Chapter One #2
The Cozy Pines Cafe lives up to its name with equal parts rustic charm and modern comfort.
From the moment you walk in, the smell of freshly ground coffee beans and baked goods wraps around you.
Another perk of working here? Getting to eat for free.
I never realized the cost of living is so high.
Like why? Hushed by the sound of customers’ chatter, soft acoustic music plays constantly.
At first I hated it, hearing the same songs over and over that Ainsley, my manager, has on her playlist, but over the past four or so months I’ve actually started to hate it less.
.. Okay, it’s not so bad. I’m just afraid of actually beginning to like it here.
The place is chic, but with that unmistakable Adirondack twist. Its mix of natural wood, soft lighting, and pine accents makes me feel like I’m tucked away in a mountain cabin.
At the front, long wooden tables line the tall windows, framed with hanging vines and bursts of wildflowers in mismatched pots.
I’m convinced Ainsley has a bit of a wildflower obsession, but I have to admit, it works.
The back half’s got those overstuffed couches and low tables, the kind people sink into like they’ve got nowhere better to be, which, judging by how long people sit there sometimes, it’s likely they don’t.
Half of them pretend to work on their laptops while their coffee turns cold.
“You got this, or you fixin’ to need some help?
” Ainsley asks, staring at me skeptically as I struggle not to beat the hell out of the cappuccino machine for what feels like the hundredth time.
I’m tempted to slap the damn thing until it coughs up what I want, but history says that only earns me a malfunctioning machine and one of Ainsley’s sweet-as-honey, scolding southern-belle glares.
“This thing hates me, and I hate it, so.” I fling my hands up in surrender, giving her the go-ahead to have at it.
She gives me her patient, tight-lipped smile that I’ve grown used to as she steps in and takes over.
When I first got here, I will admit, I was completely useless.
I had no idea how hard basic tasks could be.
Or at least what I used to consider basic tasks.
The fact that Ainsley even allows me to touch the machines now is nothing short of a small miracle.
If only they’d actually do what the hell they’re supposed to, then we’d get along fine. .. Me and the machines that is.
As for Ainsley, she’s probably someone I should attempt to be friends with.
We’re close in age, spend most days together, and she’s.
.. sweet. Annoyingly sweet. But honestly, what’s the point?
Everyone around here already has me pegged as the royal ice queen, wicked witch, or whatever clever nickname they’ve cooked up over the years.
It’s easier to let them believe it than waste energy trying to change their minds.
Maybe that’s why I spent half my life collecting passport stamps instead of friendships.
Kind of ironic that the only people who’ve treated me kindly these last few months are the same ones I’ve spent years looking down my nose at.
“I’ll take out the garbage,” I grind out, every word a reminder of how stuck I really am now.
“Ya’ did good today,” Ainsley tells me as we close up for the day.
I can’t help but scoff. “If that’s your version of good, then thanks, I guess.”
“You oughta give yourself a little more credit, Tris,” she says to me as she wipes the counter, and I finish sweeping the floor. “A few months ago, you didn’t even know what a dust pan was. Now look at you.”
She’s not joking, unfortunately, but before, I didn’t have to worry about stuff like cleaning.
My father paid people to do that sort of thing for us.
He paid for everything through his business as a fractional Chief Financial Officer, which, of course, is why we now have nothing.
Still, Ainsley was patient with me, although I’m pretty sure I saw a few texts she sent to Callie worried the Ice Queen was going to put them out of business.
“How ‘bout you show me what you’re made of?” Ainsley leads me to the front of the cafe as a customer walks in.
I don’t bother telling her that what I’m made of, none of these people could ever afford. It’s my first day, and I’m really not trying to get fired, even if I don’t want to be here.
“Yeah, whatever. How hard can it be?” I mumble as she steps back and hands me the metaphorical reins.
“What do you want?” I ask the customer and immediately see Ainsley’s eyes widen, but I have no idea why.
“Hi. I’d like one of your seasonal coffees, a chai latte, and two of your ham and swiss breakfast sandwiches, one with egg and the other with bacon. Hold the sauce.” The woman pulls out her credit card and is trying to hand it to me, but I have no idea what she just said.
“What?” I ask, brows pinching together. This time, when she repeats her order, I try to actually listen.
“Right.” I punch the buttons into the register like Ainsley showed me. “Uh, that’ll be $22.99.”
The customer smiles and pays. I make her order and hand it to her.
See. Easy peasy. And people act like working is so hard? Pft.
No sooner do I have the thought than the lady is back at the counter, yelling at me.
“What the hell is this?” She tosses her sandwiches on the counter and places her drinks down with such ferocity that one falls, spilling everywhere.
“Well, now it’s a mess,” I scoff. “Way to go.”
The way this woman is looking at me, you’d think I slapped her. Her eyes are wide, her one brow pinched, and her mouth hangs open. Honestly, it’s a look I’ve grown used to. I get a kick out of how easy it is to dismantle people with words alone. They make it so easy.
“Yeah, a mess that you’re going to clean up. I want a refund and my order. This is your fault,” she says, crossing her arms like she’s never been told no in her life.
I should know.
Unfortunately for her, she’s dealing with me today.
I laugh, a cold, humorless sound as I watch the coffee drip over the counter and onto her ugly, two-seasons-past, shoes.
“Your inability to regulate your emotions is not my responsibility.” I smile.
The shock on her face feeds my inner rage, making me feel momentarily better about my shitty situation until Ainsley’s voice chimes in, panicked from behind me.
“Oh, sweet tea!” She rushes over with towels, quickly cleaning up the mess, and profusely apologizes to the customer with promises to make it right.
When the lady gives me a smug grin, I roll my eyes.
After the customer was out of earshot, Ainsley gave me a crash course on customer service and decided that the register might not be the best fit for me.
Looking back, I’m not sure how she ever thought it would be.
Anywhere else would be a better idea, but I didn’t expect to also be horrible at everything, too.
I burnt the pastries, couldn’t remember what went on any of the sandwiches, the coffee I brewed tasted like dirt, and don’t even get me started on those ridiculous machines for the cappuccinos and specialty drinks.
After I spilled an entire tray of food, Ainsley taught me how to sweep the floor. Literally, I had to be taught.
“Yeah, look at me,” I mutter sarcastically, remembering all of this as I sweep the mess and the last shreds of my dignity into said dustpan. “So glad I get to waste away here.”
I’m sweeping the last pile when I look up and notice Ainsley’s brows tilt down before she turns to wipe the rest of the counter.
Shit.
My stomach drops, and a sinking feeling of guilt hits me.
This has always been my approach. I say whatever is on my mind, blunt, direct, and sometimes a little spicy.
It used to not be a problem, mostly because I didn’t care how people felt about it.
But now? Another fun skill I’ve been learning here is empathy, and what a bitch it is.
Now I actually sort of care when I hurt people’s feelings—eh.
I mean, some people. At least the ones I like. The rest? Well, baby steps.
“I’m sorry, Ainsley. I didn’t mean it like that.” I put the broom away and join her behind the counter. “I don’t know what I’d do without this place,” I quietly admit. It’s a sad truth, but the truth nonetheless.
Her soft smile returns.
“See, look at you. Still doin’ good,” she says, surprising me and placing her hand on my arm. “I know you don’t like how you got here, but sometimes you reach the best destinations when life throws you a detour.”
“Ainsley, I swear.” A small smile, full of amusement, forms on my lips. “I never have any idea what you’re talking about.”
She laughs, her long, dirty blonde hair cascading forward as the braids she put in this morning start to fall, and with it, the wildflowers that adorn her hair. “That’s okay. Hopefully one day you will.”
We finish closing, making sure all the tables are clean and the chairs are tucked in nicely under the black walnut-topped tables.
Ainsley happily skips about watering the plants and flowers that breathe life into this place.
After hanging our aprons on their hooks, our day is finally done, and we lock up.
Tomorrow is Saturday, which means the cafe is going to get swamped with tourists pretending they’re “outdoorsy,” locals who want their usuals to start their day, and the weekend regulars who camp out with laptops like we’re their personal office.
I make a mental note to double-check the pastry case first thing when I clock in.
If we run out of croissants again, Ainsley might actually cry.
When I step outside, a sharp, needling chill cuts straight through my coat like I’m wearing a light cardigan instead of something that claims to be “winter-rated.” April in Turtle Bay is still basically late February with trust issues.
I zip up to my chin, yank my coat tighter, and start toward my duplex.