“How does everyone know about that?”
“It’s on Sunshine’s social media.” He rakes that assessing gaze over me again. “But you’re not on social media, are you? Who handles Perk Me Up’s socials?”
“Rose does all that.” I have to hold back whatever sappy thing my face wants to do when I recall the horrified sound she madewhen she realized the shop didn’t have any social media presence. I absolutely refuse to think about the much happier sound she made when I agreed to let her run it.
I spend a lot of time trying not to think about Rose’s happy sounds.
He nods. “Makes sense. The point is, despite your rocky start, it sounds like you’re finally settling into small business ownership.”
Rocky start. That’s a nice way of putting it. I was thrown into the deep end and spent a year fighting for my life to stay afloat. We managed, but only because of Troy and Rose. Not me. The second year has been better, but again, it’s not down to my amazing skills as a coffee shop manager. The role still fits like a too-tight shirt I put on day after day, even though it chafes me.
Luke claps me briefly on the shoulder. “Good for you, is what I’m trying to say. You’ve got this.”
I nod, unable to say anything. His moment of big-brotherly motivation over, Luke joins the rest of the family in the living room, leaving me alone with the lingering echo of his encouragement.
It doesn’t sit right, like a nut threaded at an angle on a bolt. I never set out to own and manage a coffee shop. Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing. These last couple of years have been a trial by fire, and I’m still putting out flames.
Luke wouldn’t congratulate me if he knew I met with a realtor a few months ago. Just to talk. Nothing’s in writing. She seemed to think I could sell the shop pretty easily if I ever decided to take the nuclear option. Instead of settling my thoughts, that information only stirred my anxiety over it higher. I could cut my losses and go back to the job I actually enjoyed. But in the process, I’d be betraying my friend.
I’ll never know what Harry was thinking when he left everything he had to me. It sounds like the punchline to a joke: Did you hear the one about the small-town loner who was secretly amillionaire? He left everything to his fishing buddy and never told him why.
Do betteris the only insight he left for me, and that handwritten note’s not much to go on. Do better than what? The previous coffee shop owner? Myself? Harry wasn’t blood, but he became like family to me. Taking on the responsibilities of the shop he left me, no matter how ill-suited I am to the task, was the obvious choice. Not knowing what he wanted me to improve on has torn me up almost as much as my incompetence in the shop.
But accepting defeat and getting rid of it would mean not even trying to live up to his last wishes. I can’t bring myself to do that. Not yet.
5
reed
I never should have agreedto the coffee cart idea.
First, working at a single folding table means cramped quarters. Rose and I are constantly brushing against each other as we serve drinks. Touching her this much without really touching her has me on edge. I’m a bomb that’s one delicate arm sliding against mine away from going off.
Second, Rose keeps dancing to the music. She does sometimes in the shop if a song she loves comes on over the sound system. But putting a brief bounce in her step has nothing on this.
She’sshimmying. Hips swaying, shoulders moving in time to music I’m actively trying to block out. It’s like she searched my brain for the exact motions that would get me to short-circuit and she’s made it her mission to check off every one.
I’m trying not to look, I swear. But I’ve memorized the shape of her in that pale blue sundress anyway. The curve of her neck, exposed with her hair up in a bun. The maddening dark tendrils hanging down, demanding I touch them.
I won’t. But my fingers flex as I resist the urge.
Maybe the worst part are the happy grins she keeps shooting my way. She’s overjoyed to be here and wants to be sure I’m enjoying myself, too.
I am enjoying myself. But not for the reasons she thinks.
“This band’s pretty good, right?” She’s close, of course, her shoulder touching my arm as she gazes up at me.
“Better than the opener.”
“Oh, stop.” She darts out a hand to lightly smack my arm but must change her mind halfway there. Her hand grazes over my flannel shirt, the soft non-touch somehow worse than an actual caress. “They tried their best.”
“I think that’s the problem.” High schoolers squawking into a microphone and banging wildly at their instruments don’t make for the most satisfying songs. Yet Rose still danced.
I might have hated the music, but I can’t deny I appreciated the results.
To be fair, she’s not the only one caught up in the moment. Between picnic blankets and lawn chairs, people are on their feet, gyrating like it’s Coachella instead of a concert in the park. Or Sunshine at Sunset, as the flyers around town call it.
“I don’t listen to much bluegrass.” She shimmies again, a movement I struggle not to fixate on. Her black Perk Me Up apron conceals most of the motion, but I can’t miss the jut of her hips and how her skirt sways around her. “But the banjo player knows what he’s doing.”
