Chapter 12
TWELVE
THE LAST OF the lights click off in the back, plunging the café into a silence that’s both familiar and unsettling. It’s just me now, alone in the space that Mary built.
The space I made my own.
The space I might lose.
I switch the sign on the front door to ‘Closed’ and turn back to survey the empty room. The only sound is the hum of the refrigerator, a constant drone that is suddenly deafening. The chairs are stacked upside down on the tables. The floor swept. Everything is in its place, ready for another day.
But how many more days?
I walk back to the counter, my footsteps echoing in the stillness, and run a hand over the smooth, worn wood. My gaze settles on a small, almost imperceptible knot in the grain, near where Helen usually sits on the nights we shared a bottle of Merlot with Mary.
The memory hits with an ache.
It was late, long after closing. The café was dimly lit. Only a single lamp above the counter illuminated the space, casting long shadows on the stacked chairs. The air was thick with the aroma of fresh blueberry muffins.
Mary, Helen, and I were huddled around the counter, a bottle of Merlot half-empty between us. We were laughing, a boisterous sound.
Helen was telling a story, her hands flying, about a disastrous date. Mary and I hung on every word, tears of laughter streaming down our faces.
“And then,” Helen gasped, barely able to speak. “He tried to pay with a coupon! Like the whole dinner wasn’t awkward enough. A coupon on a first date!”
Mary slammed her hand on the countertop. “No! A coupon?!” She let out a low whistle. “That man just sank to a new low.”
I clutched my stomach, a sharp stitch of laughter in my side. The warmth spreading through me wasn’t just the alcohol; it was deeper. It was a sense of connection that had settled in my chest.
I remember the feeling perfectly. This is what it meant to belong. This messy, imperfect, beautiful connection.
Mary raised her glass. “To us,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “To Helen surviving another awful date, and to the best damn coffee shop family a girl could ask for.”
Helen and I clinked our glasses against hers. Without a word, our eyes met… a shared understanding. A bond forged in laughter and late nights.
I trace the knot in the wood with my fingertip, the swirling pattern a tangible reminder of that night. Of the laughter, the camaraderie, the unwavering support.
So many memories here. So many hours poured into this place.
Mary’s lighthearted nature.
Lou’s loyalty.
Helen’s wit.
My gaze drops to the blue folder clutched in my fingers.
… And now, him.
Matthew.
The name shouldn’t bring warmth to my skin. He is the enemy. Bancroft’s lawyer. The man who holds the power to take all of this away. And yet, I remember his arms around me. The gentleness in his eyes. The way he said my name…
I shake my head, trying to sort through the tangle of confusing emotions.
None of that matters.
The only thing that matters right now is saving this café.
I take one last look around the empty space. My gaze lingering on the worn wooden counter, the mismatched chairs, the faded photographs.
This place is part of me.
I’m not giving it up without a fight.
Inhaling deeply, I try to push down the rising tide of panic.
It’s no use.
My hands are still trembling as I switch off the last light, grab my bag, and head out the door.
The drive to the apartment is a blur of red brake lights and rain-slicked streets. The rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers is a hypnotic beat against the chaos in my head.
Is that what you really want?
Matthew’s husky voice echoes in my memory, overlaid with the image of his thumb on my ring.
A flash of James’s face, twisted in rage, slams into me. Followed by the cold, hard reality of the blue folder.
Statehouse. 8pm.
The digital clock on the dashboard glows a menacing green: 6:42.
Barely enough time.
The city lights smear into ribbons of color through the rain-streaked windshield. Each passing car horn makes me jump.
Maddy’s Place.
Will I lose it all?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white, trying to find some anchor in the storm raging inside me.
Standing before the door, key in hand, I pause.
This isn’t home anymore. It hasn’t felt like home in a long time.
My fingers tighten around the cool metal of the key. Explanations, justifications, pleas… they all swirl in my head. A desperate script.
It’s just a business meeting, James…
This meeting... it’s the only chance I have to save my café.
Enough tiptoeing. Enough waiting. Enough pretending.
He needs to know.
He needs to understand the stakes.
I press my trembling hand against the door, feeling the cold, unyielding wood. Shoulders squared, chin lifted, I try to project an image of strength even though my insides tremble.
Deep breath.
Open the door.
Face him.
I turn the key, push the door open, and step inside. The silence hits me first. Heavy. Suffocating. It smothers any lingering hope I might have harbored. I expected the murmur of the TV, or maybe the clatter of him in the kitchen, but there’s nothing.
He’s not here.
Of course he’s not here.
My carefully constructed armor of defiance cracks.
The apartment is cold. Sterile. Stripped of any warmth or personality. Stagnant air carries a faint trace of musk and leather. A scent that used to make me feel safe, wrapped up in his arms. Now it’s just a painful reminder of what was, and what will never be.
I walk to the kitchen counter and pour a glass of ice-cold water, downing it in one gulp. The chill is a momentary distraction.
I take my phone out of my purse. My thumb hovers over his name.
I should call to check if he’s coming home.
The thought makes my stomach churn, but the alternative is worse. I can’t risk running into him unexpectedly. I tap the number, then shut my eyes, bracing myself.
His voicemail message, smooth and professional, fills my ear. I hang up before the beep, a strange mix of relief and disappointment washing over me.
I try the number again. Nothing.
I consider texting, but delete the half-written message.
What’s the point?
I shove the phone into my back pocket. My gaze sweeps across the living room. It’s neat, almost unnaturally so. Not a single magazine out of place. No stray remote control. The throw pillows perfectly aligned.
Do we really live here?
I don’t even remember the last time we sat on that sectional together.
I grab my purse and head for the bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the stillness.
The bed is unmade, a chaotic mess of tangled sheets… but only on one side. The other side is pristine. A cold, empty expanse that mocks the idea of intimacy. A testament to another night spent alone. Another night of tossing and turning, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.
I remember a time when this bed was a place of warmth, laughter and shared dreams. I remember how we couldn’t wait to fall into it together. Now, it’s just another piece of furniture in an empty life.
A lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard, fighting back the urge to cry.
My phone buzzes, a sharp, intrusive vibration. A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me. For a split second, I let myself hope. Foolishly. Desperately.
It’s him. Calling to apologize. To explain.
But it’s just a text.
Late night at the office. You know how it is. Don’t wait up.
I stare at the message. The words blur slightly. His casual indifference stings more than any angry outburst ever could. A humorless laugh escapes my lips, laced with exhaustion.
You know how it is.
But I don’t.
Whatever.
He doesn’t want to be here? Then I won't be here either.
Not anymore.
I toss my cellphone onto the bed and head to the walk-in closet.
Clothes hang in rows, a riot of color that mocks my mood. Dresses I bought for date nights, outfits I wore to company events with James. Uniforms of a life that feels a million miles away. I sift through them.
Too clingy.
Too revealing.
Too… desperate.
I grab a black dress. Simple and elegant. The kind I usually wear for important meetings. But as I hold it up against me, it feels wrong.
Too corporate.
Too cold.
I toss it onto the bed.
A red silk blouse catches my eye. A gift from Mary, who always said it made me look “fierce”. I try it on, but the color feels too aggressive.
Too bold.
I rip it off, frustrated.
Jeans and a T-shirt? Too casual.
A skirt and sweater? Too… ordinary.
Nothing feels right. Nothing feels like me anymore.
Or maybe, I don’t know who me is right now.
Finally, I spot it…
A dark green, knee-length dress with sheer, billowy sleeves and a plunging neckline.
It’s comfortable, but stylish.
Confident, but not flashy.
I slip it on. It fits perfectly, skimming my curves without being overly revealing. It’s a dress I bought on a whim, one I’ve never worn before.
It feels…
Right.
I turn to the mirror, and for a moment, I just stare.
My hair is a mess, pulled back in a haphazard bun.
My face is pale, with dark circles under my eyes, a testament to too many sleepless nights.
Regardless, I decide on a simple approach.
A touch of concealer, a light layer of foundation, mascara, and a swipe of blush pink lipstick.
Enough to look presentable, but not so much that it feels like a mask.
I pull my hair out of the bun and brush it, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders.
It’s softer this way, less severe.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror is still tired, still hurting, but there’s something else there too.
A flicker of determination.
A spark of defiance.
The green dress, the simple makeup, the loose hair… it’s a start. It’s my way of saying, “I’m still here. I’m still fighting.” And for tonight, that’s enough.
Slipping my feet into the nude stilettos at the foot of the bed, I grab the matching purse and take one final look in the mirror.
“This is me,” I mumble, before leaving the empty room.
The drive to the hotel is short, but each block feels like a mile. My hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly. My pulse throbs in my neck. I force myself to breathe, trying to channel the woman in the mirror, the one who decided to fight.
Two left-hand turns, and the Edgewater Hotel rises before me.
A modern building faced with light stone, large windows reflecting the city lights.
The hotel name glows above a recessed entrance, spilling a welcoming, golden light onto the pavement.
It feels a world away from the quiet, empty café and from the cold, sterile apartment I just left.
I pull into the first available parking spot, my eyes immediately drawn to the illuminated Statehouse Restaurant sign.
He’s in there.
Willing my heart to slow down, I press a hand against my chest, forcing myself to inhale, then exhale slowly.
I grab my purse and the blue folder and get out.
With jittery fingers, I smooth down my dress.
The cool evening air hits my skin, a refreshing change from the stifling tension inside me.
Crossing the parking lot, I climb the stairs to the restaurant entrance, clutching the blue folder like a shield.
The glass doors slide open. I am greeted by lively chatter and the softest music.
Gone is the tension of the drive and the chill evening air.
Here, everything is inviting. The mellow glow of wall fixtures and drum-shaped chandeliers illuminates the space, highlighting the dark wood paneling.
The teal chairs provide a vibrant pop of color against the warm browns and golds of the room.
Through the large windows, the dark expanse of the lake glitters with reflected city lights.
The scent of something savory drifts from the open kitchen. I lift my chin, a silent refusal to surrender to the nerves twisting in my stomach.
Did he even expect me to come?
I never replied.
With that uncertainty swirling, I approach the hostess stand.
A brunette with a polished smile looks up. “Good evening,” she says, her voice professionally welcoming. “Do you have a reservation, Miss?”
I take a breath, but the words catch in my throat. I feel a tremor in my hand as I clutch the blue folder. “I’m meeting someone. Matthew Warren.” My voice sounds a little too high but steadier than I feel. “He should be here,” I add with slight hesitation.
“Of course. Mr. Warren is waiting for you. Right this way.”
The hostess leads me through the restaurant, toward the windows in the back.
As we approach, I see him. He is standing near a table set for two, his back to me, talking to a waiter.
He gestures with one hand, a movement that is both authoritative and graceful.
Even from this distance, I can see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
My heart gives a rebellious flutter.
Apprehension, anticipation, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.
The waiter nods at something Matthew says and moves away.
“Mr. Warren,” the hostess says, her voice carrying just enough to reach him. “Your guest is here.”
He turns.