Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Ididn’t expect walking into Brew a whirlwind wrapped in a linen scarf.
She flings her bag onto the nearest hook with a dramatic sigh.
‘Parking is an absolute nightmare today,’ she mutters, before sliding behind the counter like she’d never left.
She grabs an apron and gives me a once-over.
‘You haven’t run the place into the ground. I’m impressed.’
Grinning, I tell her, ‘Give me a few hours.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ She moves towards the coffee machine, already fiddling with the grinder settings, it’s all muscle memory. She pauses for a moment and glances my way. ‘You okay, kid?’
I don't think I have had time to fully process the information about Carol's passing, so I nod. ‘Yeah. Just recalibrating.’
Nettie smiles and starts pouring beans into the hopper. ‘Well, you don’t have to spill your guts. But if you need five minutes to breathe, I’ll cover the front. Or ten, if it’s a breathing-and-crying-into-the-biscotti-jar kind of day.’
I laugh really hard, more than I have in days, and shake my head. ‘I’m okay. Being back helps.’
She turns away to grab more milk. ‘Of course it does. Nothing like a broken dishwasher and three oat lattes in a row to remind you the world’s still turning.’ Nettie wipes her hands on a tea towel. ‘I didn’t get the chance to tell you about Carol's service, did I love?'
‘No, when is it?’
‘It’s not a big service or anything,’ she clarifies. ‘More of a gathering, this Sunday at The Mossy Pint. Some of her favourite people, the wine she loves—that is terrible—and probably a few stories that’ll make you cry and laugh at the same time.’
The rush of grief behind my ribs catches me off guard.
‘She didn’t want a big fuss,’ Nettie adds. ‘But the town wants to remember her. Celebrate her, in that low-key, Wattlewood way. I am positive she planned it herself, to be honest.’
My fingers tighten around the tea towel and I inhale. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘I figured you would.’ Nettie glances toward the window, where golden light spills across the café floor. ‘She liked you, you know. Always said you reminded her of someone in a story.’
Smiling to help stop the tears from falling, I tell her. ‘It always felt like she believed in me.’
‘She saw things in people,’ Nettie says. ‘Like she already knew how the story might end but let you live it anyway.’ She pats my shoulder. ‘Right then. Let’s caffeinate the masses.’
The hiss of the steam wand, the bittersweet perfume of espresso on my sleeves, Nettie’s affection hidden beneath her sharp humour, it doesn’t heal the ache.
But it anchors me. I haven’t vanished. My hands remember their work, my heart remembers its rhythm, and I start quietly, imperfectly, trying again.
The café has thinned out, now we are in a lull between lunch and school pickup.
There is a soft hum of background noise, the clink of cutlery, the low buzz of conversation.
Nettie moves through the space like a caffeinated satellite, checking stock, and muttering at the pastry cabinet light for flickering again.
Wiping down the counter on autopilot, my eyes scan the room without really seeing, until two girls slide into the corner booth. All oversized sunglasses and oat milk iced lattes, barely old enough to drink them.
‘Wait, have you seen the TikTok about that book?’ one of them asked, holding up her phone. ‘The Year Before You? I think the author’s, like, a total recluse. But this girl on BookTok did a dramatic reading, and it blew up. The vibes are immaculate.’ I freeze mid wipe.
This is the first time I’ve heard anyone talking about my book in the wild.
‘Oh my god, Marley Quinn?’ the second girl gasps. ‘I follow her. She made me cry over a fictional man before nine a.m.’
My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest. Part fear, part pride, but mostly disbelief. They are talking about me, well not really, they are talking about her: Lola.
‘They say it's written under a pen name or whatever,’ the first girl continues, ‘but someone in the comments reckons the authors’ from some small town.’
‘Who knows,’ the second one laughs. ‘Maybe she’s a local.’
Unable to stop myself, I duck behind the coffee machine, cheeks warm and heart thudding wildly. I try not to smile but fail miserably. From the other side of the counter, Nettie shoots me a curious look but says nothing, just raises an eyebrow and goes back to restocking tea.
I busy myself restocking the sugar packets, trying to shake the flutter still lodged in my chest. The girls in the booth laugh again, one of them quoting a line from my book.
‘Lilah,’ Nettie signals, breaking my trance. Her voice casual but edged with purpose, ‘Got a minute?’
Nodding, I follow her past the counter and down the side hallway where the noise of the café softens into a warm hush, stopping just outside the storeroom.
‘You’ve been steady today,’ she tells me, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. ‘Like slipping back into your skin.’
Her words warm something inside, leaving me unsure of what to say.
‘You happy living back upstairs?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘Yeah, it just feels right. Thanks again for keeping it for me.’
Nettie smiles. ‘Since Carol…’ she pauses as if she can’t say more, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about the future. This place has been mine for a long time, but it can’t be forever. My knees are getting creaky, and I’d like to spend more afternoons in the sun with my books and wine.’
Does this mean she’s going to sell? My palms become sweaty thinking about needing to find another job. ‘Oh okay, are you going to sell?’
Shaking her head she reassures me, ‘I want it to stay in the hands of people who care about the place. Yours, Lils.’
Wait, what?
‘Me?’
‘It’s no secret I don’t have kids or family to pass it on to,’ she says, simply, ‘and if you ever wanted it, I think it’d be lucky to have you.’
Why is she being so casual about this? No pressure or sales pitch.
Just a gentle offering, placed on the table between us like a steaming mug of something warm.
My chest tightens in that way it does when life shifts without asking for your permission, when everything feels both too heavy and strangely inevitable.
Somewhere in the noise of it, a line from The Year Before You surfaces: She is handed a future she never asked for, but somehow it fit.
And just like that, fiction, and reality blur again.
‘Anyway, think about it.’ She rests a hand briefly on my shoulder. That is about as affectionate as Nettie ever is.
‘Sure, no problem. Thanks, Nettie.’
She gives me a slight nod, hangs up her apron, and says her goodbyes for the afternoon.
Journal Entry - Friday, 8th of August
Today, Nettie said she sees the café in my hands one day. I smiled and said thank you, but something shifted softly and earth-shatteringly all at once.
It feels like turning a corner and realising the path had been leading here all along.
In Chapter Seven, the protagonist is handed the keys to a shop by someone who believed in her before she could believe in herself.
I always thought I made that up, but maybe I was just telling the truth before I knew it.
Maybe The Year Before You isn’t just a story. Maybe it is a map, and somehow, I’ve found myself standing exactly where the character did, half terrified; half ready, wondering if the future has been quietly waiting for me to catch up.
I used to write about belonging like it is a distant constellation. Tonight, it feels a little closer. Maybe I didn’t imagine the life I wanted. Maybe I’ve just been writing it into existence.
xx