Chapter 41
FORTY ONE
MORNING DOESN’T DAWN; it assaults.
The insistent beep of the alarm slices through the restless doze I’d finally fallen into. My neck is stiff from the awkward angle, my eyes gritty with exhaustion.
The routine is grimly efficient now.
Staff washroom.
Cold water on my face.
Teeth brushed.
Avoid the mirror.
I change back into yesterday’s jeans, pulling on a fresh white tank top and a green cardigan. Slipping my feet into my white loafers, I unlock the office door and step out into the main café space just as Helen arrives. I force a smile that feels paper-thin.
Round two of pretending begins.
“You’re dressed!” Helen looks up, surprised, shrugging out of her beige coat. “Seeing you in pink and white stripes was starting to grow on me.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I scoff, reaching to turn on the drip coffee maker.
“No, it wasn’t,” she admits, carrying her things to her desk.
A small, startled giggle bubbles up as I pull a new filter from its package.
Today, caffeine isn’t a luxury.
It’s a necessity for survival.
Thursday crawls.
Each hour stretches taut with unspoken anxiety. Friday looms, a dark cloud on the horizon.
Hydra.
James.
The name feels like a snake coiling in my stomach. Thoughts of James had faded, completely overshadowed by the whirlwind surrounding Matthew. But now, as Friday, my own personal doomsday, barrels closer, James’s smug face has become a constant, unwelcome phantom behind my eyes.
I nearly drop a stack of saucers when the coffee grinder kicks on unexpectedly.
I pour milk into the steaming pitcher, my focus elsewhere until it overflows. Hot white liquid spills down the side and onto the counter.
I stare blankly at the calendar hanging by the phone. The square marking Friday, tomorrow, seems to pulse with ominous energy.
“Can I top you up, Lou?” I ask, approaching his table with a freshly brewed pot.
“Right on time as always,” Lou smiles up at me from his newspaper. “Thank you, dear. Everything alright? You seem a million miles away.”
“Tired,” I confess my half-truth as I pour coffee into his mug. “It’s been a really long week.”
Fact.
“Any updates regarding the petition?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid. But hopefully soon,” I reply, my mind already snagging on tomorrow night.
“Oh, not to worry, but do keep me updated. And always let me know if there is anything else I can assist with.”
I touch his shoulder and smile down at him. “What would I do without you?”
He peers at me, his eyes lingering on my face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“It’s like you told me… grit and passion,” I remind him with a tired smile. “Counting on my grit and passion to pull me through.”
Lou chuckles, but the lines of worry around his eyes don’t fade. “Why don’t you sit and rest for a bit?”
“I wish I could,” I reply, pressing my lips into a thin line. “I have some things to finish before closing.”
Truth is, I need to keep moving.
I don’t trust myself to sit still right now.
“Well, thank you for the fresh coffee,” Lou nods, but his gaze still holds a shadow of the concern. “Remember, don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”
I nod curtly, needing to escape his searching gaze. I force a smile to hide that in truth I feel like a pressure cooker about to blow its whistle.
The lunch rush is a blur of orders and forced pleasantries.
Helen throws me worried glances, occasionally stepping in seamlessly when she sees me fumbling or pausing too long.
I function somehow, serving coffee, taking money, but it feels like watching someone else go through the motions from a great distance.
The thought of tomorrow night is a constant, sickening drumbeat beneath the surface noise of the café.
What am I going to do?
Will I survive it?
By the time the late afternoon shadows begin to stretch across the floor, the knot in my stomach has tightened into a solid ball of dread. Another night alone on that damn couch, wrestling with thoughts of Matthew. The fear of tomorrow night with James…
No.
I can’t.
Not tonight.
As Helen finishes wiping down the last table, I duck into the back room. Tucked away on the highest shelf of the metal storage unit is a dusty bottle of decent Cabernet Sauvignon. A forgotten gift from a supplier months ago.
Perfect.
Bottle in hand, I walk back out front where Helen is lifting the last chair onto the table by the window.
“How about a drink before you head out?” I ask, holding up the bottle with forced casualness.
“It’s been so long since we cracked open a bottle of red,” she replies, approaching the counter. “Must have been Mary’s last day, I think…” She pulls back one of the stools. “I miss those days.”
“So do I,” I admit, my heart squeezing painfully.
“You used to be a lot lighter. Happier, mija,” she reminds me, her usual warmth tempered by concern. “Looks like owning this place has been rough on you.”
I shake my head, coming around the counter with the bottle and two plastic cups. “It’s not that,” I say, sliding onto the stool across from her. “I love running this place. It’s Bancroft and James that make it hell.”
Setting everything down on the countertop between us, I pour the wine and hand her a cup.
“To assholes,” Helen declares, raising her plastic chalice.
“I’m not drinking to that.” I hesitate.
She leans forward slightly, her voice dropping. “May they all rot in hell.”
“Yes. I’ll drink to that.” I touch my cup to hers. “Cheers!”
“?Salud!”
“You look like you’re marching to your death,” she tells me. “Couples fight all the time and make up. What’s that thing they say about sex and making up?”
I sputter, choking on a mouthful of wine. “We’re not a couple!” I wheeze, wiping my mouth. “No sex. No making up.”
“Riiight…” She takes a long, skeptical sip.
“This isn’t about Matthew, Helen. Not really.” I finally decide to confess. “I am marching to my death though. The death of my reputation.”
Helen squints slightly. “I’m only on my first glass, uh, cup, and I’m already confused.”
“It’s James—”
“Dios mio, I’m gonna need more than this one bottle,” she interrupts, taking a healthy swig this time.
“To get through what I have to do tomorrow night,” I reply, taking a long pull of wine myself. “I’m gonna need a miracle.”
“What’s tomorrow night?” she asks, her brows knotting in confusion.
“James is threatening to recall the loan,” I say, taking a desperate sip from my cup. “Unless I cheat on him. In front of everyone.”
“??Perdón?!”
I inhale deeply before elaborating, “At Hydra Nightclub tomorrow night, James wants me to be seen with another guy, getting hot and heavy, in front of his group of friends.”
“What the fuck?!” Helen slams her cup down hard. The thin plastic buckles a little under her palm.
I down the rest of my wine, watching Helen jump off her stool.
“?Este maldito hombre! ?Increíble!” She yanks the bottle off the countertop and forcefully refills my cup before splashing more wine into hers. “This man!! No! He’s not a man! No.”
Helen prowls the space in front of the counter, a restless storm of fury in every sharp turn and agitated gesture. She mutters in Spanish. Her words are a clipped, angry blur I can’t understand, but the tone is universal.
I just sit on the stool, gripping the flimsy plastic cup, watching this hurricane of a woman rage on my behalf. Her anger becomes my shield. For the first time, my sense of violation feels real, witnessed. It doesn’t solve a single thing, but in this moment, I’m not alone in this wreckage.
She stops abruptly, planting her hand flat on the countertop and leaning toward me, her dark eyes blazing. “Okay. So this… this plan of his. You are not doing it.” It’s not a question; it’s a command wrapped in outrage.
Not again!
First Matthew, now Helen.
How can’t they see I have no choice in the matter?
“Helen, I…” My voice falters, reality crashing back in. “The loan. Maddy’s Place… If I don’t do what he says, he threatened to ruin me. I lose everything.”
“So you let him humiliate you like this instead?” she demands, pushing away from the counter.
“You let him use you in his nasty game? Making you cheat, pretend to cheat, so he doesn’t look bad?
No, Ames, no!” She throws her hands up in exasperation.
“His promise not to recall the loan means nothing! You think a man who demands this,” she gestures wildly, encompassing the whole sordid plan, “is going to keep his word once you’ve done his dirty work?
He’ll still find a way to screw you over! ”
Her words hit hard because they echo my own deepest fears. I stare down at the dark wine I’m swirling in my cup, unable to meet her fiery gaze.
Helen goes still. “Wait a minute,” she says slowly, tapping a finger against her chin. “Of course you can’t do what he wants. But… you should still go.”
My head snaps up. “I don’t get it.”
“No hot and heavy business with anyone. Just go there alone. Find him and his group. Walk right up to them…” She pauses, eyes narrowing.
“And you tell them. You tell all of them, loud and clear, exactly what kind of degrading stunt their buddy James tried to force you into to cover up the fact that he’s a cheating, manipulating bastard. ”
Vengeful longing surges through me at the thought. “I-I couldn’t. Could I? Really…?” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, no. I can’t, Helen. He’d destroy me. I’d be left with nothing.”
“And what will you have if you go along with his sick plan?” Helen counters fiercely. “Maybe he lets you keep the café for a while longer. Maybe. But at what cost, mija? Your dignity? Your self-respect? Don’t let that pendejo break your spirit!”
She softens, reaching across the counter to cover my hand. “Look, maybe he calls the loan. Maybe not. Maybe we fight it. But you don’t trade your soul for this place, Ames. Not for him.” Her gaze is steady, filled with conviction.
Tears sting my eyes. “I know,” I whisper, my voice thick. “I know you’re right.” I swallow hard, fear still coiling tight in my gut. “It just feels impossible. Losing Maddy’s Place feels like losing everything.”
“So you lose everything.” She shrugs. “But you never lose yourself.” Her eyes hold deep compassion. “Believe me, I know it’s easier said than done. But, mija, some things you can never get back. No matter what.”
“It’s not easy,” I agree, finishing off the last of my wine.
“Of course it’s not. But I know you’ll make the right decision.
” She pulls her hand back, shaking off the intensity.
Her eyes widen. “?Ay, Dios! I meant to tell you sooner! I asked Lucia yesterday about apartments for rent in my building. Sadly, she doesn’t think so, but she’ll double-check for me. ”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry. I have a list of places I’ll start checking out,” I reassure her. “I just need to survive tomorrow first.”
“I should go and let you rest.” She rounds the counter to gather her purse and coat. “Think about what I said. Don’t let him win like that.” She emphasizes the words with a single, firm tap on the counter before slipping her arms into her coat.
“You’ve definitely given me a lot to think about,” I murmur.
“Good.” She smiles warmly, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Stay. I’ll lock the door after me. Get some rest.”
It takes me a moment to nod, my mind swimming with Helen’s dangerous, terrifying, but incredibly tempting advice.
“See you in the morning.”
The click of the lock echoes, leaving me alone. Just me, a half-empty bottle of Cabernet, and the dregs of wine swirling with the familiar feeling of failure, the old script whispering it is time for another ‘fresh start’.
It hits me then…
The old me would have cut her losses and left town. The old me would have never stayed this long in one place to begin with.
Just pack my one suitcase. Get in my car and drive off…
Vanish.
Find another town, another temporary existence.
Pretend this place never happened.
But walking away from Madison now means more than just leaving a job or a city. It feels like tearing out roots I didn’t realize had grown so deep.
This place, with its ridiculously cheerful yellow walls and the scent of coffee practically baked into the plaster…
it’s more than just a café. It is Helen’s fierce loyalty, Lou’s unwavering care.
The fragile, tentative ties to a community I never thought I’d find, let alone need.
It’s the first ground I chose to stand on, the first space that felt like maybe, just maybe, it could be mine.
To run now wouldn’t be self-preservation. It would be surrender.
I see it with sickening clarity.
Leaving is letting James write the last chapter of my story here.
It’s letting Bancroft bulldoze Mary’s legacy.
Every fibre of my being screams in rebellion at the thought.
And for the first time, a different choice solidifies in my mind.
I’m not running.
I’m drawing a line.
A refusal to break and scatter again.
A refusal to give up on the first real home I’ve ever tried to build.