Coffeehouse Confessions (The Alphabet Sweethearts #3)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Maggie

T here are some things you learn when you work in a coffee shop long enough. Things like the exact temperature for perfect foam, which customers need their coffee before they can speak, or how to read the subtle shifts in someone's mood through their coffee order. So when Ethan switches from his usual black coffee to an americano with an extra shot, I know something's wrong before the writing group even begins.

The late afternoon sun slants through the windows as Gloria opens the meeting, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. My hands stay busy wiping down tables and restocking supplies, but my attention keeps drifting to the circle of writers near the fireplace.

"What about you, Ethan?" Gloria asks. "How's the novel coming along?"

I pause in my work, waiting for his response. Usually, this is when his whole face lights up, when he shares some breakthrough about temporal mechanics or character development that makes the whole group lean forward in their chairs.

Instead, he just shrugs, his fingers tight around his coffee cup. "Still working through some things."

The conversation moves on, but I notice how he shrinks into his chair, how his notebook stays closed on his lap, how the fountain pen he carries everywhere stays capped.

When Gloria calls for a break, I watch the other writers disperse to refill their drinks or browse the shelves. Ethan stays put, staring into his coffee like it might hold answers to questions I don't even know he's asking.

"Hey." I approach slowly, like you might a spooked animal. "Can I get you a refill?"

He looks up, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something raw in his eyes before his walls snap back into place. "I'm good, thanks."

"Are you?" I perch on the arm of the chair next to his. "Because you seem..." I’m not sure how to describe the distance that's grown between us since that kiss, since that perfect moment on my doorstep that now feels like it happened in another lifetime.

"Just distracted." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Trying to work out some plot points."

"Want to talk about it? I've gotten pretty good at following temporal paradoxes." I aim for lightness, hoping to see even a ghost of his usual warm response to our banter.

"It's fine." He closes his notebook, tucking his pen away. "Just writer stuff. You don't need to worry about it."

You don't need to worry about it. Like I'm just another acquaintance. Like the past few weeks of shared looks and tender moments never happened. Like he hadn't kissed me like I was something precious, something worth holding onto.

"Okay." I stand, smoothing my apron to hide how my hands want to shake. "Well, if you need anything..."

"Thanks, Maggie."

Just Maggie. Not Mags like he'd whispered against my lips. Not even Miss Carter like he used to say when he first started coming here, all proper and formal until I teased him out of it.

I retreat to the safety of the counter, mechanically going through the motions of making drinks and running the register. But I can't stop watching him, cataloging all the little changes that add up to something being terribly wrong.

The way his shoulders curve inward, like he's trying to make himself smaller. How he barely contributes to the group's discussion, when usually his insights make everyone scribble notes furiously. The distance in his eyes when he looks my way, like he's seeing right through me to something far beyond.

Andrew catches me watching and gives me that big-brother look that says I told you so . I turn away, focusing on the espresso machine with more attention than it needs. I'm not giving my brother the satisfaction of being right.

Besides, everything's fine. Ethan's just wrestling with his novel. Writers do that, right? Get lost in their heads, work through their blocks, emerge on the other side with something beautiful. That's all this is.

It has to be.

Because the alternative—that he's pulling away, that he regrets that kiss, that Andrew was right about him not being ready for something real—that alternative hurts too much to consider.

So I keep making coffee, keep smiling at customers, keep pretending my heart doesn't crack a little more each time Ethan looks through me instead of at me. And I tell myself that some stories just take longer to find their way to a happy ending.

Even if, right now, it feels like our story might be ending before it really had a chance to begin.

When the writing group wraps up, Ethan packs his things quickly, barely glancing my way as he heads for the door. The bell chimes his departure, and I find myself counting his steps through the window until he disappears from view.

"More coffee, Mrs. O'Connor?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

Because that's what you do in a coffee shop. You keep going. You serve the drinks and straighten the shelves and pretend your heart isn't walking away in someone else's pocket.

Even if you're not entirely sure you'll get it back.

The evening quiet at Novel Sips always feels different from the morning silence. More final somehow. I'm wiping down the last table when I spot an envelope that's slipped halfway under one of the armchairs. Probably another customer's lost mail. It happens more often than you'd think.

The address is smudged, the envelope torn open. The paper inside is heavy, not the cheap printer paper I use. When I pull it out, I recognize the letterhead. My heart stutters as I read.

Dear Mr. Ward, Thank you for submitting "Time Streams" to Riverside Publishing. While your concept is intriguing, we regret that this manuscript, like your previous submissions, doesn't quite meet our current needs...

The words blur as I keep reading. Phrases like "not commercially viable" and "wish you luck placing it elsewhere" jump out at me. This isn't just a rejection. It's a door closing.

"What's that?"

I turn to find Andrew watching me, his arms full of empty coffee cups.

"Nothing." I move to tuck the letter away, but he's already seen the publisher's logo.

"Another rejection?" His sigh holds a weight of judgment. "Maggie, this is exactly what I was talking about. He's chasing a pipe dream, and now he's dragging you into it."

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it's the condescension in his voice, or maybe it's just the last straw after weeks of his hovering disapproval. "You know what? I quit."

"What?"

"You heard me." I untie my apron, letting it fall onto the counter. "I'm done with you deciding what's best for everyone. Done with your judgment and your control and your constant need to protect me from living my own life."

"Maggie, be reasonable?—"

"Reasonable?" I laugh, and it sounds a little wild even to my ears. "Was it reasonable when you drove away every guy I dated in high school? When you convinced me art school was impractical? When you made me feel like coming home was giving up?" I grab my bag from behind the counter. "I love you, Andrew, but I can't work for someone who doesn't trust me to make my own choices."

I'm out the door before he can respond, the bell's cheerful chime a stark contrast to the storm in my chest. The spring evening is cool against my flushed cheeks as I head toward Ethan's cabin. He needs to know that one rejection—or three—doesn't mean he should give up. That I believe in his words, his story, his voice.

"Maggie?"

I nearly collide with Hazel, who's walking her Scottish terrier along Main Street.

"Oh good, I was hoping to catch you," she says, but something in her expression makes my steps falter. "I just got off the phone with Ethan. He's giving notice on the cabin."

The world tilts sideways. "What?"

"Said something about returning to his old job." She touches my arm gently. "I thought you should know."

I'm running before she finishes speaking, taking the path to his cabin at a pace that makes my lungs burn. The lights are on, spilling warm rectangles onto the porch. Through the window, I can see him moving around, pulling books from shelves.

I don't knock. "Were you going to tell me?"

He spins around, a stack of books in his arms. More volumes lie scattered around half-packed boxes. "Maggie?—"

"Or were you just going to disappear? Leave a note maybe? 'Thanks for the coffee and kisses, sorry it didn't work out'?"

"It's not like that." He sets the books down carefully, too carefully. "It’s time for me to face reality."

"Reality?" I pull out the rejection letter. "You mean this?"

He goes still. "Where did you?—"

"Found it at the shop. Right before I quit my job defending you to Andrew, by the way."

"You quit?" His face drains of color. "Maggie, no. That's exactly why I have to leave. I can't let you throw away your stability for?—"

"For what? For someone who believes in something? For someone brave enough to chase their dreams?"

"Dreams don't pay bills." His laugh is bitter. "Three rejected manuscripts. Maybe it's time to admit Andrew was right."

"So you're running away? Back to a job you hated, a life that was suffocating you?"

"I'm being practical."

"No." I step closer, into his space. "You're being a coward. And you're doing exactly what Andrew does—deciding what's best for me without asking what I want."

He won't meet my eyes. "What do you want, Maggie?"

"You!" The word echoes in the cabin's quiet. "I want you, Ethan. The real you, not some safe, practical version that fits other people's expectations. I want the man who writes about love transcending time because he believes in possibilities. The one who sees magic in ordinary moments and puts it into words that make other people believe too."

"That man can't give you the life you deserve."

"Then let me decide what I deserve." My voice cracks. "Let me choose my own path, just like you did when you left journalism. Or was all that talk about being brave enough to chase your dreams just words on a page?"

He finally looks at me, and the pain in his eyes steals my breath. "I can't be the reason you give up everything."

"I'm not giving up anything. I'm choosing something. Someone." I touch his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw. "But I guess I'm choosing alone."

I back away slowly, waiting—hoping—for him to stop me. To say something. To fight for this thing between us that feels too precious to let go.

He doesn’t.