Chapter 2
Sloane
I shouldn’t be on my phone looking at gorgeous sweaters while the hum of silence fills the café.
The shop has its regular lull times. Tuesday morning after the early rush and the stragglers following that traffic, there’s always a few hours of nothingness before lunch.
Generally, I use the time to clean, bake, and prep.
The sweaters might have started out as a weakness, or maybe they were a funky way to brighten up everyone’s day, but my customers started to remark on them, and then it was an expectation.
I had to start out slow because I didn’t have much extra money as a single mom, but now I have a closet bursting full of bright sweaters with every theme and pattern imaginable.
Over the years, I’ve gone from being the funky barista working at the little corner coffeeshop downtown, to being the funky barista slash owner of the little corner coffeeshop.
This place has been in my blood since I was sixteen.
It’s shocking how quickly twenty-two years can just vanish.
One minute you’re a scared, pregnant teenager, and the next, you have a grown son trying to make his own way in life.
Before I get teary eyed, I turn my attention back to my phone.
This sweater happens to have a giant clown on the front.
Oddly enough, it’s black and white. The clown looks sad and mopey, and a touch artsy.
It’s a great price too. Do I really need another sweater, though?
I should get off this app. It’s pretty much made to sucker people in with impulse buys.
It’s great that it’s seller to buyer, and not some big corporation, and that most items are vintage.
By buying on here, I’m helping recycle and save the planet.
I guess that’s one way to justify it.
If I need another justification, I could easily say that Hart’s small.
There’s only one thrift store, plus an antique store that opened up a few years ago.
Their hours aren’t that flexible, and when my days are consumed with the shop, I don’t get the luxury of going out and finding those amazing scores in the wild.
I shut my phone off, resisting the impulse to add to my collection.
I grab a cloth and my cleaning products from the back.
I start out front. My shop is small, with a few tables lining the sides between shelves of bagged coffees, boxes of teas, teapots, and fancy coffee makers.
I turned the front, by the gorgeous bay window, into a little reading nook.
I have a take one, leave one system in place for books, but I do replenish them regularly with my own collection.
Reading is another pleasure that I don’t find so guilty.
There was a time when I couldn’t afford my own books and had to get everything from the library.
When I treat myself to a new book, I still feel like it’s a special privilege to be able to buy it.
When I venture to Seattle, which isn’t all that often, I make exceptionally great use of the second-hand bookstores and thrift stores to hunt for my favorite reads. Or next reads. Or all reads.
All the tables are inside, since it’s trending into winter and most days are gray and rainy. No one wants to sit outside and sip coffee and get doused. In the nicer months, I bring out the little bistro sets.
After I wipe down all the tables and chairs, I head to the back. I tackle the dishes, then think about prep, but there’s nothing that needs to be done. If I bake now, it might go to waste and there’s nothing I hate more.
I could catch up on some paperwork. I have a camera at the front of the store and one at the back, plus a loud bell for when anyone walks in.
I sit down in my office. It’s no bigger than a closet, tucked near the back door, right by the large fridge and freezer in the prep area.
My book on Roman philosophy sits on my desk.
I run my fingers over the hardcover. I never did go to college, but if I did, I’d love to study ancient history.
Or maybe all history. It’s hard to choose.
I’ve been reading this book for a few months. It’s not something that can be devoured in a day. I need time to think about it. There are some parts that hit so hard, a sentence even, that I need to sit and marinate in it.
It’s hard to be into ancient philosophers and thinkers expounding on the virtues of poverty and simplicity when you lived a massive chunk of your life as a scared, harried, sleep deprived teenage single mother living paycheck to paycheck and always one step away from disaster.
Though I do appreciate the sentiment. If you chop up the work, there are the inevitable great quotes that burrow under the skin—half because they’re so true, and half because they’re so damn unattainable.
For example, the great Seneca. “To be happy, you must eliminate two things: the fear of a bad future and the memory of a bad past.”
Easier said than done. Not that Seneca had it all figured out. Spoiler alert, he didn’t have a very happy ending.
And fuck it, I really need that clown sweater.
I take my phone out of my jeans pocket, open up the app, and get the sweater loaded into my cart. It’s a bit of a process to check out, and I’m going through the five million steps, when the front bell jangles.
I jam my phone into my pocket and leave the office without even looking at the camera feeds on the small monitor at the side of the desk. I’m ready with my usual greeting as I walk to the front, but as soon as I step behind the counter, the words die on my tongue.
I’m always happy to see Liam, but my big, motherly smile dies a hard death when I note the man my son is with.
Big, thug-like, muscular. A total meathead.
He could give a grizzly bear a run for its money when it comes to size.
He’s rocking what most meathead thugs rock: a heavy leather jacket, stained, faded jeans, and big boots.
His hair is cropped on the sides and longer on top in that typical I think I’m a badass, but really, I’m just a total dickhead haircut that’s popular with total dickheads.
Under his clothing, I imagine that he’s as covered with bad tattoos as he is of bad attitude and even worse decisions that he exudes.
He’s built. I’m guessing he belongs to Satan’s Angels MC, the biker gang that runs the town.
Okay, I’m being a judgmental bitch. I swear that I’m not usually, but when anyone walks in with my son… yeah. I’m going to judge whether Liam is safe with them.
Also? I might be a little bitter when it comes to meatheads. I get that not everyone is into the whole asshole brotherhood, locker room talk, toxic machismo vibe, but the ones that are, really are.
The wannabe badass beefcake flips the deadbolt into place on the glass door and reaches over to flip my electric open sign off.
Oh, hell no.
“It’s the middle of the day!” It’s a stupid thing to protest, because when Macho Meathead turns around, he’s clearly got something brewing on his face that is all shades of wrong.
My eyes quickly sweep to Liam. He lowers his head, refusing to meet my gaze, which speaks volumes as to what’s going on here. He has something to tell me, and it’s so bad that he felt the need to close the store in order to have my full attention.
I cross my arms, mirroring the thug’s stance.
There’s a scowl on my face, and I’m trying to ignore the way my heart is hammering in my chest. Not just because there’s clearly something my son wants to talk about, but because I’m trying to ignore his companion’s piercing gray eyes, bone structure that would make an artist weep, and a body made for sin.
Damn it.
“Liam?” I turn my attention back to my son and very pointedly ignore the way my libido, which generally ranges from disinterested to full on MIA. “What’s going on?”
Liam’s always had that sheepish look when he’s done something wrong, but the way his whole face drops right along with his shoulders and the rest of him seems to wilt in a chain reaction?
This is reserved for the insanely bad. The stuff I might not even want to know about but will inevitably learn to live with because he’s my son and there’s nothing in the world that will make me stop loving him.
I promised myself I’d never be the kind of parent that my mom was, or even my dad. The kind who turfs their daughter out to fend for herself when she’s still a minor and needs them more than anything.
I’m only human and I’ve made plenty of my own mistakes. I only ever wanted to give Liam two things: a better life than I had, and unconditional love. I’d say the usual parental wishes, but some parents don’t wish those things for their children.
“Mom,” Liam breathes. He’s nineteen years old, but he still has his baby face. It’s a little at odds with his long, shaggy hair and his massive six-foot-four frame. “I think you need to sit down for this.”
“Hmm.” I step over to the coffee machine. “Not going to happen.” I don’t need to do the cliched thing and park my ass just to hear bad news. I’d like to think that I’m a little more seasoned than that. “I’ll make you a coffee.”
I’m already reaching for the bag of beans.
I try to keep my face neutral, for Liam’s sake.
It’s something I’ve always done. I don’t like freaking out.
Melting down never helped anything. Tears don’t solve problems. As a parent, I’ve always tried to keep it together.
Not toxically, but enough that Liam can depend on me.
Even if I can’t help, or I’m not wise enough to know what to say, I try to figure out someone who can, and is.
I’m not a big believer in faking anything, so I don’t muster a smile for the stranger.
Whatever Liam got himself into, this guy knows something about it or he wouldn’t be here. He might even be the reason for Liam looking as though the sky just caved in on him and rained down liver and onions.