I leave Aurora, Oregon, empty fucking handed. Again.
Where are you, pretty bird?
“ALeo for James?” I call out, setting the warm mug I found at the thrift store on the counter. This one in particular is a favorite of mine. Cute little puppies all sit in a line with their tails showing, and the writing on the mug says,I like wiggly tails and I cannot lie.I laugh every time I see it.
When Cole and I opened our coffee shop four years ago, we were trying to find the perfect mugs for when customers ordered in, but all the options were so expensive. I had the idea to source our mugs from local thrift stores. The crazier the better.
It’s been a hit. Customers never know which mug they are getting, and some even like to buy the mug with their coffee. Ugly coffee mugs are never in short supply at our local thrift stores, so we have never had a problem finding them. And if you find your donated mug at our shop, your coffee is free. This got a little out of hand at first, so we had to start asking for proof, but I love it when someone comes in with a picture of them with the mug then seeing the mug on our shelf. Seeing how something can be reused, re-loved despite once being thrown away…
The mugs and name were my idea, but the brilliant business plan and financial side of things was all Cole. She has a brain that can work numbers like a machine. Honestly, she reminds me of Gage in that aspect. Numbers just click to her. Coffee just clicks to me.
Henry Leo’s is the name of our shop. And every time I see that name, a pang of guilt smacks me in the chest. I miss that old grumpy man. I think I have dialed the Mill’s number about a thousand times but I can never press the dial button. I’m a coward, and I own that.
Our shop has been a haven for me. I was so lost for so long, and when we opened the shop, I felt like I had finally found where I belonged.
Eight years ago when I ran, it was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I got on bus after bus until I was out of my allotted travel money. I put it up to fate and the price of bus tickets to get me to my next home. And I landed here, in Boston.
I was lucky to find Dianna and her daughter, Colette, who was a year younger than me. Dianna owned a beauty salon. They had an ad out front, needed a receptionist and front-end assistant. I walked in. Applied. Broke down in tears. And was hired. I was also accepted and cared for without hesitation or question.
I blamed my pregnancy for the emotional trauma vomit. Still to this day, I couldn’t tell you why I dumped my life story on her after only a few minutes in her presence, but there was just something about her. A safety I had not felt since I first met Ski. I think Miss Dianna felt bad for me, or maybe she related to me—being a single mother herself—but she took me in, and I’ve never looked back.
Okay, maybe I have looked back a few times. Looked back at all the notes hidden under my bed in my old coffee can. That old coffee can that held my escape money now holds my Everett. Stupid coffee can seems to have a habit of holding all my hopes and dreams. Now the money's gone, and even though it’s filled with his notes, it’s still empty. Filled with empty promises, empty excuses, and empty dreams that will never come true.
“Excuse me, ma’am. What are you doing?”
Cole comes out from the back office. Her hand on her hip and the fiery gaze in her eyes has me questioning if I forgot an important date or something.
I glance around the shop then down at my black half apron. Some things never change; some things change too much.
“Uhh…working?” I say hesitantly, like it might be the wrong answer.
“Why?”
“Because we own a coffee shop and someone has to feed the caffeine addicts?”
“Oh, for fucks sake LJ. It’s your birthday! You should be walking around naked in your apartment, blasting the Spice Girls and day drinking!”
She has called me LJ since she found out my middle name was Jean. An awful middle name, really. Guess I’m lucky it isn’t my first.
“Do you know me at all?” I raise an eyebrow at her, and she throws her hands in the air.
“You are seriously no fun. Can I even trust you to actually go out with me tonight?”
“No. You really can’t.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me to the back office.
“Babe, it’s your twenty-sixth birthday. We need to get toasted. Like a marshmallow. You promised after you missed your twenty-fifth that you would celebrate this one with me! Pleeeeeasseeeee!”
I look at her big dark brown puppy dog eyes and relent. “Fine.”
It’s always the please that gets me.
Her screech of excitement practically blows out my eardrum, and I think the whole shop must think a murder is occurring.
“And I am totally making sure you get a good dicking tonight.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
