I groan, then I laugh despite myself. Small town life is going to take some adjusting.
One bad first impression won’t define me.
I lock up my house, even though Lexi told me no one does around here. I’m a New Yorker—we lock up.
My car arrived yesterday. I ordered it from Columbus. I never needed one in the city, so driving the few blocks into quaint downtown Bordeaux feels foreign—both being behind the wheel and steering down streets without horns blaring or bike couriers darting between cars. This place is straight out of a movie set—the gazebo, the town square, the old-fashioned shops with their striped awnings. I half expect to see Lorelai and Rory Gilmore walk past me on their way to Luke’s. I pull into a diagonal parking spot—one of the many open here—and try not to marvel at the lack of traffic, but fail.
The interior of Bean There Done That is hip and welcoming—brick walls, exposed ductwork, solid wood benches—but none of that compares to the smell. They must roast their own beans. The air is thick with baked goods and fresh, hot coffee. Am I drooling? Probably.
There’s a short line and I take my place at the back.
When I glance around, one thing stands out—every. single. eye. is on me.
It’s like one of those dreams where you walk into class and everyone stares—then you realize you’re buck naked and someone super glued your feet to the floor. I quickly glance down—Uggs, leggings, long sweater. Whew.
People lean in and murmur to one another. So help me. Where I come from we’ve got two modes. We either look through people or we speak out—boldly.
I guess the instinct to ignore others is a form of self-preservation in a city as crowded and busy as New York. The joke goes: You could set yourself on fire in Times Square and people would just step around you.
But, if we’re not ignoring you, we’re going to say it like it is—blunt, to the point, no beating around the bush.
And right now, I’m feeling the urge to set the record straight. No need to raise my voice—every eye in Bordeaux is already on me.
“Good morning, neighbors!” I say.
A few eyes go wide.
“Let’s just rip the Band-Aid off.” I throw my arms out to my sides, presenting myself for everyone’s perusal. “I got arrested. False alarm, no criminal empire here. Carry on with your oat milk lattes.”
The silence that follows my announcement is more pervasive than the one in my house. At least there, the fridge hums.
“Heeyyyy!” a jovial male voice rings through the shop. “Welcome to Bordeaux, Officer Alex!” The man stands from his table and approaches me. When he’s about three feet away, he introduces himself. “I’m Duke, Shannon’s husband. Thanks for being a sport about Jesse. He means well.”
“No problem. He was just doing his job.” I can barely believe my defense of him. I inwardly cringed every time Jesse repeated that same line of defense the other night.
“Everybody,” Duke addresses the coffee shop. “Say good morning to Officer Alex!”
I don’t blush easily, but a pink heat rises up my face when the entire shop joins in and simultaneously says, “Good morning, Officer Alex!”
I wave, feeling far more shy than I had only minutes ago. Little by little, everyone turns back to their conversations. Eyes drift away from me. The room exhales, and I do too—like I just ran the New York Marathon. No medal, but hey, I finished. I’m still standing.
I step up to the counter and order a double shot espresso latte. If the past five minutes are any indication of how today’s going to go, I’m going to need that second shot.
I glance around and pick a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sure, I could take my coffee home, but after that entrance, slinking away would feel like the coward’s way out.
“Nice to meet you,” an elderly woman says, approaching my table and pulling up a chair. “I’m Mabel. I’m a friend of Memaw’s.”
“Nice to meet you, Mabel,” I say. “Any friend of Memaw’s is a friend of mine.”
She smiles broadly. “And don’t you pay any mind to what they all say about Jesse. He’s a good young man. Handsome too, don’t ya think?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I say, taking a sip of my latte in an effort to hide the grin taking over half my face.
“Well, maybe you ought to.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I say with a soft laugh, hoping the steam from my latte hides the blush creeping up my neck. What is it about that man? Maybe it’s just that I’m so out of my element. I’ve gone six months without noticing anyone. One messed-up night in a patrol car, and I’m tittering over him like a schoolgirl.
Mabel spends the next ten minutes or so regaling me with local news—“Just to keep you up on things, you being a cop and all.” I get the feeling she’d be spilling the tea either way.
