Chapter 11
Eleven
Caroline
The days started to blur together.
I’d wake up, check my email for any sign of a job offer, and try to ignore the mounting dread of another day spent waiting for something to change.
After a week of this, I realized I was structuring my entire schedule around Massimo Coffee Roasters. I’d wake, get dressed, and walk the four blocks to the café like it was my job.
Every time I walked in, Noah
The days started to blur together.
I’d wake up, check my email for any sign of a job offer, and try to ignore the mounting dread of another day spent waiting for something to change.
After a week of this, I realized I was structuring my entire schedule around Massimo Coffee Roasters. I’d wake, get dressed, and walk the four blocks to the café like it was my job.
Every time I walked in, Noah was already at the counter, sleeves rolled up, the day’s first batch of pastries lined up like a row of tiny soldiers. He never looked surprised to see me, even on the days I arrived earlier than usual.
He’d just nod, hold up a to-go cup, and say, “Vanilla latte?”
I never corrected him, even when I considered ordering something else. I liked the idea of being predictable to someone.
Some mornings, we’d talk about the weather, or what book he was reading. He asked about my plants, and I told him I’d killed every houseplant I’d ever owned. He said I just hadn’t found the right one yet.
Other mornings, I’d linger at a table by the window, scrolling through job postings and trying to look busy. Noah would slip over with a fresh scone or a refill—always unasked, always just right.
“You look like you’re solving world hunger over here,” he’d say, eyeing my laptop.
“Just fighting the job market,” I’d reply, and he’d nod, like he actually understood.
We didn’t talk about our lives outside the café. I never mentioned the divorce, or Adele, or the fact that my resume was starting to look desperate. He never talked about his own past, or why he knew so much about espresso and not much else.
It felt safe. Like a ceasefire between two people who’d seen enough war.
One morning, I tried to pay for my coffee, and he waved me off. “We’ll put it on your tab,” he said. When I insisted, he smiled. “Think of it as a loyalty discount.”
It was the best thing that happened to me all week.
I left the café and walked home with a spring in my step, even though I had a rejection email waiting in my inbox.
By the end of the month, I knew exactly how long it took to get from my apartment to Massimo’s, what time the morning rush hit, and which table by the window was always free if I arrived before eight-thirty.
I wasn’t sure what this meant, or if it meant anything at all.
But for the first time since Richard left, I had a reason to get up in the morning.
And for now, that was enough.
I bombed another interview, this time at a furniture showroom that looked like it only hired models or recent college grads with perfect hair.
The mCarolineger spent the whole meeting asking if I was “comfortable with social media” and whether I could “lift up to fifty pounds.” I lied and said yes to both, even though my laptop bag was starting to give me back pain.
I was halfway to my car before I realized my keys were still in my purse, and by the time I found them, the sun had already dipped below the parking lot fence. I slid behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and got… nothing. Just a sickening click, then dead silence.
I tried again, as if sheer force of will could fix a car battery.
Nothing.
I sat there for a full minute, staring at the dashboard. I could feel my face getting hot. I didn’t want to call AAA—not when every penny counted and I wasn’t sure my membership was even paid up.
So I did what any adult woman would do. I Googled “how to jump start car battery,” got confused after step two, and texted Adele for help. She replied “Call a tow” and an emoji I’m pretty sure was supposed to be supportive.
I was in the middle of downloading a coupon for a local mechanic when I heard a tap on the driver’s side window.
It was Noah, wearing his standard-issue black T-shirt, sleeves dusted with flour. He had a dish towel slung over one shoulder, like he’d just run straight from the kitchen.
“Trouble?” he said, through the glass.
I rolled down the window. “It’s dead. I’m fine—I’ll just call a tow.”
He shook his head, grinning. “Stay put.”
He disappeared around the back of the car, then came back and popped the hood. In less than two minutes, he was on his phone, speaking in rapid-fire Italian to someone, then giving my battery a look of professional disdain.
“You need a new one,” he announced.
“I can’t pay for a tow,” I said, too honest, too quick.
He shrugged. “You won’t have to.”
Ten minutes later, a silver van pulled into the lot. The man who got out looked like he could lift my car with one hand. He greeted Noah like an old friend, then got to work. Within five minutes, he had the old battery swapped out and the engine humming.
I stepped out of the car, stunned. “Seriously—how did you do that so fast?”
Noah smiled. “Mario owes me a favor. He’ll bill the shop.”
“I can pay—” I started, but he cut me off with a wave.
“Don’t worry. Consider it an early birthday present.” He winked, then headed back toward the café, leaving me and Mario to stare at each other.
Mario grinned, handed me a business card, and told me to call if I ever needed “real help.”
As I pulled out of the lot, I caught a glimpse of Noah in the coffee shop window. He was already back behind the counter, refilling cups and laughing with customers like it was any other day.
I wondered how someone could have that much power and not make a big deal about it.
I wondered if there was more to Noah than I wanted to admit.
I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the only person in this city who needed a jump start.
And for the first time, I couldn’t wait to tell Adele about it.