Chapter 4
KYLE
I told myself I was going in that direction anyway.
It wasn't entirely a lie. The farmers' market on Clayborne was on Saturday mornings, and I usually picked up eggs and whatever looked good from the produce stand near the entrance.
So walking down that block was a reasonable thing to do and not stalkery at all.
If anything, I was being a good neighbor by checking in on the man I'd caught crying on the floor three days ago.
But there was that other part of me that was a tiny bit stalkery and couldn’t stop thinking about the man.
The way he was folded into a ball was oddly familiar and extremely heartbreaking.
I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I knew he was okay.
I didn't know anything about him, but I hated that I left without at least asking if I could help.
The farmers' market was busy, but that played well into the lie I told myself that I was trying to get away from the crowd by walking closer to the store fronts.
When I approached the coffee shop, I was relieved to see the door was open again.
And this time, there was upbeat music streaming out of it. That had to be a good sign. Right?
I stopped in the doorway and peeked in, unsure what the protocol was for stalking local businesses.
The man I’d previously seen crying was on a ladder with a paint brush, cutting in along the top of a cabinet.
He moved with a confident rhythm. The wall behind him was already painted in a warm cocoa that immediately made me feel cozy and relaxed.
But when I looked closer, I saw large drops of paint on the floor underneath the ladder that he probably hadn't noticed.
He looked like a whole new man compared to the person I'd seen a few days ago. His shoulders were loose, and he was singing along to Taylor Swift, loudly and off key.
I knocked on the door frame between songs. “Excuse me.”
The man startled and jerked back. The brush went one way and his body went the other. He made a grab for the brush mid-air and then his arm started to windmill through the air to catch himself.
I was already moving.
I got across the room fast enough to catch him in my arms before he hit the ground. The momentum spun us both sideways, and I dropped to my knees with him still tucked safely against my chest. “Whoa, there.”
“Oh my gods!” He wrapped his arms around my neck and squeezed his eyes shut. “Am I dead?”
I smiled and chuckled lightly. “No, you’re not. My knees aren’t so lucky, but I think we’ll survive.”
His eyes popped open, and he looked guilt-stricken. “I’m so sorr—” He stopped mid sentence and narrowed his eyes on me. "Mr. Rupert. Is that you?"
Only students called me that. I was finally able to get a good look at him and instantly recognized the shy boy who had once been in one of my cooking classes. "Ethan?" How long ago was he my student? Eight years? Ten? "Ethan Andersen?"
He nodded, and we both just stared at each other for a moment as we processed the moment.
Then he seemed to remember he was still in my arms and quickly scrambled to his feet.
There was a streak of paint across my sleeve from where he'd grabbed me, and he winced when he saw it. "Oh, no. I’m so sorry."
"It'll wash out." I looked around the room, impressed with the progress that had happened in just a few days. "I was just walking by and wanted to check in on you."
His brow furrowed. “How did you know this was my place?”
“Oh, I didn’t.” I wasn’t sure how much to reveal about my true reason for stopping by, but I didn’t want to lie to his face. “I’ve seen the Not Open Yet sign on the door for months and noticed the door was open a few days ago, so I wanted to see if you were open yet.”
He swallowed and nodded, satisfied with that answer. “Well, no. Not yet. It might be another month or two…or more. But I’m finally working on it again.” He bent down and picked the brush up off the floor then laid it across the paint tray. "I don’t really know what I’m doing here, as you can see."
"You’re doing great." I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and reached over to wipe a drop of paint from his chin. “But it’s a big job.”
"Yeah, I’m realizing that now." He put his hands on his hips and threw his head back. "There’s so much to do. I don’t even know what all there is.
I can’t even figure out how to set up the espresso machine, much less use it.
And there’s a letter somewhere about getting the food-handling permits renewed because they expired when we didn't finish the buildout last year. And then there’s the cosmetic stuff, like painting and tables and chairs and…
ya know, coffee." He laughed a little manically.
"There's probably a hundred other things I don't even know about yet. "
"There are." I took a step closer and placed my hand on his shoulder. "But they're all doable."
He didn’t look convinced. “How do you know?”
I shrugged and gave him a squeeze. "The permits are straightforward. Tedious, but most of that can be done online. And the espresso machine, what brand is it?"
“No idea.” He pointed at the crate and made a face. "I’m afraid to unpack it."
"Mind if I take a look?" When he waved toward the box, I crossed the room and checked the label on the side. It was a commercial-grade brand that I’d seen in other coffee shops. "I’m sure I can find some tutorials online. You can learn just about anything on YouTube."
He watched me from across the room. "You think?"
I glanced at him and raised a brow. "Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I taught culinary arts for the past fifteen years. I’ve worked one or two of these in my time." I walked back toward the ladder and looked up at the trim. "You've got drips up here, by the way."
He turned around and groaned. "Are you serious?"
“It happens.”
He grabbed a rag off the counter and went back up the ladder.
I watched him work while holding the ladder steady.
He was loading too much paint onto the brush and dragging it too slowly through the turns. "A smaller brush for the trim would help. That way you won’t get so much collecting at the edges."
He paused and looked down at the brush. "I need a different brush?"
"Just for the detail work.The wall looks good but you can save some time and headaches with an angled brush."
He did his best to wipe up the drips, but they would still be visible without sanding and a new coat. But I didn’t mention that as he climbed back down. He stood next to the ladder and looked over at me. "You know, you don't have to stay. I’m sure you were on your way somewhere."
"I was going to the farmers' market." At least, that was my excuse.
"Well, it was nice to see you." He turned his back to me and went still, like he was waiting for me to leave.
"I actually like painting. I’m happy to help."
His shoulders went up and down as if he were taking a deep breath, and then he turned around to face me again. "Thanks, but I’m fine. I've got a system going."
It wasn’t much of a system for success, but it wasn’t my place to say that. "Okay. If you’re sure…"
A beat passed, and then a drop of paint fell from the brush in his hand and landed directly on his shoe. We both looked down at it.
I couldn’t hold back a grin. "I take it that's not part of the system."
He just picked up the rag and crouched down to wipe his shoe. Of course, that only smeared it. He sat back on his heels, and I could see the energy he'd been exuding since I walked in fizzling out. “I’m not good at this stuff.”
"Is anyone else coming to help you with all this? Friends or family?"
He put the brush in the tray and crossed his arms over his chest as he took a step back. "Not really."
"Not really…or no?"
He looked outside through the open door behind me, avoiding eye contact.
"People were really great right after Rand died, but they were mostly his friends.
And after a few months of me ignoring offers for help and not getting back to people checking in on me, they just stopped bothering.
" His eyes flicked to mine for just a second before averting his gaze again.
"I don't blame them, but I don’t really have anyone left. "
Everything was starting to make sense. The early excitement around town for the new coffee shop and then the sudden silence about whether it would ever open. "How long has it been since you lost your partner?"
"Eight months." It was clear that he was trying. Just being here on a Saturday morning with music playing and a roller in his hand counted for something.
But he was also completely alone. Starting a business was hard under perfect conditions. Doing it completely alone and while trying to climb out of depression was near impossible. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ethan.” I put my arms around him and just held him against me.
He went stiff for a second like he’d forgotten how to embrace someone…or be embraced. Then his arms lifted and he held on to the back of my jacket with his forehead on my shoulder.
I didn't say anything for a moment, just giving him time to accept me as someone who cared. "You’re not alone anymore, Ethan. Let me help."
He stayed where he was for another few seconds, but when he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet and glassy. "Okay."
And that was it. I picked up the extra roller from the floor next to the tray and looked at the unpainted wall across the room. "You got another tray?"
He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist and almost smiled. "Storage room in the back."
"Let me grab one and see if there’s a smaller brush for the trim and we’ll get these knocked out by the end of the day."