Chapter 4
EZRA
The next morning, the house is quiet.
I wake to Willow walking across my chest with an entitled meow.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my face. “You’re supposed to let Harry crow first.”
Lately, she’s been impatient for breakfast. But also, this cat has never once gone without, even when she was a stray.
Once downstairs, I feed Willow and pour water into the coffee maker. This exact routine has settled in my bones; it’s a rhythm I never have to think about. One that hasn’t been disrupted since I moved into this house.
I glance out the window toward the cottage and notice the curtains across the large windows are drawn, and the light is on.
Yesterday, I told Scarlett she’s invited to have coffee with me. Part of me wonders if she’ll show up or if she’ll ignore me until she leaves. I don’t know the answer to that question, but I’ll likely find out within the next hour.
I spot movement in the cottage, and I know she’s awake. Beside the sink, on the drying mat, sits the mug she used yesterday.
It’s slate-gray, the color of a battleship, and slightly tapered near the base. The uneven rim gives it a crooked kind of charm. I washed it and left it out for her. But I still wonder why she chose that one.
There are at least a dozen in the cabinet.
I have some that are rounded, tall, or short, but they’re all imperfect.
Some are bright colors, others have speckled glazes, and a few are matte creams. However, out of the selection, she picked this one.
It’s subtle, simple, and flawed. I never noticed how much I liked that one until she was holding it.
There was something about how her hand curved around it, and the way she looked at it, like it made the coffee taste better.
I pour myself a cup and lean against the counter.
After Willow finishes her breakfast, she jumps onto the windowsill and stares at the backyard like she’s waiting for Harry to start a fight.
I hear Scarlett’s footsteps on the porch before I see her. The sound is followed by a gentle knock, like she’s asking instead of assuming she’s welcome inside.
I open the door, and there she is with messy hair and a black tee knotted at her waist. No robe or sassy attitude, just the real her.
She’s holding a mug in her hand. I glance down at it, noticing it’s the same color as the one she chose yesterday.
“I liked your mug so much I bought my own,” she says, lifting it. “Now I won’t be tempted to steal yours.”
The mug is familiar. I believe it’s the sister to the one on the counter.
Knowing she picked that one makes my stomach flip.
“Well, well,” I say, stepping aside, allowing her in. “Was wonderin’ if you’d be gracin’ me with your presence this mornin’.”
“Like I said, coffee tastes better when I’m not the one making it.” She grins and breezes past me. “I found your little treasure trove in town. Paris Pottery & Studio. Very mysterious. Very moody. Smelled like a Pottery Barn—in a good way, not a corporate way.”
“I can’t believe you left your confines,” I say, closing the door.
“Retail therapy helps when I’m stuck.” She lifts her chin, pleased with herself. “Found your best-kept secret.”
“That’s funny.” I move closer to her. “Can I see your mug?”
“Only if you promise to return it,” she says. “No way I’m letting you add that special one to your collection.”
“I promise,” I tell her, finding her adoration so damn adorable as she hands the mug to me. I take it, turning it in my hands. It’s a good one. It’s well-balanced and warm-toned, the kind of piece I would’ve set aside if my cabinets weren’t already full.
“Amazing find,” I say.
Her smile shifts.
“It kind of found me.” She trails off, then shrugs. “The mug chooses its owner.”
I glance up at her. She’s watching me like she’s not sure why she said it. Scarlett glances away like she thinks it sounds silly.
“I know exactly what you mean. I’ve had a connection with each piece,” I explain, glancing up at the ones in my cabinet.
There’s a pause as a thick, invisible thread stretches between us. It has hooks on each end and digs in.
She smiles. “Feel free to fill it to the top.”
With a chuckle, I pour coffee for her, then hand it back over. “Enjoy.”
She watches me over the rim as she blows on it. “I will.”
“How’s your writing going?” I ask, curious.
“Well, I have one week to finish my book, but I have three chapters. I trashed everything and started over again. I’m feeling good about it, though,” she says. It’s nice to hear her talk about this.
“Congratulations. Seems the retail therapy helped,” I offer.
“It did. Anyway, thank you for the coffee. The flavor is incredible, not bitter at all, and strong. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.
“Tomorrow,” I tell her, and Scarlett sees herself out.
I stare at the door, wishing she’d come back. Our time together is always fleeting. However, I understand deadlines. They stop for no one.
After I eat breakfast and catch up on my emails, I glance out the window and see that the sun is much higher in the sky now, stretching wide across the backyard.
Harry’s pecking around, and I step outside barefoot and take the walkway to the hen laying shed.
The stones are hot as I grab the hose and refill the gravity waterers.
Harry moves toward me, like he’s ready to attack, but I stomp my foot and he stops. “Don’t start any shit, dude.”
He’s been testing his boundaries lately.
As I move past him, he notices the food and begins to eat. I move into the hen pen and check for eggs.
“Nice,” I say, gathering several. Farm fresh is my favorite.
I glance toward the cottage as I pass by.
The curtains aren’t completely pulled closed, and I see a sliver of the inside.
I’m not trying to spy, but the view of her curled up on the couch with one leg tucked under makes me freeze.
Her shoulders are slightly hunched forward as she types on her laptop that’s precariously balanced on her knees.
Her hair is pulled up, but strands fall loose around her face. It’s obvious she’s concentrating hard.
On the end table beside the couch is the mug she bought from Paris Pottery, the one she said chose her.
The sight of her causes something to stir inside me, because she looks like she’s always belonged there. Like this space has been waiting for her to occupy it.
“Fuck,” I whisper, forcing myself to walk away. My head might as well be in the clouds.
Once I’m back inside, I climb the stairs.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing as I make my way up to the third floor. There’s nothing urgent to work on, but my hands feel restless, and my thoughts won’t settle. I’ve been like this since Scarlett arrived.
The tower room hasn’t changed since I worked last. However, I can’t deny how the walls seem to lean closer and how the air moves more slowly. The late-morning light hits the dust, making it glitter.
I sit on the couch, open the sketchbook I haven’t touched in far too long, and flip through a few old pages. The prototypes I mapped out a few years ago are still there. It’s a bunch of vague shapes, color ideas, and loose measurements. None of them felt like anything I wanted to keep.
My mind drifts away, and I think about Scarlett and how good she looked in the kitchen earlier.
She leaned against the counter while I poured her coffee and didn’t take her eyes off me.
There was nothing dramatic said, no standout moment that was meant to leave a mark, but maybe that’s why it did.
Some people try to matter, while others simply do.
I roll the pencil between my fingers and don’t realize I’m smiling until Willow brushes up against my leg.
“Don’t start,” I mutter.
She hops up on the couch next to me with her tail twitching and lets out one solid meow, as if to say busted.
After I stand and stretch, I glance at the cottage and picture Scarlett in there doing her thing, completely unaware that she’s still swimming in my thoughts an hour later.
I breathe in through my nose and turn back toward the center of the room.
She may have come here to write a book, but it feels like she’s rewriting me instead.