“She’s aiming for swan level now.”
“Please.” He clipped his backpack buckle. “I did a cat in a cup this afternoon. Nailed it.”
I arched a brow. “Oh, really?”
“Flawless.” He hooked his thumbs around his backpack’s straps. “And yeah, I’ll take the hours. Need the cash for the new bike.”
“Are youstillsaving up for the Kawasaki?”
“I’m pretty sure that says something about my early childhood, but I’m not about to dig into it any further.” He flipped his wrist over to see his smartwatch. Likely a notification about his ride. “Plus, someone’s gotta keep this place running while you’re off playing tourist.”
I slid a hand into the pocket of my apron to touch the photograph. “Right. Tourist.”
Kirk’s gaze sharpened. “There it is again.”
“Therewhatis again?”
“That look. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Kirk had been working for me for two years. He’d started as a summer hire after his first year and had become part of my Velvet Bean family. But this—the photograph, the Russian, the gnawing knot of uncertainty about Didi—wasn’t something I was handing over.
So I forced a smile. “If Vanessa talks you into competing in the barista showdown in Portland, I’m not covering for you.”
“Too late.” He grinned. “Already signed up.”
“Kirk!”
“Kidding.” He took a step back, craning his neck to look down the road. “I can swing time for some extra shifts with the light load from school, but I can’t take a vacation, too.”
I shook my head. “Get out of here before I change my mind about those shifts.”
“Yes, boss.” He tossed me a lazy salute. “See you tomorrow.”
The little red Honda that picked him up every day came to a stop in front of the café, and he hopped in. The driver, a guy he’d been living with for the past year, waved, and they were off.
Everything was so normal. Soroutine.The kind of moment that should have been comforting.
Instead, my skin prickled.
I shut the door, settled the ‘CLOSED’ sign, which had begun swinging with the door’s movement, and flicked the deadbolt. Somehow, the shop was quieter than usual. Emptier.
What did people say about the sound of empty buildings? They were quiet when the place was full, but as loud as a jet engine when they were empty? Every click and whoosh of the air conditioner reminded me of the Russian and the way he’d grabbed my wrist. My steps on the floor reminded me of the argument Tristan and Garrett had had with him.
Garrett.
Part of me had hoped he’d come back all on his own. His hulking figure would have been a welcome distraction from the memories and the questions I hadn’t been able to release all day.
I stood at the front windows, looking up and down Cedar Street. A few people strolled along the sidewalks, someone was leaving the pharmacy, and nothing was happening around Mason’s Gallery down the road, where Izzy worked.
My feet carried me to the wall by the counter before I even registered I was moving.
Didi had suggested a photo wall to showcase The Velvet Bean’s history. I ran my fingers along the edge of the largest frame, where my grandmother’s face smiled back at me.
“You were quite the storyteller,” I whispered to her. “But I’m starting to wonder which stories were real.”
I pulled the worn image out and held it beside the framed one.
Same velvet jacket. Same bright eyes. Same effortlessly charming smile.
