She gives me two air kisses from across the counter, one for my right cheek and one for my left.Don’t ask me where she got that from.Probably some movie.
“You want the usual?”I ask.
“That would be wonderful.”Her travel mug lands beside the register.“How have you been?I’ve missed you so much.”
Really?Because she only called once while she was on that river cruise with her new beau, Beau.Yes, that’s his name.Yes, that’s how he spells it.And yes, that’s what she calls him.My beau, Beau.
My beau, Beau, is an expert angler.
My beau, Beau, is a master chef.
My beau, Beau, is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
Makes you feel really special when your mom says things like that.
“Missed you too,” I say, more out of obligation than genuineness.I learned a long time ago that she wasn’t the sort of person you rely on.
Neither of my parents are.
I fill her mug from the pot of decaf, then add the tiniest splash of cream.It’s not even enough to change the color of the coffee, but she swears it makes a difference.No sugar though, because “she’s sweet enough.”
Her words, not mine.
I snap on the lid and slide it back across the counter while she pretends to dig through her purse for money.
“There’s no charge,” I say.The woman did give me life, after all.
“Oh, now, that’s no way to run a business.I insist on paying.”
“Next time.”
She zips up her purse with a nod, continuing this charade we’ve been practicing for the last three years—ever since she split from her second husband and moved back to Inner Shores.Her prenup gave her a nice little settlement, so she bought herself a fancy condo on the other side of the island.
I’m just glad she didn’t have to move in with me.
She wiggles her fingers in a posh wave, calls out a goodbye to Willow, and then sweeps out the door, leaving behind a trail of sweet lilac perfume.
I fix my smile and move on to the next customer.
Raoul.Originally from Vermont.Likes his cream with a dash of coffee in our gold mustache mug.
Man, I love my job.
CHAPTERFIVE
ETHAN
I’ve hadmy fair share of shit coffee, but the sludge in this cup might be the worst I’ve ever tasted.There are so many grounds, my mouth wants to start chewing.
Disgusting.
I pop off the top of the sunny-yellow travel mug and dump the entire contents of the gas-station coffee onto the concrete.Some splashes onto a tuft of wispy grass poking through the cracks, and I half expect the grass to shrivel up and turn to dust.
A middle-aged woman climbs out of the small sedan parked at the pump across from mine.The salty breeze lifts the tips of her gray curls and the fringed ends of her leather jacket.She glances from me to the brown stain on the concrete and back again.“You didn’t like your coffee?”she asks.
I came here for coffee and a full tank, not a conversation.
Except there’s something about her that reminds me of Mom.Since I wouldn’t want someone being rude to my mother, I brace myself for the long haul.“Not particularly.It tasted like tar.”
