“Seems like he’s trying to fix things,” Sarah says, pointing toward the ceiling.
“Yeah, I guess, but my apartment’s already finished. Those quirks aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
Still…maybe he’ll try to fix those too, eventually.
After everything we’ve dealt with in that apartment, part of me thinks the best solution would be to tear it all out and startover. Maybe Cora, Lila, and I will move into one of the newer apartments once they’re done.
But that’s a thought for another day.
Right now, there’s too much to handle.
Even if Max gets everything finished, I don’t know what the rent will look like afterwards—or if my coffee shop will even make it that far.
That’s the part I can’t quite figure out.
Why aren’t people coming in?
Even the diner gets packed, and sure, they serve coffee—but it takes forever to get a table. We offer quick service, to-go cups…convenience.
And still, something isn’t clicking.
Maybe I need better signage. Something simple likeNow Open. We’re tucked away at the edge of town. People might not even realize we’re here.
Sarah started three social media profiles across various platforms and has posted a couple of times, but if it’s only going out to seventeen followers, we’ll be waiting until I’m ready to retire for a steady stream of customers to come through here.
So many ideas. Not enough time.
Maybe once Cora is back, I’ll have a little breathing room to focus on the business side of things. Sometimes it feels like Cora and I are sharing custody of Lila, even though I’m the aunt.
I love my niece, but it’s hard to shift into business mode after she goes to bed. I’m usually dead by that point and don’t want to make any life-changing decisions. During business hours might the be best time to think about those until the crowd picks up.
I let out a slow breath, trying to ease the tightness in my chest.
It’s been like this since I left Oregon last year.
Most days, I can stay positive. But some days, everything feels heavier than it should.
And there’s always that quiet thought in the back of my mind?—
What if it’s not the situation? What if it’s me?
I push it away.
That line of thinking helps nothing. I need to keep moving and try to breathe above water. If I give in, I’ll be eating pints of ice cream and looking like Miss Trunchbull fromMatilda—post chocolate frenzy.
Another loud bang echoes from upstairs.
With only one customer waiting and Sarah at the register, I gesture toward the ceiling. “I’m going to check on him.”
When I step into the apartment, tools are scattered across the kitchen floor, and Max is crouched under the sink, jeans and T-shirt already damp.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“I think so,” he says, craning his neck to look at me.
That’s when I notice his hair—plastered to his forehead.
“What happened?” I ask, pointing.
