Chapter 36
THIRTY SIX
MY EYES PEEL open to the orange glow of my desk lamp. Another night survived on this old couch. A weary groan escapes me as I sit up, my back protesting loudly.
Routine is kicking in, however grim.
Padding down the hallway in my bare feet and striped pajamas, I head straight for the espresso machine.
Just as the first drops of dark espresso begin to drip, the telltale click and rattle of the front door key echoes through the shop.
Helen steps in, brisk and ready for the day, her eyes landing on me immediately.
She stops dead in her tracks. She takes in my pajamas and the espresso machine mid-brew, her expression shifting from morning readiness to sheer exasperation, though her lips twitch.
She lets the silence stretch, looking at me, one eyebrow slowly arching higher and higher.
“Bueno,” she finally says, her voice dry, but carrying an undercurrent of affection beneath the frustration.
“No. Simplemente, no.” She shakes her head, closing the door and striding toward the counter.
“I can’t get used to this. I refuse.” She deposits her things on her desk in the back room and returns.
“We need to find you a place that isn’t your office. ”
“I don’t know,” I shrug, filling two mugs. “I’m starting to like the convenience of it.”
She stops to glare at me as I hand her one. “Great! You’re officially losing your mind.”
I laugh lightly, taking a slow sip. “Is Grace in today?”
“Yes, she starts at noon,” Helen says, taking down the chairs and getting the tables ready. “Why?”
“So I can spend some time in my office looking for rentals.” I put my mug down and start helping her.
“Fantastic idea,” Helen says, looking me up and down. “Now, can you please go change before customers start arriving?”
“Yes, boss!” I give her a teasing smile and pivot to walk away.
“Wait, wait.” She waves me down. “I keep forgetting. Take this with you.” She quickly slips into the back room and comes out holding a large envelope similar to the one Lou gave me yesterday.
“I know we joke around, but I know it’s not easy.
I care about you, Ames, and this,” she says, handing over the thick envelope, “is proof that the community cares, too. This neighborhood loves this place and the slightly loco woman running it.”
The sheer thickness of the envelope in my hands speaks volumes.
I meet Helen’s gaze, hoping my smile conveys the gratitude I can’t quite articulate past the sudden pressure in my chest. “This means a lot to me.” My voice comes out a little rough. “Thank you.”
Helen’s features soften with genuine warmth. “No, thank you for not giving up on this place. On me.”
I look down at the envelope again, the weight of it growing in my hands. It’s not just signatures.
It’s Helen, depending on this job.
It’s Lou, spending his days reading by the window.
I’m not just fighting for my dream. I’m fighting for them.
This place is their sanctuary just as much as it is mine.
Clutching the envelope closer to my chest, I look up at Helen’s earnest face, determination firming my resolve. “I won’t let him take this place from us,” I promise.
Helen nods, eyes shining with pride. “I believe in you, Ames. One million percent.” Her gaze sweeps down my striped pajamas, and her lips twitch into a smirk. “But these marshmallow pajamas of yours? I’m not so sure.”
A laugh bubbles up. “You really don’t like my PJs, do you?”
Helen shakes her head, gesturing vaguely at my stripes. “Can’t take you seriously in those,” she admits. “It’s really hard.”
“Okay, okay.” I start walking backward down the hallway in mock offense. “Remind me never to invite you to a slumber party.”
“?Qué? Slumber party?” She frowns, looking genuinely perplexed. “How is it a party if everyone’s sleeping?”
“Nobody actually sleeps!” I laugh. “It’s mostly endless talking and lots of wine.”
Helen just peers at me, brow furrowed, shaking her head slowly.
“Anyway, I’m going to change,” I say with a final smirk over my shoulder before disappearing into my office-turned-closet.
Pushing the door open, the sight of the couch, my bed lately, and the general cramped chaos greets me. But instead of feeling despair, the room seems charged with purpose now.
I cross over to my desk, where Lou’s envelope sits beside my computer, and place Helen’s directly on top of it. The two together form a substantial pile. My fingers linger on the stack.
Hope and expectation.
So many people are counting on this place… counting on me.
The thought feels less like a burden and more like fuel.
Holding on to this newfound resilience, I thoughtlessly grab the same black V-neck sweater and jeans I wore yesterday. Not in the mood for laces today, I dig around for my comfy black ballerina flats.
A few minutes later, after a brisk wash and hair taming in the staff washroom, I emerge transformed from pajama-clad couch-surfer to professional café owner.
I throw myself into the morning rush.
Taking orders, steaming milk, managing the flow. Each task is a deliberate choice to focus on what I can control. A shield against the gnawing worry for what I can’t.
For whole minutes at a time, it works. I’m just the owner of Maddy’s Place, serving the community I’m fighting for.
But then a lull will hit between customers, and the thought of my phone, silent in my back pocket, surfaces like a splinter. My hand drifts toward it, a nervous tic I have to consciously stop.
A quick, furtive glance at the screen confirms it.
Still nothing from Matthew.
I take a breath, push the disappointment down, and turn to the next customer with a practiced smile.
True to her schedule, Grace arrives precisely at noon, her cheerful energy filling the space like sunshine.
“Amy’s busy today, so it’s just you and me,” Helen says as soon as she deposits her things in the back.
“Oh, not a problem!” Grace replies, stepping up to the counter, already scanning the room. “I’ll take the next customer while you finish that cappuccino.” She glances toward me. “Don’t worry, Amy, we got this.” She beams with the easy competence I’m profoundly grateful for.
“Thanks, Grace,” I manage, returning her smile with a small one of my own.
“Okay, go,” Helen says, leaning in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Go find a roof that isn’t attached to my espresso machine.” She shoos me away with a flick of her hand, turning back to the half-prepped coffee.
I settle into my office chair, turn on my computer, and dive into the overwhelming world of online rental listings.
Madison. Affordable. Available now.
The criteria feel both simple and impossible.
Website after website blurs, filled with tiny photos of empty rooms and rent figures that make my stomach flip. For a few minutes, the task feels hopeless, another mountain to climb. But the memory of my promise to Helen, and of Lou’s faith in my grit, stiffens my spine.
I refine my search, focusing on a neighborhood I know, one with character.
And then I find one.
A small studio in a converted Victorian near James Madison Park. The pictures are bright. The description is refreshingly honest: “compact but charming.” Best of all, the rent is just within the realm of possibility.
A flicker of real hope stirs in my chest.
I copy the address and number onto my notepad, my handwriting firm.
Not long after, I find another.
A garden-level one-bedroom near Willy Street.
I add it to the list.
For the first time in days, I have tangible options. A potential future that isn’t a lumpy couch.
A small, genuine smile touches my lips. Then, my gaze slides to my phone, lying face down beside my keyboard.
The silence from him is still there, a dull ache in the background. But the frantic, desperate edge has softened. Sal’s words from last night echo in my head.
That boy’s got more scars than you can see.
A pang of genuine worry squeezes my chest.
What if he’s not okay?
What if this isn’t about me at all?
My fingers tremble slightly as I pick up the phone, unlock it, and navigate to our message thread of one. My apology sits there, stark and alone. Swallowing hard against the tightness in my throat, I type quickly before I lose my nerve:
Are you okay?
My thumb hovers over the send button. The fear of being ignored is still there, but now it’s tangled with a genuine worry for him.
I press SEND.
The blue bubble sits there, a tiny boat I’ve just sent out into a vast, silent ocean. All I can do now is wait to see if it comes back, or sinks without a trace.
I set my phone on the desk and with a steadying breath, turn my attention back to the apartment listings.
Hours crawl by, but for the first time in a long time, they are productive.
My list of potential apartments grows steadily longer.
A second-floor one-bedroom near the lake; a slightly cheaper studio further west; another promising lead from a different rental site.
I diligently add phone numbers, cross-reference locations on a map tab, immersing myself in the practical task of building a new foundation for myself.
But the silence from my phone is a persistent low hum of static beneath the surface. A magnetic pull my gaze keeps fighting. Finally, during a lull in my search, I give in, turning the screen over.
Still dark.
Still silent.
Nothing.
My apology, my concerned question, sitting there unanswered in the void. The realization solidifies, cold and hard.
He saw my apology.
He saw my question asking if he was okay.
He saw my missed calls.
And he is actively, deliberately choosing silence.
The thought ignites my fury.
A hot, clarifying anger that burns away the pathetic hope I’ve been clinging to. Angry with him for this cruel, silent rejection. And angrier at myself for sitting here, paralyzed, letting this man’s silence have such a hold over me.
No.
The word is a silent vow.
I will not sit here and be ignored.
I will not let him have that power.
This isn’t a waiting game anymore.
It’s a question that needs an answer, and I’m going to get it.
My chair hits the wall behind me as I abruptly stand. I snatch my purse, pull out my keys, and shove my phone in without looking at the screen again. I stride out of the office and head straight for the front counter.
Helen and Grace are handling the late-afternoon trickle of customers.
“Helen,” I say, interrupting her as she hands a customer their change. “I need to head out. Can you and Grace handle closing tonight?”
Helen turns, surprise widening her eyes. “You found something already?” Then she takes in my expression. “Everything okay?” Her voice drops slightly, concern instantly replacing surprise.
“I’m about to find out,” I say, forcing a quick, dismissive smile. “See you tomorrow!” I avoid her searching gaze, turning and heading straight for the door.
My hands shake as I fumble the key into the ignition. I pull away from the curb as soon as the engine rumbles to life.
The drive across town is a blur of traffic lights and tight anxiety.
What am I doing?
What if he’s not even home?
What if he is home and tells me to leave him alone?
Every scenario feels dreadful.
Terrifying.
But I can no longer take the silence.
My grip on the steering wheel is so tight my fingers ache as I make the last turn onto his quiet, tree-lined street. With quivering hands, I guide the car into the driveway and cut the engine.
Matthew’s house, once an escape and refuge, seems forbidding now under the fading light.
I stare at the front door, imagining him behind it.
Ignoring me? Angry? Hurting?
The not-knowing is driving me insane.
Please, Matthew, the thought is a silent plea.
After a deep, shuddering breath, I force my hand to grip the handle and open my car door.
No more waiting.