Chapter 6 #2
While I grind the beans—our special medium roast from a local roaster who sources directly from Colombian farmers—we talk about the differences between Pine Island and Portsmouth.
How the island feels like stepping back in time, while Portsmouth races forward.
The steady rhythm of small talk, the familiar motions of making coffee (wet the filter, add grounds, check water temperature), the normal interaction with someone who doesn’t know or care about my past—it all combines to lift the morning’s weight off my shoulders like someone’s literally removing bricks from a backpack.
He leaves with his coffee and a second loaf I insisted he take—the cinnamon raisin that’s become our surprise bestseller—and I’m left with something I haven’t felt in days: optimism.
Maybe Portsmouth really is the fresh start I need.
Sure, some people here know about New York, about the review and the failure and the way I slunk out of the city with my tail between my legs.
But there are also people like Michael who just want good bread and decent coffee and don’t care about the rest.
I whistle while I make myself a French Press—darker roast for me, I need the caffeine hit—then check the morning’s sales numbers on the register.
Better than yesterday, not as good as last Tuesday.
The rhythm of business, predictable in its unpredictability.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my hip.
Expecting a text from one of the suppliers, hopefully saying they found our missing flour order, I pull it out.
But it’s a calendar reminder that stops me cold, the words might as well be in neon:
Alexis - 10 minutes
The whistle dies on my lips like someone stuffed a rag in my mouth. Joy drains out of me like water through a sieve, leaving nothing but dread in its wake.
Despite three emails to the publishing house—each one more desperately professional than the last—despite what I thought was a compelling argument about conflict of interest and past history and the absolute inadvisability of this pairing, they insisted no other editor was available.
Of course that’s bullshit. There must be dozens of editors in New England alone, hundreds if you expand to New York.
But I get it. I’m a risk—a new author with a shaky reputation and Google results that aren’t exactly flattering.
They’re already taking a chance on me. Finding another editor would mean spending resources they’d rather save for their star authors, the ones whose books fly off shelves instead of languishing in the “Local Interest” section.
So it’s me and Alexis. Whether I like it or not. Whether it makes any sense at all or not.
“Hey.” Amanda pushes through the back entrance, cheeks flushed pink from the morning chill, hair escaping from her ponytail in frazzled wisps that frame her face. “Sorry I’m late. My car’s battery died.”
“No problem. Everything good now?”
“Good except I have to buy a new battery.” She grimaces while clocking in on the ancient time clock that still uses punch cards, and I feel the familiar twist of guilt in my gut.
My crew is amazing—every single one of them shows up day after day, dealing with early mornings and difficult customers and my stress-induced mood swings—and I wish I could pay them what they’re worth.
But even with busy mornings like this, even with lines out the door on weekends, Rye Again is barely breaking even.
The math is unforgiving. Raises are a distant dream, like retirement or a vacation that lasts longer than a weekend. Normal for a new business.
“Let me know if you need any help in the meantime.” It’s pathetic, offering rides when I want to offer bonuses, but it’s all I have.
She smiles—genuine, not forced—and starts asking about the morning rush, but her words dissolve into background noise, Charlie Brown’s teacher sounds. Movement outside the window catches my eye, and everything else falls away like someone just switched off the sound.
Alexis walks down the sidewalk like she owns it, like the concrete was poured specifically for her heels to click against it.
The tight skirt molds to her legs, navy blue or black—I can’t tell from here—professional but with an edge that makes it hard to look away.
Her heels strike the pavement with metronomic precision, each step confident and purposeful.
Her hair—silk spun into gold, catching the morning sun and throwing it back doubled—bounces against her shoulders with each step, and her lips are painted the kind of red that makes men walk into walls and forget their own names.
But it’s not the clothes or makeup that makes my breath catch in my throat like I’ve swallowed wrong.
It’s those eyes—bright, intelligent, seeing everything and filing it away for later use.
The slight quirk of her lips that suggests she finds the whole world privately amusing, like she’s in on a joke the rest of us haven’t figured out yet.
The way light seems to come from inside her rather than just reflecting off her skin, like she’s somehow more real than everything around her.
I need to look away. I want to look away.
My brain is screaming at me to look away before someone notices I’m staring like a teenager.
But I can’t. In this world of gray stones and ordinary people, of disappointments and failed dreams, she’s a jewel—one who holds my entire future in her perfectly manicured hands.
Whatever she writes about Rye Again will either establish me here or destroy me.
One review. One opinion. One woman who might as well have her hand wrapped around my?—
What the hell am I thinking?
She spots me through the window. Her face brightens with recognition. She waves—casual, friendly, like we’re old friends instead of two people with a complicated history involving professional destruction.
Instinct takes over. Pure, primitive flight response.
I jump backward, desperate to escape whatever danger comes with that smile, that wave, that acknowledgment of my existence.
My shoulder connects with the tower of takeout cups I just finished arranging.
They cascade across the floor in a plastic waterfall, bouncing and rolling in every direction, the sound like applause for my gracelessness.
I scramble away from the mess, feet slipping on the scattered cups, overcorrect, and slam into Sarah as she emerges from the kitchen with a tray of fresh loaves.
The tray wobbles dangerously, twelve loaves of rosemary olive sourdough about to meet their doom on the floor.
“Sorry, sorry,” I gasp, my hands shooting out to steady the tray, saving the bread but not my dignity.
Lawrence materializes at the end of the bar like he was summoned, one eyebrow raised in that way he has that says more than words ever could. “You okay, boss?”
“Great,” I lie through my teeth, just as Alexis’s hand touches the front door’s handle, her fingers wrapping around the brass that I personally polish every morning.
Here she comes. The woman who can build me up or tear me down—in more ways than one, in ways I’m trying very hard not to think about. And she has no clue that I’m this flustered over her very existence, that her presence turns me into a walking disaster area.
Let’s hope it stays that way.