The Coffee Cabin sat just off the main stretch, already busy despite the early hour. I pulled in, parked, and joined the short line at the walk-up window with my hands shoved into my jacket pockets. It sat just off the highway, a cedar-sided hut with twinkle lights tucked under the eaves and a chalkboard menu smudged by constant updates. Someone had set a row of smallpumpkins along the ledge of the walk-up window, orange and white and one deeply lopsided one that looked like it had been chosen out of pity, or for its personality. The air smelled like espresso and vanilla, warm even in the morning chill. When I reached the window, Paige and Cara’s sister, Eliza, leaned out with a grin that suggested she’d already noticed me. The thought of Cara surfaced uninvited, and I pushed it aside before it could take shape into anything I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
‘Well,” she said. “If it isn’t Paige’s new favorite employee. You’re sticking around town, I hear. It’s about time you visited this place and discovered the town’s best coffee.”
I huffed a laugh. “Morning to you, too.”
She eyed me with a knowing smirk. “You look like someone who needs caffeine and baked goods. In that order.”
“You are correct. I’d like a muffin, please,” I said. “And coffee. Black.”
“Of course you’re a black coffee guy,” she muttered, already turning away. “Very on brand.”
She reappeared a second later, setting a cup on the ledge and then pausing, hand hovering over the display case. “Blueberry or chocolate chip?”
“Whichever one you recommend.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is this a test?”
I shrugged. “I trust you.”
She snorted. “Hmm...” Then, after a second, “Blueberry. You look like you’d appreciate the illusion of a healthy muffin.”
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Is that a compliment?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” She slid the muffin toward me, then leaned her elbows on the counter, studying me with the same sharp attention I’d seen Paige use more than once.
“So,” she said casually. “You settling in?”
“I guess I am,” I said.
“Huh.” She nodded once. “Good.”
“And how’s your sister?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Eliza’s mouth curved into a sly grin. “Cara’s fine. Funny how you didn’t specify which sister and yet I knew exactly who you were curious about, isn’t it?”
My mouth dropped open, and my cheeks got hot. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find any acceptable words.Was I really that obvious?
“I see the way youdon’tlook at her on our sister nights,” she added.
“Uh…”
“Anyway,” she said, letting me off the hook. “She got a whole order of new mystery books in yesterday. She’s probably in the back, opening boxes and organizing them right now. And she’s pretending she’s not stressed about Mystery Night—it’s her latest idea for the shop, which means she’s been living on tea, freaking out, and reading like it’s an Olympic sport.” She shrugged lightly, watching me in a way that suggested my reaction mattered more than she was letting on.
“Mystery Night?”
“Yeah, you know, someone creates a case to solve, people gather, find clues, drink tea or cocktails, eat snacks, and solve it—Mystery Night. Ooh, you should go. I demand it. You’re going.”
Cara hosting something like Mystery Night caught me off guard. She’d been quiet when I knew her. She had been thoughtful, observant, more comfortable in the margins than the spotlight. She was shy. The idea of her putting herself out there like that surprised me in a way that felt warm and unfamiliar, like realizing someone you thought you understood had grown braver without you noticing.
“That’s not my kind of thing. But tell her I said hi,” I said, then immediately wondered why I’d said anything at all.
Eliza smiled, slow and knowing. “You should tell her yourself. Go buy one of those mysteries she’s unboxing.”
I took the coffee and muffin, nodding my thanks, and backed away before she could say anything else.
I didn’t plan on going into the bookstore.
That’s what I told myself, anyway. I’d been telling myself some version of it since I came back—that I’d go in eventually, that there was no particular reason to avoid it, that walking past the window of Pine & Pages on my way to wherever I was going didn’t mean anything. It was a bookstore. I liked books. That was a thing I knew about myself now, had known for years, though I hadn’t always. Reading had come late to me, or come back to me, depending on how you counted it. I hadn’t been a reader in high school—hadn’t been much of anything academically until a sophomore with a serious expression and a worn copy ofJane Eyrehad sat across from me in the school library and made me feel, for the first time, like understanding something was worth the effort. Like paying attention was a skill and not a burden. I hadn’t told her that. I’d barely admitted it to myself at the time.
