Have I ever felt this much excitement?

Have I ever felt this much dread?

Aside from the day that Rosie was born, I can’t remember ever feeling this way. She’s safe with Norma, and I’m driving toward the unknown. 

People did not like my little announcement yesterday. They came to my house. I don’t think the old guy meant to pound on the door quite so hard, but you never know. Maybe he was trying to be intimidating.

Well, I’m not going to be intimidated.

I’m doing this.

There’s an added sharpness to my vision that makes everything seem weightier, including the mist that hangs in the air at this hour of the morning. I park behind The Coffee Spot and take a deep breath.

Last night was incredible. There are no other words to describe it. Ellie didn’t hold anything back.

I did.

I didn’t tell her about Serena. I didn’t tell her about the rage that comes over me when I think about her leaving our daughter behind. I didn’t tell her how disconnected that rage has become from any feelings that might have lingered for my ex-wife.

Ellie’s the one I care about now. 

Want the truth? It’s making it really fucking difficult to open the Coffee Spot. I have to do it in two days, and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a pull in the center of my gut telling me to back off the whole enterprise. How could I hurt her when she’s already been hurt, shocked, right out of her life? How could I put that kind of pressure on a business that’s already unsteady?

How could I assume she can’t handle it?

I’ve seen Ellie handle monstrous crowds with serious grace under pressure. She keeps her wry humor, her command of a room, even when there’s good reason to panic. It would be condescending as hell for me to not open because I thought she’d fold from the pressure. No. She’s resilient.

This was supposed to be simple. It’s not simple anymore.

That’s the thought rolling around in my mind as I come up the alley to go into The Coffee Spot.

The last of the furniture is being delivered today, and I go in through the side door, planning out where all of the tables will go. The espresso machine is installed. All the sinks are functional. The final deliveries we’ll need to open will arrive tomorrow morning. Tomorrow night is the city council meeting where apparently this town plans to rally against me.

I only notice something is wrong because the color red catches my eye. 

The man standing by one of the tables in front of Medium Roast is wearing the reddest shirt I have ever seen in my entire life. It’s bright even in my peripheral vision. It would be the most interesting over on that side of the street...if it weren’t for the crowd.

The crowd.

These aren’t people waiting in line to go into the shop, though there’s one of those as well. The line itself is a little smaller than the Saturday rush that put me behind that counter with Ellie. That makes sense—it’s a Wednesday on the first week of tourist season in Lakewood. Things will probably pick up even more tomorrow and be full steam by Friday, just in time for opening day.

The crowd, though—that’s something else.

A text comes in from the delivery service with the last of the furniture, and then another text from Norma—it’s a picture of Rosie laughing, and it makes my heart explode.

When I look up from my phone again, the man has moved out toward the curb and has unfurled a sign.

What the hell?

He’s faced in my direction, so I have no choice but to read it.

Lakewood’s ONLY coffee shop is HERE!

Here is underlined in bold strokes five or six times.

The moment I got the notice that I’d be taking over this building swims up into my memory. A letter from my grandfather, confirmed at the formal reading of his will. Susie always wanted a little café, he’d said in the letter. I knew what it meant to have always wanted something. A wife. A family. And at that very moment, I was learning what it meant to have that shattered.

It’s the cutest fucking protest I’ve ever seen, I’ll give them that much. All of these people have put their heads together to write out a big sign that’s going to be totally inaccurate in two days once my store is open. All I need is someone like Ellie to stand behind the counter.

Shit.

Someone like Ellie means finding someone who’s willing to brave the incendiary signage and learn how to make drinks all in forty-eight hours, and nobody has called about an application yet. The number for the store is on the sign in the window, but not a single person has taken me up on it.

It would be the nicest possible option if I could convince her to come work for me.

But that’s not going to happen. She’ll never abandon Medium Roast. There are other things, too, that I need to sort out in my mind. I understand why Ellie put down her camera, but it nags at me. I don’t want her to waste away behind a coffee counter forever. What about the things she dreams of? What about fulfillment beyond that janky little store?

It does give her time to dance, which is a true gift to the world, but other than that...

I shove my phone into my pocket and head for the door. I’ve got applications all ready to print. I’m not above standing out on the sidewalk to hand them to people if that’s what it takes.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve walked the three blocks to the print shop at the other end of downtown Lakewood. I’ve got work to do, whether the protesters—that’s what they are, standing over there with their sign—like it or not.

I check myself in the mirror before I go out. Hair, fine. Outfit, fine. It’s a t-shirt and jeans. I don’t look like the devil. Maybe if I show myself, they’ll stop thinking I’m out to destroy what’s apparently the cornerstone of all of Lakewood.

I take the stack of printed applications in my hand like a shield, square my shoulders, and go out through the side door, marching straight to the sidewalk.

Time to hire some baristas.