Chapter 11
SADIE
The sky is tinted pink, and for a Texas summer in early June, the temperature sits in that brief space between cool and suffocating.
My white tennis shoes have practically worn a ridge in the sidewalk from my house to downtown.
Saturday morning strolls in Dusty Hollow are part of my routine—familiar enough that I don’t have to think about them anymore.
The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as I step inside. I glance around at the shiplap walls painted black with bright green plants dangling from galvanized metal planters hung sporadically throughout.
Lacey Wiggins bought this place two years ago.
Before she tore out Sheetrock and hung new lighting, the coffee shop leaned fully into its western roots—lassos on walls, spurs tucked into corners.
It took the town a little while to warm up to Lacey’s modern touch, but she knew better than to change everything.
She kept most of the old menu, adding in things like avocado toast and pistachio lattes, and she kept the name: Buttercup Brew.
Stories that feel more like Dusty Hollow legend say the shop was named after a girl who used to sit in the corner booth every morning, a yellow ribbon in her hair and an old book she never seemed to finish.
They say she always ordered the same thing—black coffee, two sugars—and waited like she was expecting someone who kept running just a little late.
Then one summer, she stopped coming. No goodbye. No explanation. Just an empty booth and a drink that has stayed on the menu like a memory no one quite had the heart to change.
The owner at the time started calling it the Buttercup Brew, after the ribbon she always wore, and it stuck.
Some folks say she left town. Others say she finally followed the person she’d been waiting for. And a few believe she simply decided she deserved a love that didn’t keep her waiting.
But every now and then, someone swears that if you come in early enough, before the town fully wakes, there’s already a cup poured, cooling in the corner like she might still walk through the door—like maybe some kinds of love don’t disappear . . . they just take longer to find their way back.
I’ve always found fondness in the tale, even if it’s fiction.
“Sadie!” Lacey beams at me, her blonde bun falling to one side of her head, a sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead under the warm lights above the espresso machine. “I almost have Joe’s order ready.”
“Good morning, Lacey,” I say as I approach the counter. “Do you think I could—”
My eyes snag on my name scrawled across a plastic cup along with . . .
Iced vanilla latte with a pump of caramel.
“What’s that, Sadie?” Lacey calls over her shoulder as she pulls another shot, the machine hissing and steaming.
“Never mind,” I murmur, picking up the cup and taking a sip of my completely predictable drink. Normally it tastes amazing. Today, it tastes . . . off. Bitter in a way it never is, or maybe it’s too sweet. I stir it with my straw.
“Is your latte okay?” Lacey asks. “You’re looking at it like it’s a dog who’s chewed up your favorite shoe.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “And the only thing a dog has chewed up recently is my trim.”
“I saw those sweet puppies you posted about. Did they find homes?”
I nod. “All eight of them.”
“You’re a saint, Sadie.” Lacey laughs. “I could never have let eight puppies into my house.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m happy to help.”
“Here’s Joe’s coffee and scone.” Lacey hands me a sack and a coffee cup.
I juggle my coffee, Joe’s coffee, and the bag in my hands. “Thanks, Lacey.”
“No, thank you. You’re the best!”
As I walk out of the coffee shop, I scan the streets for Milo’s green truck—the dented bumper forcing a whisper of a smile before I can straighten it out as I spy his truck in front of the café.
I backed it into a tree when we were seventeen.
He was teaching me to drive stick shift.
I wasn’t very good at it. Most guys would have cried or screamed if their girlfriend dented their truck.
Not Milo. He laughed and called me Little Fender Bender for weeks.
Then he never fixed it. Still hasn’t fixed it.
I walk away from the memory toward Joe’s, which is a short three blocks away.
When I get there, I notice his sidewalk is swept and the weeds have been pulled from the flower beds. I open the front door without knocking. “Joe! It’s Sadie!”
“Back here!” he yells from the kitchen.
I’ve known Joe since I was a kid—Milo’s grandpa, part of the family I somehow grew into by association. I’ve spent enough Saturday mornings with him to know the crankier he is, the more he loves you.
“I’ve got your coffee and scone,” I say as I walk back to the small kitchen that has never seen an update.
Harvest-gold appliances line the walls like they’ve earned their place by outlasting everything else, and the Formica countertops have settled into a mellow yellow that feels more like Joe than any design choice ever could—stubborn, worn-in, and not interested in changing for anyone.
The cabinets always creak with complaints when I open them, and the linoleum floor carries the scuffs of decades of the same routine.
When I enter, he’s sitting at the wooden table, his walker to the side of him. “How are you today?”
“Same old man you saw last week,” he replies.
“How’s your hip?”
“It’s a hip. Not a very good one, but a hip,” he grumbles.
I open a cabinet door and take out a chipped white plate. Then I open the bag. “Looks like cinnamon today,” I say as I place the scone on the plate.
I set the plate and his standard Americano with a splash of cream in front of him before bending down and giving him a quick kiss on the forehead.
“Thanks, Sadie.”
I sit beside him. “I noticed your flower beds are weeded.”
He breaks off a piece of his scone. “Milo.”
I nod. “Saw his truck down at the café.”
“Making sure he wasn’t here?”
“Just . . . not ready to fix things.”
He takes a sip of his coffee. “You know, fixing things ain’t so bad.”
I twirl the straw in my cup. “I might want to build something new.”
I take another sip. It’s still not right.
“New’s good, too,” he murmurs. “Though I’m not getting that new hip.”
I raise my brows at him. “The doctor said you’d be able to move around better.”
“Move around where? Closer to the grave?” he grunts.
I smile. “What does Milo say about it?”
Joe’s blue eyes sink to his scone. “That he’d help me.”
“It’s okay for someone to help you,” I say.
“Ha. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You haven’t let anyone help you since diapers.”
I swallow. “Not wrong,” I admit.
He shrugs, giving me that knowing look.
“Joe . . .” I trail off, letting silence become a sinking pit between us. I trace a scuff in the floor with my eyes, finding a frowning face in the worn linoleum, its crooked mouth pulled low like it already knows how this is going to end.
“You better say what you want to before I die waiting,” he says gruffly.
“You know me.”
His bushy brows bunch together.
I roll my eyes up and shake my head. “I mean, you know me.”
“So, what’s the question?”
“Am I . . . Am I the same girl I’ve always been?” The words land hard, my heart hammering.
Same books, same cookies, same Sadie, I repeat in my head.
“You want honesty?” he asks, his blue eyes boring into me.
“Aren’t you always?” I raise my brows.
“No. The girl I once knew wouldn’t need to ask that question. She was too busy living the ‘what-ifs’ instead of asking about them,” he answers.
“So . . .” I trail off again.
“Sadie,” he huffs. “I can’t give you the answers you want. Have you tried asking the girl in the mirror? Seems like you ain’t happy with who you are.”
I swallow and stand, suddenly uncomfortable with Joe’s honesty.
“I’ll be back to wash that dish,” I mutter.
“I can wash a dish,” he says softly, though firm.
I pour the rest of my latte down the drain before throwing the cup in the trash can. “See you next Saturday,” I say.
He grunts. “I could walk down and get my own scone.”
“With a new hip, maybe.” I give Joe a half smile and then walk back to the front door, but instead of taking my usual right, I go left.
I walk for a while. I pass the park, smiling faintly as kids scream and race down slides and parents push babies in swings or sit on benches, holding coffee from Buttercup Brew while they talk.
My phone buzzes, and I reach into my pocket to grab it, but I feel the corner of the list. I glance around before taking it out to unfold it. I read the words again, my eyes spying the hardware store down the street.
Why not paint a wall or two?
I fold the list back up and slide it back inside my pocket, ignoring another buzz from my phone reminding me I have a message.
When I get to the hardware store, I stare into the window and see that Grant is helping a customer.
I take a deep breath and open the door. Immediately I notice how Grant’s eyes flicker up and linger for a few seconds, making my cheeks warm slightly.
“Thanks, Mr. Wilson. Let me know how you like that new hammer,” Grant says before his eyes are back on me.
I wait until Mr. Wilson leaves before I walk up to the counter. “Hi, Grant.”
“Sadie,” he replies. “Did the stain match?”
I nod. “Perfectly, but I’m in need of some paint.”
He turns around and starts to open the filing cabinet.
“No,” I say. “I’m looking for something new.”
He turns back around, crossing his arms, and my attention snags—not on his words, but on the easy strength in his stance. I look away. “What are you thinking?”
“Um, I’m not sure, but I want muscle. I mean . . . color.” I clear my throat as all my blood floods my face.
A teasing grin begins to tug at his lips. “Color, huh?”
I swallow. “Yeah, color.”
“Thankfully, I have lots of color,” he says before he walks out from behind the counter toward the wall of paint samples.
I follow him, mortified.
“Blues? Greens? Pinks?” he asks.
I stop when I get to the wall mosaicked with every shade under the sun. “Um . . . some of each?”
“What room are you painting?”
“All of them,” I say.
“Wow. That’s a big project.”
“I’m ready for a big change.” As I say the words, I feel the same tingling sensation I had when I was speeding on the back road.
“Well, what colors do you like?” he asks.
“I—”
What is my favorite color? Sophie’s is turquoise. Emma’s spring green. My mom’s sunshine yellow.
“The color when the sun dips low, kissing the horizon with its warmth,” I say, but they aren’t my words. They’re Milo’s.
I once threw a decent tantrum about not having a favorite color. He let me rattle on for a while before he finally interrupted. He knew my favorite color even when I didn’t know how to name it.
Grant hands me a paint sample. It’s the orange. I smile.
“I love this,” I say, looking up at Grant.
“What else?” he asks with a grin.
We pick out a moody green, a soft blue, a rosy pink, and a purple that reminds me of the lilacs in my parents’ backyard. I watch as Grant mixes the paint, his movements sure and steady. This hardware store is like my accounting office—familiar and family.
“Do you like it here, Grant?” I ask as he swipes the soft blue on the lid to confirm the color.
“Dusty Hollow?”
“Well, yes, but I mean . . . the hardware store.”
He leans across the counter, so close I can smell sawdust and cologne. “I’ve always known this place would be mine.”
“But is it what you want?”
He tilts his head and then stands, pushing his hand through his dark hair. “Sometimes life chooses you. I think this place chose me before I knew I wanted it.”
But what if you don’t want what was chosen for you—what if it happened while you were busy doing the right thing?
Grant starts to put all the paint cans up on the counter, and this is when I remember that my car is still in my driveway. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I walked, and I don’t think I can carry all these. Let me go back home and get my car,” I say as I start toward the door. Then I stop. “Actually, Grant—”
I take a deep breath.
Joe was right. I used to live the what-ifs, not just wonder about them.
Not that I had a lot of what-ifs when I was eighteen, but it’s what drove me to the University of Texas when they offered me a full-ride academic scholarship. My major was undecided, and I was happy with that. I wanted the possibility.
And now I’m trying new things . . .
I turn to face Grant. “Does your offer still stand?”
“My offer?”
“I mean, it’s paint and a lot more work than sanding and staining some trim—”
“I’m in,” he says swiftly.
“You don’t have to—”
“Tomorrow after church?” he asks. “I’ll bring everything we need.”
I smile. “That’s perfect.”