Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
CASSIE
The car door slams just after sunrise.
I blink awake, groggy and disoriented, my arm flung across the empty side of the bed like I was waiting for someone to be there.
But Logan’s already gone.
Of course he is. He told me last night. He has a ten-day road trip, early flight, long stretch of games.
Still, something about hearing the engine start…the gravel crunching as he pulls out of the driveway…it leaves this odd little hollow in my chest. Like something just left that I wasn’t ready to lose.
I sit up slowly, brushing my hair back, and glance toward the window. The sky is soft and pink, still heavy with dew. It’s too early for anything, really—but I’m up now. And restless.
Why am I thinking like this?
Maybe I’ll go back to that coffee shop.
Maybe I’ll actually do something today.
The place is even quieter than yesterday when I pull up, the gravel lot mostly empty, just one beat-up blue truck parked near the side entrance. There’s a chalkboard sign out front that reads:
TRY OUR NEW LAVENDER VANILLA LATTE (It’s the best in town!) WE’RE STILL HERE, DAMMIT!
That makes me smile.
Inside, it smells like cinnamon and dreams. The light filters through tall windows, catching on mismatched chairs, a worn velvet couch, and a bookshelf filled with used novels. It feels like someone’s living room collided with a Pinterest board and decided to raise a rebellious teenager.
June—purple hair, cat-eye glasses, and a “Don’t Talk to Me Before Espresso” shirt—greets me with a tired wave.
“Back so soon?”
“I had to see if the latte lived up to the sign,” I say, sliding onto a stool at the counter.
June chuckles. “It doesn’t. But I admire your optimism.”
She makes it anyway. I sit there, sipping slowly, while something strange happens.
I pull out my phone and open the Notes app. Then I start asking questions.
“How many drinks do you usually sell on a weekday?”
June blinks at me. “You trying to do my taxes or something?”
“I’m just curious.”
I ask more. About profit margins. Vendors. Local advertising. When I finally look up, she’s watching me with narrowed eyes and a smirk tugging at her lips.
“You know, most people just order the latte and scroll TikTok.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not most people.”
June raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”
An hour later, I’m still there.
The second cup of coffee sits forgotten beside me, the once-smooth lavender foam now a thin ring around the inside of the mug.
My notebook lies open on the counter, half a page filled with messy scribbles—bullet points, question marks, arrows going nowhere.
It’s not revolutionary. It’s not even good.
But it’s something.
I tap my pen against the paper, reading the last line I wrote:
Community board? Local art nights? Collab with farmer’s market?
It’s scattered, vague, idealistic.
And for the first time in forever, it doesn’t feel stupid.
June’s wiping down the counter nearby, humming to some indie acoustic track playing faintly over the speakers.
She hasn’t asked any more questions. Just let me sit here with my notebook, my cold coffee, and the weird little glimmer of hope flickering in my chest. A few people have stopped by—but it’s easy to see they’re not making enough money per hour if this is a normal morning.
“I should go,” I murmur it more to myself than to her.
June glances over. “Take your time.”
I nod, gathering my things slowly, like if I move too fast the spell might break. Outside, the late morning sun is starting to stretch itself across the parking lot, the kind of golden light that makes even cracked pavement look soft.
I step out into the warmth, the bells on the door jingling behind me. The breeze lifts the hem of my shirt as I pause at the top of the step.
Then I stop and turn back.
Through the tall windows, I can see June behind the counter, flipping a mug in her hands. The shop is mostly empty again—just one guy typing furiously on a laptop in the corner—but the light hits it just right. The bookshelves. The wildflowers on the table. The crooked art prints on the wall.
Her place might be imperfect and understaffed and barely hanging on—but it’s beautiful.
And so is the idea that maybe I’m not actually lost. Maybe this is what it means to begin again.
I rest my hand against the doorknob for a moment, not going back in—but not quite ready to leave.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not scared of the answer.
And that feels like a start.
The house is quiet when I get home.
I set my keys down gently, like even the walls don’t want to be disturbed. Logan’s gone, off to Georgia, and somehow the silence feels thicker because of it.
Logan’s Post-it hangs on the fridge.
Don’t miss me too much ;)
-L
Just then, a message comes in from Jackson.
Jackson: Hey, Logan wanted me to give you his number. Surprised you two didn’t exchange them, but here you go. In case you need to coordinate travel…or whatever you’re doing there.
Cassie: Oh…thanks.
Jackson: Everything going okay?
Cassie: Peachy! This home stay thing is a breeze. You were right.
Jackson: Good to hear.
I pour a glass of wine and sit at the counter, scrolling through my phone without really seeing anything. After a few minutes, I open a blank message to Logan.
Hey. Hope the road trip’s going okay.
Delete.
You’d be proud—I might actually be cooking again.
Delete.
I sigh, press the glass to my lips, and close the screen. Why do I feel like a teenager with a crush? It’s ridiculous. I should be better than this.
I pick up my laptop instead, half-thinking I’ll get some work done, and that’s when I see the email. The subject line makes my stomach lurch:
“Just checking in.”
I don’t need to open it to know who it’s from.
But I do anyway.
Hey Cass, I was in Dallas last week and walked by that place we used to go. Thought of you. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. No pressure to respond. Hope you’re well.
I stare at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking me.
“I hope you’re doing well?” Really??
Of all the nights. Of all the moments.
I close the laptop with a snap. It’s like my ex has a sixth sense for poking me when I’m not thinking about him.
My chest feels tight, like old wounds are threatening to reopen just when they’d finally begun scabbing over. I drain the rest of my wine and head upstairs. Brush my teeth. Pull on a hoodie that smells just a little like Logan since I wore it when he was here—not that I’m admitting that to anyone.
I lie in bed, eyes wide open, lit by the faint glow of my phone on the nightstand.
I think about writing back to my ex. Or maybe a better idea is to reply to Logan’s silly Post-it note.
I think about how much easier it would be to stop feeling anything altogether.
But I don’t send any messages tonight. I just turn off the light, and hope that sleep comes quickly. Before I start missing someone I’m not even allowed to want.
Because, truly, the last thing I need right now is something that gets messy.
Why couldn’t Logan and I have just had a one-night stand and left it at that?