Chapter 32
Paper Cuts and Pinot
Andi
The shop was dark when I unlocked the door before the ass-crack of dawn was even on the horizon.
I didn't bother with the main lights at first. Just moved through the familiar space by the glow of streetlights filtering through the windows, muscle memory carrying me where my brain wasn't quite ready to go.
Through the back window, the lumber and decking materials Gavin had ordered were stacked and tarped against the building.
The crew was starting on Monday. Four to six weeks, he'd said, depending on the weather.
I stood there for a second, looking at the outline of it all in the dark and felt something loosen in my chest.
I released a breath I hadn’t even realized I'd been holding. Then I turned back to the espresso machine. There was coffee to be made.
My eyelids felt like sandpaper, and my third yawn since unlocking the door threatened to unhinge my jaw. The sky outside remained stubbornly dark, not yet ready to commit to morning.
Grind, pull, tamp, brew. A double shot was needed to kick this morning off with any sort of life in it.
The espresso machine hissed to life, steam curling up in the cold air. The smell of it—dark and bitter and honest—settled something in my chest the way nothing else quite could this early in the morning.
I hadn't slept much. Every time I'd closed my eyes, I heard Charisse's voice. And every time I heard it, my brain did what brains do in the quiet of the night—made it worse. Filled in the blanks. Imagined the whole conversation between Charisse and Rebecca in vivid, awful detail.
My first shot was too bitter. I dumped it and pulled another.
By the time I was ready to open, the pastries were out, the register loaded, tables and chairs positioned, creamer station prepped.
I flipped the sign to Open and unlocked the front door just as the first customers appeared—Carlos and Joel from the construction crew on Dot Ave, Carhartt jackets and work boots, looking like they'd been up even longer than me.
"Morning, Andi," Joel was already reaching for his wallet. "Usual, please."
"Coming right up."
The early morning trickle took over after that.
More construction crews. Mr. Kowalski from down the street, who'd been coming here since the Sullivans owned the place and still ordered his drip coffee the exact same way every single day.
I moved through the rhythm of everything, letting the work do what it always did. Quiet the noise.
The bell chimed over and over, and then somewhere just before eight, I looked up from the machine and felt something in my chest ease.
Gavin was standing in the doorway. Still in his jacket, hair slightly wrecked from the wind outside. He looked like he'd slept about as well as I had.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey." I finished the cappuccino I was building, slid it across to the guy waiting. "You're early."
"Never too early. Dropped Charisse off at school and came straight here." He moved to the counter, patient while I got through the next order.
I grabbed a clean mug. "Usual?"
"Please."
I made his the way he liked it—strong with an extra shot. Then I made myself a latte that, in all honesty, I probably wouldn't finish. The morning rush had thinned enough that I could step away, even though Marcus wouldn't be in until nine.
"Back corner?" I asked.
"Yeah."
We took the corner table—far enough from the door for privacy but close enough to hear the bell if it chimed.
For a moment, we just sipped our drinks, letting silence do the talking.
Through the windows, the sky hung low and colorless, not quite ready to commit to morning.
Then a delivery truck growled past outside, jolting us back to the moment.
Gavin's eyes stayed fixed on his coffee as he turned the mug slowly between his palms. "I talked to Charisse in the car last night."
"How did that go?"
"Pretty much what we figured. Rebecca's been dropping little comments — casual enough that Charisse didn't catch anything mean in them. She just heard them, believed them, and wanted to make sure you knew she felt differently."
"Which is why she said it the way she did."
"Exactly." He looked up. "She had no idea anything was wrong. She just wanted you to know how much she liked you."
"I know." My throat went tight. "That's what kills me."
I traced the rim of my mug with my fingertip. "I can't even explain why it hit like a truck. Rebecca's been in my life for a half a heartbeat and she's already found the perfect way to get under my skin." I shook my head. "It's not even about the words. It's death by paper cuts."
"I know." He reached across and covered my hand with his. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"Doesn't stop me from being sorry." His thumb moved across my knuckles. "I called Victor. He knows. We're handling it, but he thought it might be a good idea to see if your mom and Rachel would be willing to give statements—just in case. Not even sure they'll be needed, but it can't hurt."
"Okay. Yeah. I'm sure they will."
"Thank you." He took a deep breath. "You know what the worst part is?"
"Tell me."
"For about ten seconds last night, I actually wondered if she was right." I looked up at him. "If maybe I'm not cut out for this. For Charisse's life. For all of it."
"Andi—"
"I'm not done." I held up a hand. "I wondered if I should just walk away. Save everyone the trouble. Save you the trouble."
His face went pale.
"But then I remembered what my mom said. That Charisse sees me." The steadiness came back in, the same way it had on those stairs last night. "And that kid doesn't hug people she doesn't mean it with. So," I sat up a little straighter. "I'm not going anywhere."
The tightness in his jaw finally let go.
"But I need you to promise me something."
"Anything."
"When we get our day in court?" I leaned forward. "We wipe the floor with her."
That got me a real smile — small, but real. "Already planning on it."
"Good."
The bell chimed. Two regulars from the Local pushed through the door, stamping cold off their boots.
I glanced at the counter. "I should—"
"Go." Gavin stood when I did. "I need to get to the office, anyway."
He waited while I got through their orders. When I turned back around, he was by the door, waiting on me. I crossed to him.
"Thanks for coming."
"Of course." He pulled me in and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "I love you."
"Love you too." I stepped back. "I'm going to see Bridget tonight. I need to debrief with someone who will be appropriately furious on my behalf."
He laughed—an actual one, which felt like the first real thing I'd heard all morning. "Good. Go. Bridget will know exactly what to say."
"And what not to say."
"That, too."
After he left, I turned back to the counter and to the line of people who needed coffee before they could face the world. Fair. I understood the feeling.
Marcus pushed through the door right on schedule. He stopped when he saw my face.
"Rough night?"
"You could say that."
He studied me for a second. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Some."
He held out his hand for the portafilter I was cleaning. "I've got this. Go."
I handed it over without arguing.
In my office, I texted both my mom and Rachel about providing character statements for the custody case. My phone pinged with their immediate replies—both all-in, no questions asked. One less thing to worry about. I tucked my phone away and focused on what was next.
The day went fast after that. I ran on espresso and muscle memory, and by the time Marcus waved me out the door, I'd managed something close to functional, with only the tiniest caffeine tremor in my hands.
In the bathroom, I ran cold water over my wrists, then dabbed concealer under my eyes from the emergency makeup I kept in my bag.
The mirror didn't lie—I looked exactly like someone who'd barely slept and worked all day.
But hey, Bridget had seen me looking worse.
Tonight wasn't about winning beauty contests, anyway.
Bridget's apartment in the South End was everything mine wasn't. It had clean lines, actual art on the walls, and was the kind of place that said successful creative professional without screaming it. She answered the door, already holding a wine glass.
"Sit," she said.
I kicked off my shoes and sank into her couch, my body disappearing into cushions that seemed designed to swallow visitors whole. "I see you have a glass. Where's mine, woman?"
"On it." She laughed and disappeared, coming back with the bottle and a second glass. "I stopped at Flour. Chocolate chip cookies, sticky buns, and those little tarts."
"I love you."
"I know." She settled onto the other end of the couch, tucked her feet under her. "Okay. Spill."
So I did. Every single moment of it. If there was anyone who would give me an honest perspective, it was Bridget — for better or for worse.
"She's been using Charisse to get information." Not a question.
"Seems that way. Rebecca hasn't been around much lately, but whatever she said clearly stuck. It bothered Charisse enough that she felt like she needed to tell me how she felt about it."
"That is—" she stopped. Took a breath. Started again. "Okay. We are not going to jail tonight, so I'm going to be very careful about what I say next."
I laughed. First real one all day.
"But seriously." She topped off my glass.
"She fed that line to a ten-year-old, knowing exactly where it would land.
That's not just petty. That's calculated and bitchy.
" She snapped a cookie in half. "And you want to know what it actually is?
It's desperation. Think about it—Rebecca's whole identity was built around being Mrs. Successful Guy.
First Gavin, then David. Now she's got nothing.
No David, no lifestyle, some rental that's too small to fit her and Charisse at the same time.
" She pointed the cookie half at me. "Meanwhile you've got your own business, your own money, your own life.
And you make Gavin happy. That has to absolutely kill her. "
I hadn't thought about it that way. "So, what do I do?"
"Keep doing exactly what you're doing. Be there for Charisse. Support Gavin. Let Rebecca keep digging." She grinned. "Plus, you've got me. And I am excellent at revenge plots."
"Bridget—"
"I'm kidding. Mostly." She took a sip of wine. "But if she ever shows up at the shop again, you call me. I'll handle it."
"What are you gonna do, intimidate her with your throw pillows?"
"Um, no." She gave me a look. "I have other means."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Get me in her car for thirty seconds. A spray bottle and milk. She won't know what hit her, and the consequences of spoiled upholstery are a gift that keeps giving for a very long time."
I stared at her. "That is genuinely diabolical."
"Consequences of messing with my girl." She smiled serenely and reached for a sticky bun.
"Okay, but—" I set my glass down. "What if she wins? What if the judge believes her bullshit?"
Bridget's expression shifted. Serious now. "She's not going to win."
"You don't know that."
"I know she doesn't even have primary custody. Plus, she’s already missed some of the weekends she did have. Her own record is working against her." She held my gaze. "She overplayed her hand, Andi. Trust the process."
I exhaled. "Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know." And I did. Mostly.
"Good." She clinked her glass against mine. "And in the meantime, you've got wine, you've got sugar, and you've got me. And I will absolutely show up to that courthouse in something that makes Rebecca feel deeply underdressed."
"You've already narrowed it down, haven't you?"
"To three options." She smiled over the rim of her glass. "Aesthetic intimidation is still intimidation. And if that doesn't work, I'll key her car in the parking lot."
"I never told you to do that!"
"Say no more." She winked. "You're safe with me. I'll take care of everything. And if that doesn't work, I'll just call your dad—he's always got something up his sleeve."
I blinked at her. "You're kinda scary, you know that?"
"Damn straight."
We demolished the cookies and drained the second bottle as night fell, the city lights flickering on one by one outside her window.
My anger with Rebecca still burned, my hurt still raw—but sitting there with Bridget, the pain became something I could fold up and tuck away, at least for now.
Not gone, just contained and manageable.
I could work with manageable.