Chapter 1
Tessa
I never thought death by contact lens would be how I went out, but I guess you don’t really get a say in that decision. The moment I placed the lens onto my eye, I knew something was horrifically wrong.
It burned like nothing I had ever felt before, my eye slamming shut on instinct.
As I scrambled to remove it from my rapidly watering eye, I wondered if it had already slid to the back of my eyelid and would be stuck there forever.
Was that even possible? Could a contact lens get stuck somewhere even my eye doctor couldn’t reach?
Yeah, this wasn’t a train of thought I could let myself slip down before I’d even had a cup of coffee. Coffee first, existential crisis after.
I peered at my phone, noticing it was already 5:15 a.m. and that I needed to get a move on if I was going to have the shop ready for the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed 6:00 a.m. crowd.
I snagged my glasses off the bathroom countertop (glasses were back in again, right?) and threw a headband on to keep my red mane out of my face.
Everything about me was average except my hair: average height, average, keep-my-head-down kind of ambitions, and hair that turned copper when I spent too much time in the sun.
My apartment was above Maple returning?
That may have been the most gut-wrenching decision I had ever made.
There were too many ghosts of my past left here, too many decisions I regretted or wished I had made differently, and every street corner reminded me of them.
I headed down the back staircase, flicking on the lights of my cozy corner of the world, and got to work grinding beans and setting out this morning’s selections of sugar bombs disguised as breakfast.
I loved my shop. Every square inch of it was mine, and it was something that no one could ever take away from me. It didn’t matter whether you were related to me by blood or not—Maple was mine.
I turned on the speakers throughout the shop and put on my favorite “morning coffee country” playlist. Every morning was the same: turn on the espresso machine, grind beans, check the syrup levels, restock the pastry display, check my stock of cups, stirrers, and lids—rinse and repeat—and I loved the monotony of it.
When your childhood was chaotic—always a different schedule, “daddy,” or crisis to adapt to—you learned to love the reliable. It was comforting, safe, and mine. I had never been good with change, never liked surprises or the unexpected, but you could blame my life giver for that.
I breathed in the scent of dark roast, the smell settling over my shoulders like a weighted blanket, steady and warm.
Yes, I was cynical, sarcastic, and frequently described as “prickly.” But, if there was anything I did believe in, it was the relief that came with a fresh day.
Every sunrise was an opportunity to start anew, to wash away whatever had plagued me from the day before, and try again.
Maybe that’s why I liked opening up the shop at the crack of dawn.
It was the daily reminder I needed that even if the sun set, it was always gonna rise again.
Bells rang above the front door, signaling my first customer of the day, and I flipped my braid over my shoulder, ready to caffeinate the town of Bexley.
“Morning, Mr. Arnold,” I said. “Can I get you your regular?”
Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were town staples and newly retired.
Mrs. Arnold liked to spend her newly acquired free time tracking her husband’s calories, while Mr. Arnold enjoyed convincing everyone in town to sneak him sweet treats when she wasn’t looking.
He glanced around, as if to check that his wife wasn’t lurking behind a potted plant.
“Well, since Delilah isn’t here, I think I’ll take one of those caramel lattes everyone likes to brag about,” he said. “As long as you know, she doesn’t find out.”
“My lips are sealed. Customer-barista confidentiality, you know?” I replied.
I got to work making his drink, adding an extra pump of caramel because life was short, before ringing up his order.
My two other employees, Blake and Taylor, wouldn’t arrive for another hour, but that's how I liked it.
The morning was all mine, and right when the busy crowd kicked into gear, help would arrive.
“Anything you’d like to take back for Mrs. Arnold?” I asked.
He visibly shuddered. “Absolutely not. I can’t bring home any evidence that I was even here. Plus, she’s on an herbal tea kick. Hot water that tastes like grass.”
I turned my laugh into a cough before I slid his drink over.
“I think the park is still empty this time of day if you’d like to drink your coffee in peace,” I suggested.
“You’re a doll,” he exclaimed. “I’ll see you same time next week!”
He walked out the front door, one eye on his drink as if it would magically vanish, the other on potential snitches on the street, before he headed toward the park.
More regular customers came in over the next hour, choosing to start their day with me, which momentarily warmed my heart before I remembered that it was supposed to be cold and guarded.
Jerry, the postman, always took a black drip coffee approximately thirty minutes into his morning route.
Henry, the owner of The Rusty Spoon, snuck in for something alarmingly sweet even though he also sold coffee, and always tipped me one-hundred percent as long as I never told anyone his drink order.
My favorite visitor came at 7:00 AM sharp every Monday morning.
She always had me make her something new, something I could come up with on the spot, and she always dropped a five-dollar bill in the tip jar.
Whether that’s what she always had or the five was meant to represent something else, I wasn’t sure.
Blake and Taylor arrived, tying on their aprons, when the bells above the door jingled exactly at 7:00 AM.
“Morning, Tessa Anne,” exclaimed the woman.
“Good morning, Camille,” I replied, a smile on my face. The smile I reserved for the woman who had essentially saved my life. She was the only person allowed to call me by my first and middle name and she took full advantage of that privilege.
She walked in like the beacon of light she was: a flowing sundress floated around her tiny frame, her hair pushed back with a pair of sunglasses, and the necklace she never took off hung around her neck, four hearts dangling from it.
“What would you like this morning?” I asked, although I knew it wouldn’t be anything on the regular menu.
She tapped her nails against the countertop, tilting her head back and forth.
“Give me something that tastes like spring. Like a cup full of new beginnings and blossoms,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow at her. “That isn’t exactly a flavor profile, Camille.”
“You’ll figure it out, dear,” she retorted. “Throw in two muffins as well so I can take something back for Henry.”
Henry and Camille had finally gotten together this past Christmas after denying their feelings for just a hair too long.
I was so happy for them, though. Camille deserved love more than anyone else I knew, and after taking care of me for so long, had earned the right to have someone else take care of her.
I got to work on her drink, something light, slightly floral, and not too heavy, and Camille got to work on her weekly check-in.
She perched against the countertop, eyes focused on me.
“Did you get up to anything fun this weekend?” she asked.
I hummed, thinking back over the weekend where I had spent ninety percent of my time curled up on my couch. “Oh, on Saturday, I took Bailey up on her offer to take a hot yoga class. The fact that she loves the feeling of slowly suffocating under unbearable heat should concern you,” I trailed off.
Camille laughed. “My girls. What am I going to do with you?”
I added a drizzle of lavender to the top of her drink.
“Bailey is your girl through Noah,” I corrected her lightly. “I’m just…me.”
“You have always been my girl for forever and a day, and you don’t need to tag one of my son’s names to yours for that.”
I looked at her fondly. Her ability to separate her love for me from everyone else in her life was something my own mother was inherently incapable of doing.
“But,” she started.
“There’s always a but,” I muttered.
“But, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you wanted to spend some time together just the two of you. Even just as friends,” she said.
I sighed and slid her drink and muffins over.
“You know I can’t do that, Camille. I already see him enough when he’s forcing me home from the bar or showing up at the shop ‘just to check on me and sip a coffee for two hours.’”
Spending any more time with him would just hurt further down the line.
I was already known as the girl who broke the golden boy’s heart all those years ago; there was no need to twist the knife further.
Camille mumbled something under her breath, but all I caught were the words “hard-headed” and “soulmates,” which I did not currently have the capacity to think about.
“Could I entice you over for family dinner on Sunday?” she asked, and if she were a puppy, this is the face I imagined she’d make daily.
I grimaced because I hated turning her down every week, but I could not be in the same house as him, the same one where we…absolutely not. I was not about to go down memory lane again sober and this early in the morning.
“I can’t make it to family dinner. But I could offer up dinner at the inn on Friday, instead?” I asked. The inn, at least, was neutral territory and provided a buffer of guests if I needed one.
“I’ll take what I can get,” she responded. “Come around and give me a hug before I leave.”
I scooted around the countertop and she pulled me right into her arms, coffee and all. I was significantly taller than her, but you couldn’t tell by how fiercely she hugged me. She smelled like lavender and safety, she always had, and I squeezed her a little tighter.
“I love you, Tessa Anne. Call me if you need anything,” she whispered.
“I will,” I replied.
She waltzed out the same way she had waltzed in, and I decided to make a coffee and take my break early, perks of being the boss. I made myself the same drink I made for Camille because maybe she was onto something about spring in a cup.
The symbolism of fresh beginnings wasn’t lost on me, and as someone who yearned to shed the scars of her past, I would take all the help I could get.