Ellie doesn’t stay over. She goes back to her place.

Her shoulders rise with deep breaths as she walks away. I know the feeling. 

Thursday morning, I still feel half-drunk on what happened, my mind hazy.

Rosie is overtired from the moment she wakes up, and I can’t bring myself to take her to Norma’s right away, so I don’t go to the Coffee Spot, either. I call Martin and tell him to let the delivery guy in. Everything’s in place, other than someone to work behind the counter. I’ve been in and out all week, stocking coffee and silverware and to-go cups in three sizes, with double the lids we should need.

I’m still jittery as fuck, but Rosie’s cheeks are flushed. She insists on cuddling up to me all day and we float among the hours.

I should focus on the meeting, which starts at six, but all I can think about is the way Ellie looked when she said she wanted me to be hers.

She didn’t mean hers for the night. She didn’t mean friends with benefits. She meant hers for good. I could see it in her eyes. My hands hesitate on the wheel. I know roughly where she lives. I could find her car parked out front, knock on the door, and—

And let all those people ruin my reputation in front of Lakewood’s city council.

That gets my heart pumping, enough adrenaline in my veins to wake me the hell up.

* * *

The meetings are held in the main meeting area of the city hall. My footsteps echo on the tiled floor as I walk down the hall, but they’re not loud enough to drown out the chatter of other people waiting for the meeting to start. It sounds like a lot of people are in there.

I’m right. The room has at least ten rows of chairs, and the first five are full. I do a scan of the crowd. Ellie isn’t here. For an instant I’m relieved, but it turns to resignation. I want to curl my fingers through hers while I suffer through whatever these people have planned for me. She probably wouldn’t want to be so public about it—not when our businesses are at war—but with every moment that passes I care less and less about what our businesses are doing.

A whisper goes through the crowd when one of them notices me. Well, fuck them, too. I’m not going to shrink away from this. I take a seat in the sixth row and sit up straight, head held high, ready to fight for The Coffee Spot. I might not care about its supposed feud with Medium Roast, but I care if these people are spreading lies about me all through Lakewood. Jesus. I haven’t been here long enough to cause this much of a stir.

It starts.

It could not be more boring.

An old man reads the minutes from the last meeting, reads out a list of resolutions that they passed some time in the last century, and reads a menu of other skull-numbing shit they’re going to be talking about. There’s a lively debate about newspaper vending machines between the council members. 

This goes on for an hour. 

Finally, it’s time for public input. I have to drag myself out of a stupor to pay attention. Morris fixes that for me. He clearly doesn’t understand microphones and shouts at his usual volume.

“We’ve come here today,” he shouts, and the microphone gives a jagged feedback that nearly destroys everyone in the room. A woman steps up from the side and puts her hand on his arm, saying something that the mic doesn’t quite pick up. He starts again. “We’ve come here today,” he says, nodding at the first two rows, “to say that we are opposed to the new business across from Medium Roast. Medium Roast is the coffee shop we’ve been visiting for ten years, and as you all know—” He flips over a paper held in his hands. “Lisa and Fred Collins have worked very hard to keep it open for us. This is despite the fact”—his face is getting redder by the second—“that the city levies untenable taxes on its business owners, and despite the fact that they have been weathering personal family crises. It was wrong for the city to approve the permits for this other business.” He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, and half the people in the first two rows answer with muted applause. 

Great.

The man who was wearing the red shirt yesterday joins Morris at the microphone. “We’d like to start a petition for the removal of The Coffee Spot on the grounds—pun intended—that this business will hurt our economy.” He laughs at his own joke.

A loud gaveling cuts him off. The mayor—it has to be the mayor—is furiously banging wood on wood. “Gentlemen,” he says, then again, louder. “Gentlemen. This is absolutely absurd.”

I want to shout thank you but I bite my tongue.

“You can’t protest a business on the grounds that you don’t like the fact that they’ve taken over some real estate. That’s not how the rules work, and you know it perfectly well. Walt, if you have some other issue, save it for your letters to the editor.”

Walt, who today is wearing a green shirt, frowns and slinks back to his seat in the first row. Grumbling ensues.

“Are there any other public comments?” the mayor asks.

I’m out of my seat before I have time to think. Straight to the front of the room. Straight to the microphone. I lean in, trying to catch everyone’s eyes and mostly failing.

“Your name, sir?” asks the Mayor.

“Dash Huxley,” I say, slowly, making sure they’ve all got it. “I own The Coffee Spot.” I drop my voice to a menacing level. “And anyone who has a problem with it”—they’re hanging on my every word. A tingle runs up and down my spine. This is my moment. This moment, right now, will determine everything else.—“can come in tomorrow for a complimentary coffee. Give it a chance. I have a daughter.”

“Me, too!” cries a guy in the back, and a pocket of women around him applaud. 

I give them all a crisp nod and get the hell out of there.