It’s like Rosie knows. She normally sleeps until seven, seven-thirty, but on Friday she’s up at six, babbling in her crib.

The sound tears at my heart. It’s only going to last so long, this baby thing. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I’m so sick of baby talk that I pretend to be a game show announcer instead. Still, lying in my bed, listening to her in the other bedroom of the cottage, there’s only one thought that beats at my brain: Why? Why? Why?

It’s pointless to wonder. I know that. But in this post-dawn haze, the sun barely above the horizon, hardly peeking in through the matchy-matchy curtains, I indulge myself in a few minutes of what the fuck-ery. Serena left me, and our baby, for a mystical tea journey. How? Rosie’s voice must not have sounded as sweet to her. She must not have felt that ache in her chest, knowing that the minutes are speeding by faster and faster with every passing day.

No, I’m not a sentimental man.

Not about shops like Medium Roast, anyway. My goal is to far eclipse that place, and judging by the state of the interior, it’ll be one of the easier things I’ve done in life.

“Da-da,” coos Rosie. “Da-dee.” She sings the word, her voice rising and falling, a few times. When I peek over her bedside her little face lights up in a smile. She’s only got two teeth on the bottom, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Then there’s the giggle. God, kill me now, that giggle.

I settle into the rocker in the corner of the room, brought all the way from the big city, and we have her first bottle of the day. Then it’s the high chair in the kitchen for some baby oatmeal and mashed bananas. She eats it all, and I announce every bite like she’s won Plinko on The Price is Right. I dress her in a tiny pink shirt and matching short-alls, then smooth her wispy hair.

Forty-five minutes down.

Am I antsy? No, not at all. I’m not desperate to get back to Medium Roast to see if Ellery is there. I haven’t been tossing and turning, thinking of her all night.

Fine. Most of the night. 

I bundle Rosie into the car. I don’t want to show up there before seven, because Jesus, how desperate am I trying to look? Rosie and I cruise along the lakeside for another twenty minutes, singing The Song a few times for good measure.

As soon as I pull the car into a spot down the block, I know something is different.

The sidewalk in front of the shop is busy. Shit. This must be what it’s like for the morning shift, tapering off through the day.

Why didn’t I think of that?

Because my brain was addled by that dance move. That’s why.

Well, I’m not going to let a little crowd deter me from the morning ritual I’ve kept up since college. Huxley men finish what they start. I’m not quitting because my ex-wife turned out to be a complete traitor. Maybe it would be better if I hadn’t invited her along all those years we were together. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I feel her absence at times like these, and it takes the edge of my anger. It makes it hurt more. And fuck that.

Rosie kicks her roly-poly legs getting out of the seat, pointing at everything she sees on the sidewalk. “Bird,” I say as a seagull waddles haughtily across the concrete, going for a discarded piece of muffin. “Bench. Man. Lady. Table.”

There are people sitting at each of the two tables in front of Medium Roast. One is occupied by two middle-aged ladies in neon workout gear. “Daddy’s day out?” one says with a smile as I walk by with Rosie, heading straight for the door.

“Today and every day,” I say. I don’t stop to see her reaction. Today is not the day I let it get to me.

This is it. This is the moment when I find out if Ellery was real or a fever dream from a road trip with a baby.

The door tugs back against my hand, a little burst of air-conditioned air escaping onto the street. Inside, the shop is humming with activity. There are six people waiting in a line in front of the counter, one of them brandishing an empty carafe by the handle. The guy has to be eighty years old. “Evelyn,” he shouts, even though there’s a woman up front placing her order. “You’re out. How long until the next batch?”

There, standing behind the counter, is Ellery. Not Evelyn. Jesus.

I’m not crazy. She is real, and she’s here now.

“It’s coming, Morris. Three minutes,” she calls.

“What?”

“Three minutes,” she calls again, then turns back to the woman in front of her.

“The time, Evelyn,” shouts Morris.

“Three. Minutes!” she shouts back, and it silences the murmur of conversation in the shop. “Three minutes,” she says again, into the quiet, then waves her hands like a conductor. “Carry on, carry on.” A couple at the back of the line laughs. Ellery shakes her head, giving the woman at the counter an apologetic smile, then risks a glance over the rest of the store.

Our eyes meet.

Her hair is a little tousled, but her eyes are huge and gray and alive, dancing with a kind of private humor. “You came back.” I see the words on her lips, though I can’t hear them because old Morris is airing some other grievances about waiting for coffee.

“Damn right,” I mouth back.

That’s when I feel it.

That first twinge of guilt.

Can I run her shop into the ground? Yes, it’s a little worn around the edges, and yes, it looks half-stocked at best. 

I get into the line.

One thing at a time. Who knows? Maybe I’ll open my shop, and this one will only get more customers.

“Announcement,” Ellery calls from the front, and the chatter dies down again. “I’m out of espresso. Only decaf espresso from here on. If you want a latte or a cappuccino, it’ll have to be decaf or with regular coffee.”

Or maybe not.

“What?” The woman ahead of me whispers the word to her man. “Out of espresso?”

She’s right. What’s going on at this place?

What’s my alternative? Scrap the plans for my own shop to keep this strange, strange place alive? I don’t think so. I started it. I’ll finish it.

“Brrrp,” says Rosie.

“That’s right,” I say absently. “That’s right.”