ever stop ogling his ass while he’s making her lattes or whatever the hell she drinks maybe we’ll get the story.”
“A cute boy? And you didn’t call me the moment you saw him? You’re losing your edge.” Enter Steph, the serial dater.
She loves to go on dates and spend time with people, but is afraid of commitment. No idea why, but it’s turned her apartment into a figurative revolving door of guys who are good enough to settle down with until she decides they’re too good for her and they get the boot. She’s the exact opposite of me in the relationship department.
“Caryn called dibs. She knew you’d try to work some commitment-phobe voodoo magic on him,” I laugh, remembering the conversation.
“Oh sweet baby Jesus in the manger!”
I’m cut off mid-sentence by Caryn’s new favorite version of the typical “oh my God” — it’s got a nice ring to it, I must say— and look up to see what’s caught her eye. Tall, dark, and scruffy has caught it. And he’s slinging liquid gold as far as we’re concerned. Coffee. Hot, delicious coffee.
“The only thing that could be better than him making my coffee would be if he served it to me wearing nothing but that apron,” Caryn whispers to me.
“You look like you’re going to eat him for breakfast. Stop ogling or you’re going to get the cops called on us, and I don’t know about you but the only reason I want to see the chief is if he’s giving me details on a case, so stop already!”
I sound desperate because it’s embarrassing how she just stands there leering at the poor guy. We’re in our thirties, not thirteen.
“Tell Steph I called dibs. She needs to remain hands off. He’s totally mine.” And judging by the look in her eyes, this is one dibs she’d put someone in a grave over. I don’t have time in my life to be burying my best friend or my sister.
“Fine, whatever. I will let her know. Cross my heart.” Placing a hand against her lower back, I shove Caryn forward with a hushed, “Coffee. Now.”
Seriously, I need to figure out how to get a caffeine drip approved by the insurance company so I don’t go through this on a daily basis since this will now be the only place we get coffee from per the “boys I like” portion of the Best Friend Agreement. Or BFA as it’s become known to those in the know.
We order what would be our usual anywhere else, like Dunkin Donut or Tim Hortons, and while we wait I check out the scenery — it’s trendy, but not so much so the community members
who are here year round wouldn’t fall in love with it and keep a steady stream of business flowing through. It’s definitely designed like it belongs in a college town, too. Whoever owns it knows their shit and put a lot of effort into the aesthetics.
The books lining the walls on staggered shelves catch my eye. What’s more is the variety of literature; genres are covered from children’s literature to classic lit to literature from the 1960s right up through some more current releases. I wonder if it’s the owner’s personal collection or just for show. I imagine the hours I could get lost in here wading my way through Catcher in the Rye and A Clockwork Orange.
“Hey, Stell, coffee’s up,” Caryn calls to me. I’ve wandered off across the room, caught in my own thoughts.
I head back toward the counter, and notice a tall blonde man walking back through the door I assume leads to a kitchen. If I weren’t miserable and ending a marriage, that’s the kind of body I would want in my bed every night. Keith and I were comfortable with one another, but even getting to the gym or going for a run on a regular basis never gave him the kind of body that makes me go weak in the knees like this. Keith is handsome in a reserved way; not drop dead gorgeous but not below average.
I’m staring at the door as it swings shut and Caryn bumps my shoulder, shoving the coffee I ordered into my hand while I regain my composure. What the hell was that all about, anyway?
“Now who’s being a creeper?” she gently scolds. “Stella, this is Greg, the Jumping Bean’s manager. I was just telling him we work for the local paper and were interested in introducing the business to the community.”
“So are they a thing? You said that was a few weeks ago. Maybe I have a shot now,” Stephanie says, wiping dirt on her jeans. “More importantly, I want coffee.”
“Not happening, kiddo. Well, coffee, yes we can go get coffee, but as far as Greg goes? Seriously, I don’t want to have to break up some fight between you and Caryn over a guy. Not again,” I say rolling my eyes. “It always gets too icky. There are plenty of grad students roaming the town for you to lure back to your lair.”
Laughing, I grab my rake and the trowel, and head back to the garage so I can get cleaned up and recaffeinate.
Brian
Chapter Four
I've seen her come in a few times but haven’t had the nerve to come up to the counter and talk to her. Instead, I find an excuse to go to my office or go bake something, anything to not break the magic of it maybe being her.
I’ve been wanting to ask this girl if she is who I think she is ... the grown up version of the little girl who stole my heart and never gave it back. I’ve been hopeful I would find her again for what feels like forever. Twenty years is a really long time to pray for someone to cross your path, and now I’ve transplanted myself to her hometown.
But she isn’t why I moved back here. Not entirely. I came back because I remembered what I loved about this small town when I was a kid — close-knit community and a sense of security made it a logical choice when I was figuring out where to open a business, a coffeehouse no less, which this town desperately needed. Seriously, these people were drinking gas station swill before I came on the scene.
Knowing there was a chance she was here, even if just a slight possibility, only added to my need to set up shop. Her parents still live in the house she grew up in, so if she didn’t live here there was the chance she’d visit.
That’s what I told myself every time I saw a dark haired woman pull up out front or walk through the door.
Most mornings I'm in back working on inventory or going over schedules and payroll, so seeing Stella walk in for the first time a few weeks ago with a friend floored me. She looked just like her mom did when we were kids, so how could it not be Stella? I couldn't breathe just thinking it might be her.
Today’s no different.
I’m peeking out from beyond the café doors in the kitchen, watching her like I’m witnessing my life in slow motion. I feel my breath catch as she turns away from the counter with her coffee, a smile breaking through as she says something quietly to her friend.
“Hey Greg, those two ladies you just served, any idea who they are? Names?” I ask my manager as he comes through the swinging door carrying coffee mugs to wash.
Greg Stevens has been my closest friend since college and when the chance to join me on this adventure arose, he came along for the ride as my right hand man and shop manager. We’d both focused on business and marketing in school with a concentration in entrepreneurship, so starting a business and putting our money where our mouths are just made sense.
It was modeled after a coffee shop we used to go to when we were in college. The place practically took all our money when we were working on projects or trying to impress girls with our maturity, because mature men drink coffee. It didn’t matter at the time that maturity was a complete façade in hopes of being invited back to a girl’s room. We could just as easily have opened a bar, but I wanted coffee and Greg wanted baked goods. It works, even for two manly men. We had to be the straightest guys on the planet who co-owned a coffeehouse and baked together. If some of our fraternity brothers could see us now, well, I really don’t want to know what they’d say unless it was kudos and congratulations on a job well done for following our dreams.
The space we’d found was perfect for that coffeehouse atmosphere, too — little nooks worked for high-top tables, a handful of booths along one wall were perfect for people who wanted a little more room to spread out, a large open space near the front window was a selling point for us as we wanted it for open mic nights. My favorite additions to the space were bookshelves I’d made in my down time while waiting to close on the property. We hung the shelves randomly throughout the house for books, a lot of them novels I’d had to read for various literature classes I took over the years, even if they weren’t part of my curriculum.
I’m a self-proclaimed nerd, so when I’m not working, I have my nose in a book unless I’m trying to work on another aspect of the business or clearing my mind in the woodshop behind my house a few blocks away. We encourage the arts and the people we attract to the coffeehouse come from all walks of life — teens wanting to feel like adults, adults wanting to feel young again, business types and artsy types. They all mesh well and I love seeing how vibrant they all are, together and separately.
When I think about it, this is perfection. Almost.
"Blondie is Caryn, and I'm pretty sure she calls her friend Stella or Stell or something like that. Caryn’s that reporter I told you about like two months ago. She wants to do a story on the coffeehouse.”
I remember him telling me, but I haven’t been ready to call her. I haven’t been ready to talk to anyone about the motivation behind this business and I know she’ll ask, so I grunt and give Greg a non-committal, “Oh, okay” hoping he’ll keep talking, say her name again and make it real.
“Honestly, I don't care what they call each other, as long as the blonde calls me tonight," Greg says with a crooked grin, breaking me out of my reverie. I must have looked confused, or maybe pissed off, because he started explaining himself and then I felt like a major asshole. "I slipped her my number. Is that okay?"
I should have told him it wasn't based purely on principle. It sounded like he’d been eyeing Caryn up for some time, though. Greg giving her his number is pretty minor in the grand scheme of things, plus getting angry about it would only make me a hypocrite. I would have done the same thing, but handed my number to the other woman. Greg was still talking, but all I could focus on was her name leaving his lips.
It was her. Stella’s here drinking coffee in my shop. She comes here and has no idea it's me who owns it.
“Bri, what’s going on? You look like you’re going to pass out. You know them?” he says, eyeing me suspiciously, the same amused look he gives drunk people who turn into storytellers after a few too many. I haven’t clued him in to the slight obsession I have with my childhood friend and I don’t want to start telli
ng him now. I don’t think I’m ready to reintroduce myself to her and that’s exactly what he’d try to get me to do. Or he’d say something to her because he’s still a slick college frat boy on the inside.
“Later. I’ll tell you everything later,” I say cryptically, moving to the sink to run water for the dirty mugs he brought back as a tingle runs up my spine.
Stella
Chapter Five
“Can I have a large black and one of the blueberry scones? Thanks,” I say handing the barista money for my usual order. “On second thought, can you add a shot of espresso to the coffee? I could use the caffeine.”
He smiles politely, and I’m sure he’s noticing the shadows under my eyes. I don’t think I’ve slept more than a few broken hours a night since Keith’s bomb dropping and the subsequent flurry of paperwork and hiring of attorneys. What day is it? What month is it even? I can’t remember. Just a few more days.
“No problem, Stella. I’ll have your order out for you in just a sec. If you want to sit down, I’ll bring it out for you.”
It’s become rather apparent I come here a lot, particularly since Greg was punching in my order before I even opened my mouth. I’ve gotten to know Greg over the last few months of flirty talk between him and Caryn, the type of flirting that made me realize my heart most certainly has started turning to stone. I’ve never seen Greg actually working with anyone else, with the exception of the elusive blonde who I’ve only seen from the back — and what a back it is — so it strikes me as odd there’s another blonde guy standing back by the entryway to the offices watching me. Maybe it’s the same guy; what would I know. I don’t think I recognize him, though he seems familiar. Maybe it’s the hair, or the glasses. I’d be able to tell if he turned around, I tell myself. Who cares — I’m tired, depressed and I just really need that coffee, and I need it now.
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