35. Alessandra
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
alessandra
Bubbles pop on the foam of my untouched cappuccino.
A blinding headache pulses in my head, nothing to do with the lack of caffeine.
It’s 10:11 a.m. and Martin’s a no-show.
No call or text.
I could call, and perhaps I’m being petty, but I need him to prove he wants to be here.
Which he isn’t.
As I’m about to get up and leave, Quinn skips over with a lot of pep in her step.
Her bright smile wilts when she spies my drink.
“ Oh , is something wrong with your coffee?”
“No, no. Sorry , I got distracted and forgot about it. Your cappuccinos are always perfect,” I reassure her.
“I’d be happy to make you another. On the house. It’s nice to see you sitting in with your coffee more these days. Not that you can’t take it to go.” She slaps a palm to her forehead before looking at me hopefully, and now I feel bad.
“ Sorry , I’m a blabbermouth. You do whatever you want.”
I’m usually too busy to sit in with my morning coffee, but coming to Just Brew It has become part of my daily routine since Christmas .
Quinn’s chipper personality is oddly contagious and she makes the most mouthwatering pastries.
Her sunny attitude makes the idea of leaving less appealing suddenly.
I relax into my chair and give her a genuine smile.
“ I’m okay for coffee, but I’d love one of your almond croissants.”
She beams at me, claps her hands, and jogs behind the counter.
Rainbows might as well shoot out of her ass she’s so adorable.
Not one minute later, a flaky, buttery croissant appears in front of me.
To my shock, Quinn slides her own steaming cup down and sits across from me.
“I hope this is okay. I haven’t had a break yet, and you looked like you could use some company.”
Laughing lightly, I sip my lukewarm coffee.
“ I really looked that miserable?”
Her eyes grow comically wide.
“ Not miserable. Um , more, faraway?”
She’s not wrong, and I don’t know what response that warrants.
“Did you want to talk about it?” she says warily, as if talking to a skittish animal.
“ A new set of ears can be helpful.”
“It’s a long story. And I doubt your break is long enough to hear it all.”
She nods in understanding.
“ That’s fair. Plus , I’m basically a stranger.” Her shoulders perk up, and I see the lightbulb pop up above her head.
“ Oh , but let’s change that. Johanna , Florence , and I are having a Galentine’s dinner next month. You should join us.”
Quinn finds my bewildered expression hilarious.
“Layman’s terms: wine, cheese, and pajamas,” she clarifies.
“ Florence mentioned strippers, but she’s the only single one in attendance.”
My brows shoot up and Quinn realizes her slipup .
“You’re like fifty percent single.” She shrugs innocently.
“ So maybe half a lap dance?”
It’s difficult not to laugh at her serious expression considering the topic at hand.
“ I appreciate the invitation, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.” The last thing I want is a pity invite because she spotted me looking pathetic in her bakery.
This might be the first time I’ve ever witnessed her frown.
“ I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you there. Jo mentioned it yesterday.” Her response comes in fast. “ It’ll be nice getting to know Booth’s …” With knitted brows, she asks, “ Sorry , what are you two? It’s tiring pretending we don’t know you guys are—” She makes a circle with her thumb and index finger, then slides her opposite one through the hole.
My coffee almost sprays out of my nose.
She smirks and hands me a wad of napkins.
“ Complicated , got it.”
I ignore the suggestive raise of her eyebrow and laugh, only it dies when I remember the last conversation I had with him.
I’m a broken faucet.
The poor guy doesn’t know if he’s going to be scalded or given the cold shoulder.
It’s anyone’s guess why he remains interested.
Before I can dwell on it any further, I smile at Quinn .
“ Count me in.”
She opens her mouth, but the chime of bells over the front door distracts her.
“ Mr . Willis . Fancy seeing you on a Friday .”
I still.
My reason for being here was momentarily forgotten.
Not wanting to give anything away, I twist to face the newcomer and gasp.
Face red as a tomato, shoulders heaving up and down as he steadies his breathing, hand clutched to his chest with a pained expression.
Quinn and I jump to our feet and run to where he’s keeled over.
“Martin, are you okay?” I rush out.
He wheezes in lieu of speaking .
“Could you get some water? I’ll help him sit,” I say to Quinn , who disappears as I guide Martin to the nearest chair.
He pants for air and, after a few deep breaths, finally talks.
“ I’m s-so sorry, Ales —” Quinn returns, and he downs half the glass before resuming.
“ The ignition on my truck blew and I forgot to charge my cell overnight.” He shakes his head in annoyance.
“ I’m so sorry.”
Quinn might be a chatterbox, but something about Martin’s pitiful expression has her creeping away quietly.
I encourage him to drink more, and then it hits me.
He didn’t blow me off.
“Wait,” I gasp. “ Did you walk here?”
Sheepishly, he nods.
“ If I could run, I would have been here sooner.” He cups his knee.
“ Not as good as it used to be.”
Martin’s farmhouse is on the outskirts of town, a fifteen-minute drive away.
Meaning he walked the entire way, as fast as he could, just to get here.
To meet me.
He wanted to be here.
My brain struggles to compute this information.
“If you need to go, I’ll understand. Maybe another time,” he says softly.
I’m due at the restaurant in— I glance at my watch—five minutes.
I’d accepted his absence and now that he’s here, I don’t know how to respond.
As I study Martin’s rueful expression, that kernel of hope regrows.
Sutton Bay isn’t permanent, and when I first arrived, it seemed pointless to make any connections.
I’m still cautious, but less skeptical, so like I did with Quinn , I lower my guard.
“ I have time for another coffee.”
His eyes flare before he schools his features.
Quinn’s takes his order, and five minutes later we both have our hands cupped around steaming mugs.
The silence that stretches between us is delicate; one wrong move and it will collapse.
If this were an investment pitch, my voice would dominate.
I’m not pitching anything now—or maybe I am.
Either way, I speak with conviction.
“ I know it’s only been a few days since we last spoke, but have you found out any information about your ex-wife and son?”
“Wife,” he corrects solemnly.
“ We never divorced.”
I don’t react.
“You must think I’m an awful man for not knowing of their whereabouts, but when Judy left and took Harvey with her, I tried to maintain contact. Harvey visited occasionally, but when he started high school, the visits stopped. Resentment had me working myself to the bone, and eventually she asked me to give it my all or stop altogether.” I’m stunned at the sudden vat of information he reveals.
“ To this day, it’s my biggest regret. After you left my house, I reached out to an old friend who, let’s just say, knows how to find people. He’s tracked them both down.”
Tremors vibrate through my body, the five-second pause feeling like a lifetime.
“Judy lives in Milwaukee , and Harvey …” My fingers squeeze the handle of my cup.
“ He lives in Green Bay with his wife and owns a construction company with his son.”
I have another brother.
There’s a lot of information to unpack and the weight of it all immobilizes me, leaving only my vocal chords intact.
“ Did you speak to him?”
His gaze flicks over my face, searching for emotion.
He won’t find any. I’ve desensitized myself for this moment.
The odd sense of grief of losing something I never truly had.
“Please don’t drag this out,” I whisper harshly.
“ If he doesn’t want to know me, that’s fine. I’ve been here before.”
Sympathy and regret carves deep lines into his.
“ When I called, he hung up as soon as he knew who it was. ”
A switch flips.
This day is ten steps forward, one thousand back.
All hope slides away, pooling at my feet.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” He catches the sudden change in my tone.
“Thirty-three years ago.”
What a mess.
I could ask for Harvey’s contact details, but the idea of Martin being a buffer made this a lot simpler.
It’s anything but.
As if sensing my doubt, he quickly says, “ I’m going to write to him. Do you want…do you want me to tell him who you are?”
My eyes drift to the window.
People walk past, paying us no mind, oblivious to the two strangers whose lives have crashed together.
One in denial. One close to quitting.
Water droplets fall from an icicle hanging from the streetlamp, and after five drips and five steadying breaths, I face forward.
“ It wouldn’t make sense to lie. My biological mother’s name is Rebecca Timmons . I was born in a small town in New York called Ringwood on May twenty-fourth, 1993.” I recite each detail like items off a grocery list.
He nods.
“ Okay . Is there anything else?”
“It would be helpful to know of any medical problems that run in the family.”
Tick.
Tick . Tick . Just like a business transaction.
In front of me sits my grandfather.
Inside , I’m numb.
Maybe I’m broken.
Would a human who isn’t emotionally stunted react this way to finding a blood relative?
There’s no how-to guide on how to navigate this.
So I do what I know best.
Martin watches me silently as I grab my purse and coat before standing.
He mirrors me, hands hanging limply at his sides.
“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
“Of course,” he says carefully.
“ Would you like to?—”
The bell chimes, cutting him off.
I don’t want to know what he was about to ask.
My heart and brain are warring against each other.
I’m one depressing fact away from crumbling.
He blinks at the ground.
“ I’ll update you when I hear from Harvey .”
If.
If you hear from Harvey , I want to correct.
I wave goodbye to Quinn , who has done a terrible job at pretending she wasn’t watching our awkward interaction unfold.
Not having the courage to say anything more, I make a beeline for the door.
Martin’s words stop me in my tracks.
“ Could we do this again? I have some old photos of Harvey you might like to see.”
Ever since I started this journey, I’ve staggered through a network of passages.
My life has turned into a labyrinth.
The more I wander, the farther away the exit.
I can’t rely on the man who hasn’t spoken to his son in over thirty years.
I can’t rely on the people of this town to not gossip about my sorry start in life.
I can’t rely on myself to say anything nice.
Relying on people is a mistake.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say rigidly before making my escape.
Feigning ignorance is easier.
Which is exactly what I do as I storm down Robin Road .
Shoulders back, chin high, expectations low.
Patrick and Johanna watch me carefully as I enter the restaurant.
I ignore the full house of customers as I stalk to the office, ready to bury myself in work calls and emails.
Anything to distract me.
Reliance is a weakness I can’t afford.
Which is why when the biggest threat to the stronghold I’ve meticulously built strolls into the room hours later, a carefree smile pulling at his lips, my shields go sky high.