Chapter 40
FORTY
PUSHING THE HEAVY glass door, I feel its familiar resistance grounding me in the present moment.
The first thing that registers is the noise. Then, the warmth washing over me as I step inside Maddy’s Place. Bright midday sunlight streams through the large front windows, reflecting off the polished floor, temporarily dazzling after the numb haze that shrouded the last few hours.
Like any given Wednesday, my café is packed and loud.
Normal.
The clatter of ceramic mugs on saucers. The insistent hiss and rhythmic pulse of the espresso machine working overtime. Dozens of conversations weaving into an indecipherable buzz. The rich aroma of dark roast and pastries.
Scents and sounds that usually wrap me in comfort, today feel abrasive against the backdrop of this morning’s emotional wreckage.
The sheer, unrelenting normalcy of it all is an assault on my frayed senses.
My mind feels like it’s snapping back into focus from a great, fuzzy distance. Like surfacing too quickly from deep water.
I glance down at my jeans and sweater.
I barely remember putting them on.
Leaving Matthew’s house and driving across town through midday traffic is a complete blur. A mercifully numb autopilot must have taken over after he left the house.
Everyone here is living their ordinary Wednesday. Mine feels like it imploded somewhere between a shared shower, a shattered mug, and words thrown like knives.
Each step takes conscious effort. As if gravity has doubled its pull just for me.
I need to find Helen. Check in. Plaster on a smile for customers. I focus on the gleaming espresso machine. Solid, metallic, predictable in a world suddenly tilted off its axis. I try to project an air of purpose, of normalcy, that feels utterly fraudulent.
Up ahead, I see Grace at the register, busy handling a small lunchtime lineup.
Sidestepping the queue and avoiding Grace’s line of sight, I make a beeline for the entryway to the back room behind the service counter. Inside, Helen is reaching up for a large package of paper napkins, her back to me.
“Helen?” My voice comes out as barely more than a shaky whisper.
She spins around, startled, the package of napkins clutched between her hands. Her eyes fly wide. For a split second, pure shock chases away the worry. It’s followed instantly by a relief so palpable it seems to physically soften her features.
“Ames! Ay, Dios! You scared the life out of me!” she breathes, dropping the napkins onto a stainless steel prep table.
“Where have you been? When I came in this morning and you weren’t here, mija, I started to imagine terrible things!
I even called your phone more than once and always straight to voicemail! ”
Right. My cellphone.
I fumble in my purse and pull out the dead device, showing her the blank screen. “Must have died sometime last night. Sorry.”
“Forget the phone,” Helen dismisses with a wave of her hand, dark eyes sweeping over me. “Are you okay?”
I press my lips together. “Not really,” I admit, my confession catching on a reedy tremor. “It’s been a rough morning.” I drop into her office chair, suddenly needing its solid support.
My pathetic understatement hangs in the air. Helen says nothing, her gaze just steady and knowing. Under the silent pressure of that look, I feel the fragile dam inside me begin to splinter.
She leans on the edge of her desk, looking down at me, lines deepening around her eyes. “What happened?”
I stare down at my hands, still clutching the dead phone in my lap. The words feel caught somewhere behind the tight knot in my chest.
I shake my head slightly. “Matthew and I,” I start, the ache growing as the name leaves my lips.
I fix my eyes on the corner of Helen’s desk and force myself to try again. “We had a fight.” I finally look up, letting her see the tremor in my lip, the unshed tears stinging my eyes. “A really bad one.”
The words feel inadequate. A pale shadow of the devastating whirlwind of last night and this morning.
Helen’s expression shifts from concern to deeper sympathy, lips pressing together tightly.
She lets out a soft, slow sigh. “I had a feeling, you know?” she admits quietly. “That it wasn’t only about the lease… that something more is going on between you two.”
“And now there’s nothing.” I lean forward, burying my face in my hands.
A low groan escapes me that is half sob, half exhaustion.
“I said something awful, Helen.” My voice is muffled against my palms, thick with shame and regret.
“Something really cruel. I wanted to purposely hurt him because he hurt me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” she says with knowing warmth. “Asi es l’amor, Ames. Love brings out the crazy in people.”
“Love?!” My head snaps up. The word hits me like a splash of cold water. “What love? Who said anything about love?”
A smirk spreads across Helen’s face. “?Por favor, mija! A blind bat could see you two have the hots for each other,” she declares, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“The hots?!” My eyebrows pinch together. “Oh God. Please forget I said anything.”
“?Qué? What did I say? It’s true, and you know it,” she insists, lifting her chin.
“Alright, back to work.” I force myself upright. “Let’s move on. Please.”
“Ames, you don’t have to—”
“Please, Helen,” I repeat, my voice dropping, meeting her eyes directly, willing her to understand. “Please.”
“Okay, okay, moving,” she concedes, picking up the package of napkins and turning to walk out.
“Helen.”
She pauses in the doorway and looks back.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, the word catching in my throat. “Really.”
She smiles warmly. “I’m just happy to see you’re okay,” she replies, before continuing to the front.
Okay?
Okay is a disguise. Thin and fraying.
But my café is out there demanding okay.
Demanding me.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I leave the calm privacy of the back room.
The wave of noise hits me again.
Chatter, the espresso machine’s sigh and pump, the clink of cups.
The sound is amplified, grating on my nerves.
Even the bright sunlight streaming in seems accusatory.
Plastering on a smile so brittle it feels like it might crack, I head toward the front counter. Grace catches my eye as I pass the register lineup, her brow furrowed with unspoken questions. I give a tight, brief nod, pretending I didn’t see the depth of her concern, and keep moving.
Need to seem busy.
Need to blend in.
Wiping down the counter feels like moving underwater. My hands perform the familiar motions, but my mind is trapped in the echo of Matthew’s rage. The confusing tenderness of his touch. The final, chilling slam of the front door.
We need to talk, love.
Then, I shouldn’t have.
Then, the shattering mug.
“Excuse me, Miss?”
I jump, slapping the damp cloth onto the counter.
A woman with friendly eyes is looking at me expectantly. “Oh! Sorry, yes, I…” I trail off, blinking as her request registers. “Yes. How may I help you?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Could I get a refill?” she asks, holding up her coffee mug.
“Of course, yes.” My hand trembles slightly as I reach for her mug, betraying the calm I’m trying so hard to project.
The simple task feels monumental.
Pouring the coffee. Handing it back. Forcing another smile.
It takes every ounce of concentration I possess.
I stumble through the rest of the afternoon in a haze, ambushed by memories that flash, sharp and painful.
Matthew’s hand tangled possessively in my wet hair. The icy menace in his eyes as he pinned Roger to the wall. The utter desolation as he broke down in the shower. The cold dismissal in his voice as he left for his deposition.
Each clatter of a dropped spoon sounds like shattering ceramic.
Each customer interaction feels like lifting a car.
I force my mouth into the shape of a smile, dredge up a “Have a great day” from some deep, empty well, and feel a piece of myself crumble away with the effort.
From time to time, I catch Helen watching me from across the room, her expression laced with worry. But she keeps her distance, letting me navigate this minefield of forced normalcy alone.
By the time we finally lock up, a leaden weight has settled deep in my marrow. An exhaustion so profound it feels like a physical illness.
Helen has left, giving my arm a final worried squeeze and reminding me to call if I needed anything. The usual end-of-day satisfaction is absent, replaced by a hollow ache.
I slide the deadbolt home, the heavy thud sealing me in for another night. Turning away from the door, I do a final walkthrough. Pastry case empty and clean. Espresso machine is off. Main lights out.
When I finally retreat to my office, I kick off my shoes. My eyes land on my lone suitcase, sitting open in the corner like a constant reminder of my transience.
Home is now just a couch, tucked between my cluttered desk and a filing cabinet.
I bypass the temptation to collapse immediately.
Routine.
Routine is grounding.
Even when the routine itself is depressing.
I flick on my desk lamp and grab my pajamas from the suitcase. Changing quickly, the familiar feel of the soft cotton is a negligible comfort against the day’s harshness.
After brushing my teeth in the small washroom, I lock the door and lie down on the couch, pulling my long winter coat over me. It smells nothing like the cedarwood and amber safety I was wrapped in last night. And it is not nearly as warm.
I curl sideways, facing my office door.
The silence isn’t peaceful; it’s charged with the residue of the day. The memory of Matthew’s tenderness and rage.
Matthew…
Last night I was sinking into the impossible softness of his bed, wrapped in a luxurious duvet, tucked against the solid, warm weight of his body holding me close.
His scent, his steady breathing, and the quiet intimacy forged in the aftermath of mutual brokenness felt like finding something solid to hold on to in the middle of a hurricane.
And now…
Now there’s the feel of the utilitarian fabric of the cushion beneath my cheek. The lingering scent of industrial cleaner from the floor. The unsettling quiet of the empty building around me.
The crushing weight of being alone.
Not just emotionally, but physically displaced. Sleeping secretly in my struggling business like some kind of fugitive.
His face surfaces again, unbidden.
The fierce possessiveness as he shielded me from Roger.
The way he looked down at me on the shower floor, a turbulent mix of grief and undeniable need.
The reverent way his hands dried my skin.
I shouldn’t have.
Shouldn’t have let his father provoke him? Shouldn’t have let me witness his loss of control? Or shouldn’t have pulled me into his storm, touched me, held me, only to discard the connection hours later?
Each possibility sends fresh pain and confusion shredding through me.
Sleep feels like a distant country I’ve lost the visa for.
Every creak of the building sounds like footsteps.
Every distant siren echoes the chaos inside me.
This makeshift bed is a stark reminder of everything I’ve lost, and everything I stand to lose. And the man who represents both safety and a consuming intensity is imprinted behind my eyelids.
The exhaustion is real, yet sleep remains entirely out of reach.