Chapter 1 #2
The regulars take shape in my mind: Mrs. Chen with her crossword puzzle and precise pencil marks, never a pen; the two college students who claim the window table from ten to two, drinking endless refills and sharing a single scone; the quiet man in the back corner who always orders the same thing (black coffee, extra shot, lemon loaf) and never looks up from his laptop.
They’re not just customers, they’re part of the place, the sort of people who’ve been coming in long enough that they feel like furniture, comfortable and necessary.
I think about Harper’s half-finished signed stock, still sitting on the back table from yesterday, the careful stacks of her paperback romances with their bright, cartoonish covers and snarky taglines.
(“She swore she’d never forgive him. Then she discovered his secret.
..”) The Post-it notes she left on top in her perfect, slanted handwriting: “THESE ARE ALL MESSED UP. I WILL FIX TOMORROW. H.” She’s probably already there, fixing them, reorganizing the display that got knocked over during yesterday’s reading, running a hand through her hair and laughing at something Luca’s said.
And Liv, I can picture her at the small desk in the office, surrounded by sketches and colour swatches, chewing on the end of her pencil as she works on the redesign of the café loyalty cards.
The project began three weeks ago, right after Luca declared the old ones “look like tax documents, if tax documents were designed to actively depress you,” and Liv took this as a personal creative insult.
Now she’s deep in it, sending me increasingly frantic text messages at 2:00 AM about Pantone colours and whether a slightly off-centre logo would be “artistic“ or “the visual equivalent of having spinach in your teeth.”
The café exists in my mind as it is in reality: loud and warm and slightly overcrowded and entirely, completely mine.
Or mine and Luca’s, anyway, the place where we built something that belongs to us, where we can be who we are without apology or explanation.
Where we can be loud and messy and entirely ourselves.
I glance around the kitchen and feel the familiar pang, not of self-pity but of honest longing. There’s nothing wrong with doing this day in, day out. But God, sometimes I miss the simple pleasure of being good at something.
Milo’s bottle is finally empty; his angry sucking slowed to something gentler.
I set it on the counter, one hand free, one still firmly attached to Maisie’s bottle, and reach for the cloth to wipe his face.
He fights me, of course, twisting his head with surprising strength for someone who weighs less than my toaster.
“Hold still,” I tell him. “This is not a negotiation.”
“It absolutely is,” his face says back. “And I’m winning.”
I set Maisie’s bottle down, too, she’s slowed to the occasional sleepy sip, and move Milo onto my hip. “Okay, buddy. Let’s get you changed.”
The changing table in the living room is a monument to efficient planning, surrounded by everything I could possibly need in the exact order I need it: wipes, diapers, cream, a clean onesie, distraction toys for when things go sideways. Which they inevitably do.
I lay Milo down, talking to him in a voice that’s half-soothing, half-competitive sports announcer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re seeing some impressive moves here from Milo, who is currently attempting the advanced technique of using both legs simultaneously to create maximum difficulty, oh!
And he’s got it! That’s a perfect score from the French judge for the Full-Body Twist! ”
The key to changing Milo, I’ve learned, is to move quickly, efficiently, and with a complete willingness to accept collateral damage.
I have the old diaper off, his bottom wiped, and the new one mostly positioned before he manages to get both feet in the air and twist halfway onto his side.
My hand shoots out to catch him before he rolls off the edge, one-handed, because I’m still holding the cream with the other, and we complete the change in what is essentially a combat position, me bent awkwardly over the table while Milo attempts to demonstrate that gravity is, in fact, optional.
“All right,” I say, snapping the onesie closed with perhaps more force than necessary. “You win this round. But I’ll be back.”
His response is to kick both legs straight up in the air, like he’s doing victory crunches.
Back in the kitchen, Maisie’s drifted completely to sleep, her tiny mouth slack, one fist curled under her chin.
I transfer her to the bassinet by the window, moving whilst trying not to disturb her and hold my breath until she settles, not even a flutter of eyelashes to suggest she’s noticed the change.
Milo, of course, is having none of it. I settle him into his bouncer with the vibrating setting, a teething ring, and a small giraffe named Gerald who was probably expensive and is definitely going in his mouth the second I turn my back.
Milo accepts these offerings with the grudging tolerance of someone who has been mildly disappointed.
He’s not screaming, but he’s not happy either, he is just watching me with the narrowed eyes of someone who’s already planning his next move.
Then my phone buzzes on the counter.
The screen lights up with a message from Luca:
“Just watched a customer try to pay for a latte with a library card. I told him it was free because his face made my entire month. Then I gave him the employee discount on a book because I’m a literal saint.
Also, I saved you the blueberry scone. It’s in the back when you get here.
Hurry up before I eat it and tell you we ran out. ”
I laugh despite myself, the sound escaping before I can decide whether I have the energy for it. That’s Luca, finding the one bright, ridiculous spot in the morning and holding it out like it’s a gift.
I pick up the cold coffee from the counter and look around the kitchen.
The drying rack with its tiny clothes, the half-open nappy bag, the empty bottles on the counter.
Milo, still grumbling in his bouncer with the focused determination of a man who has opinions and nowhere to be. Maisie, quiet in her bassinet.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I almost believe it.