I push through the glass door of the coffee shop without peeking through the window first, desperate to be in the warmth. For the second time already this morning, I’m hit with the olfactory equivalent of crack cocaine. As an insomniac and an artist, I have an ongoing love affair with coffee in all its beautiful forms. I almost groan at the aromantic scent of beans, the bold, nutty aroma of brewed coffee. Honestly, the desire from this morning for an orgasm is long gone. Coffee will do me just fine.
“Welcome to Triton’s Brew!” a cheerful young voice greets me, pulling me out of my slightly disassociated state.
“Morning,” I reply, smiling back as I walk up to the counter where—a peek at her name, stitched into the apron pocket—Braxton is waiting for me. “How are you, Braxton?”
“So good!” she replies enthusiastically. “How areyou?”
“So good,” I agree. She beams. I glance up at the menu, handwritten on a chalkboard in a beautiful flowing script.Holding my hands up in a visual representation of a gallon, I look back at Braxton. “Can I have something this big and with all the caffeine you can manage to fit in there? Hot, please.”
She nods gamely, grabbing a large cup and clicking open a Sharpie. “Do you like sweet?”
“Just black, please. Give me something dark and acidic enough to peel paint from the walls,” I request. She giggles, scratching away at the cup.
“Name?”
“Ewan. Also, let’s make it two of the same.”
She rings me up, and I wait until her back is turned toward the espresso machine before dropping a twenty into the tip jar. Stepping to the side, I look around the mostly empty café. Like they always do, my eyes immediately catch on the art hanging on the cheerful yellow walls. Moving closer, I peer at the photographs. They’re mostly local attractions—the lighthouse, the main drive downtown, and the wharf. When I see a black-and-white shot of a lobster boat, my heart squeezes in pain before I look closer and see it’s not Shiloh’s.
I’m not a professional photographer, but I can recognize and appreciate talent when I see it. Each print has a tag underneath, giving credit to a Cedric Knox and advertising the price. I don’t recognize the name, which means he’s probably not a local. Or perhaps I should stop assuming I know anything about this place when I’ve been gone for over half a decade.
“Well, well, well.”
Turning to the right, I watch a tall woman skirt the edge of the counter and walk toward me. Her blond hair swings behindher in a braid, and the arms peeking out from her short-sleeved shirt are covered in tattoos. She grins at me, and I return it, holding my arms wide for a hug. I grunt when she gives it to me, practically lifting me off my feet as she makes every effort to crack my rib cage.
“Jean Anderson, is that you?” I ask breathlessly, lungs screaming in pain. She lets me go, smacking a hand on my shoulder when I make a production of clutching my chest.
“I could be asking you the same thing. Ewan Fate walking into my coffee shop? Hell, if I’d known I’d be seeing a pretty face like yours, I’d have done a little extra with mine.”
She pats my cheek in a way that might be cute coming from a grandmother but manages to be condescending from someone my own age. Rolling my eyes, I raise a middle finger between us.
“Your coffee shop?” I ask.
“Mine. And that’s my sister.” Jean hooks a thumb over her wide shoulders toward Braxton, still bent over the espresso machine and diligently making my coffee. Now that I’m looking closer, I can see the resemblance—the same Nordic features, blond hair, and stocky build.
“She’s a doll,” I tell Jean honestly. “I don’t remember you having a sister. You sure she’s related to you?”
“She was a surprise. Unseated me as the favorite in the family, but at least I get to boss her around here.”
“I should have known you’d be a hard-ass.” She snorts and gives my arm another pat. Which, from her, is the equivalent of a slug. I catch the glint of a ring on her left hand and add, “Oh,you’re married, or…?”
“I’m a Campbell now,” she agrees. “So, tell me. What sort of winds had to be raging to blow Ewan Fate back into town?”
The question isn’t asked with malice, but I flinch nonetheless. Jean Anderson—Campbell—is likely to be the first in a long line of faces from my past, asking about my future. The insular nature of Siren’s Point had frightened me as a teenager, made me feel suffocated and like I was living under a microscope. Jean, whom I was always friendly with at school, will probably be one of the easier encounters I’ve got coming my way today. I try not to think of Shiloh, but as always, he’s never far from my thoughts.
“I figured it was time for a visit,” I reply carefully, realizing as I do so that I should probably come up with a better cover story. I’d rather not have a conversation about my current inability to do the one thing that’s always come easy to me each time someone asks why I’m here.
“About time,” Jean replies as her sister approaches us with my coffees in her hands. Before she can hand them off to me, Jean snags one of the cups. Spinning it around so I can see, we share a laugh. Yooan is written across the top in Sharpie, stylized with a couple of stars drawn next to theN.
“Happens all the time,” I tell Braxton, who looks confused as to what we’re finding so funny.
“It’s E-W-A-N,” Jean explains, handing the cup to me.
“Happens all the time,” I repeat, smiling at the girl to let her know I’m not offended. Honestly, Yooan isn’t even the weirdest spelling I’ve ever seen.
“Shiloh goes to haul by four a.m., so you’ve missed him,” Jean tells me, watching Braxton make her way back to help the next customer. I fight the urge to duck out of view and hide my face. I know that customer.
I try to keep my eyes firmly on Jean’s and avoid the attention of Michael Hall. I really don’t want to confront another face from my past when there’s already one standing in front of me. Except that leaves me to carry on a conversation about Shiloh, because of course once everyone hears I’m back in town, they’ll all assume the reason for that is to visit my old friend. We were never far from one another growing up, and the uncomfortable squirm in my stomach makes me think about how that might have translated into adulthood had I stayed. Shiloh hadn’t had much of an interest in dating as a teenager—I had no clue then, and even less of one now about where his preferences might lie. Me, on the other hand…I’d become very appreciative of my buddy during those early teenage years. Thirteen had me looking at Shiloh in a way that made me extremely conscious of how he smelled and the path of veins in his hands, the way he’d mumble in his sleep, and how he’d grown hair on his belly at the same time he started growing it on his face.
