I’m bleary-eyed from a night spent researching my product idea when I head into Holy Grounds to start my new tenure as a barista—but luckily I hear this place has coffee. Still, I must be more tired than I thought, because when I see the girl from yesterday shoving pastries into the display case it surprises the hell out of me. She looks like she spent more time on her hair this morning than I spent on mine all week, and she’s the picture of scrubbed, shiny adolescence. I mean, minus the scowl.

“Is there a problem?” the girl asks, so much disdain crammed into five syllables. I realize I’m making crazy faces at her and paste on a smile.

I try to recall the name Mr. Spence told me. “Are you Jess?” She nods. From Spence’s attendance dig, I hadn’t expected her to actually show up here this morning. But okay. I slide behind the counter to join her. “I’m Natalie.”

“Great. You’ve got it from here, right?” She hands me a box of pastries and slips off her apron. “I’ll be in the back.”

This girl isn’t seriously bailing on me, is she?

She is.

I force myself to close my mouth as I watch her walk away, her hair swinging. Does it make me a terrible person that I already want to punch her? That it’s Day One of my new employment and I’m already trying to figure out how to escape?

I set down the box of pastries and before I do anything else, I sample a cup of coffee. Spence has already dialed in the grind and the perfectly balanced flavors wash over my tongue. I smile. At least some things never fail me. While I wait for the coffee to reach my brain, I fill milk jugs for orders and straighten the counters.

The caffeine kicks in before the first customers walk through the doors, so I sneak a look around and pull out my phone to keep doing research on my business idea. In theory I understand Spence has a strict no-cell-phone policy, but I’m too excited about my idea to worry about filling napkin holders. Plus, if Jess can sit around in the back room fiddling with the radio, I can work on the one thing that might get me out of here.

The thing that’s somewhere between selling makeup and selling my body? It’s selling lube. As in, personal lubricant for your naughty bits. For sex.

Ha.

After I left the park yesterday, I poked around on the internet to see just how crazy my idea was. But the more I looked, the more I started to think I’d landed on a good product that I could sell.

First of all, all the lubes I can find on Amazon.com look like they’re out of some old-school, skeevy porn, and I know I can design something better. Second, there aren’t that many brands to compete with. And most importantly, lube is something that people buy all year long, that they’ll pay extra for if it’s good, and that they’ll buy over and over again. It also satisfies (heh) a basic, primal need.

The bottom line is, people seem to buy a crap ton of lube. They just don’t talk about it. And if I can get past the weirdness of it all, I might be able to compete with other brands. If I can sell even ten bottles a day, I’ll make way more money than I ever would as a barista. And maybe I can clear up enough free time to start working on my writing again.

Last night I ordered a bunch of lube from other brands, to see what they have to offer, and when I think about it now, I almost burst out laughing. I have no one to actually use these lubes with, but hey, one day at a time.

The first customer trudges into Holy Grounds and the pace of my morning picks up. I spend a few hours filling orders, wiping down counters, and wishing that Jess was helping me instead of sitting in the back, collecting a paycheck without actually working for it.

By the time the morning rush winds down, I realize I haven’t changed the godawful chalkboard in the front of the shop. It still says, “All men should make coffee for their women. It says in the Bible, HEBREW,” and I’m a little sensitive to both the bad pun and the fact that there’s no longer a man in my life to make me coffee. Not that I need a man for coffee (or lube), but still.

I grab a piece of chalk and settle on the floor, cross-legged, to work. The coffee shop lights are bright—not harsh, but cheerful. I remember, vaguely, Mr. Spence telling me, “People need to be awake in the mornings.” One part coffee, one part eighty-watt incandescents. Right now, though, it feels peaceful and good. For a few minutes, it’s just me and the sound of my handwriting, something peppy and light on the radio.

“I like big cups and I cannot lie,” a voice reads over my shoulder. I turn to see Jackson standing behind me. It’s the second time I’ve seen him since I’ve been back in Swan’s Hollow, and unlike the night at Hooligans, I’m not entirely sure today’s encounter is a coincidence.

My heart kicks up a notch in my chest, nerves and fear and anticipation. What do I say to someone I haven’t seen in years? Someone who can still render me completely speechless just with a look?

I know him but I don’t know him.

I have to admit that when I look at Jackson, up close and in daylight, I like what I see. He’s always been tall, but he’s not the rangy, skinny teenager he used to be. His shoulders have filled out, his chest widened with muscle. His assessing eyes are sharp and green, and the smile on his lips is as infuriating as ever—amused and sexy and cocksure. Metaphorically speaking. Ugh.

The less civilized parts of me get that sad, mixed-up feeling of wanting Jackson even at the same time that I want to run away from him. It doesn’t help that the first thing I think about when I see him is lube, since it’s been on my mind anyway. Jackson, the player, has probably used lube a hundred times, and the thought makes me squirm. I’m glad he can’t read minds.

I scramble to my feet, wiping chalk dust on the butt of my jeans. I’ve been staring at him, and I feel my face flush with the embarrassment of being caught.

“Jackson, hi. What are you doing here?”

He holds up a travel mug and shrugs.

“Right, coffee.”

Holy Grounds is one of the few places where I can’t run from him, where I have to face the discomfort of seeing him, the feeling of all these memories flooding back to me. Jackson watches me, calm and collected, like he’s completely okay with taking up this space in my life. Luckily, his order gives me an excuse to break my paralysis.

I head behind the counter to wash my hands, then take the mug from him. It has a faded Emerson College logo on the front and regret sneaks into my chest. I’d been so proud to mail him that mug from my alma mater, but it seems stupid, now that I never graduated. I don’t know why he’s even kept it.

I gesture to the mug. “This is very eco-conscious of you.”

“Wanna know a secret?” I can’t help but lean in. “I do it for the discount.”

I snort out a laugh, this involuntary thing that falls out of my lips like I’m actually happy.

“Of course you do.”

Before I think twice my hands fly to make his order. Dark roast, two sugars, whole milk. It’s all muscle memory, a drink I fixed for him a thousand times, a thousand years ago. I remember all the free pastries I’d bring home for him at the end of the night. How we’d sit on the trunk of my car and eat them, crumbs spilling down the front of our clothes. He always liked the cinnamon buns, while I’d pick around the nuts in the pumpkin loaf.

“Why do you always go for the pumpkin bread if you’re just going to throw out half of it?” he muttered, amused.

“Just because I don’t love it all doesn’t make it unredeemable as a whole.”

Jackson just laughed and accepted the walnuts I held out for him, popping them into his mouth with a smile.

Unlike Jackson, Matthew never ate my unwanted walnuts. Instead I’d gather them in a napkin and feed them to the pigeons in the Commons. I have a picture of me, stashed somewhere in one of my unopened boxes, holding my hands out to the birds. I’m wearing an oversized blanket scarf and the sky is the blank gray that comes before a snowstorm, but there are birds around me everywhere and my face is just so damn delighted.

I was happy, and most of it was a lie.

I bite my lip and turn my back on Jackson. I’m not going to cry in Holy Grounds, not with Jackson waiting for his coffee and Jess doing whatever the hell she’s doing in the back room.

It’s just too much, really. It’s so unfair that seeing Jackson Wirth can at once make me miss him and also miss the life I’d left in Boston. But it’s morning, which was always our time together, at least since Jackson could drive.

The morning after he’d gotten his license, I stumbled outside to wait for the school bus and spotted Jackson getting into his car. He waved and called across the driveway, “Are you coming or not?”

I looked up, surprised. “Really?” I said, and he shrugged. I drew in a deep breath. Okay.

Afternoons were always a crapshoot—some days he’d stay after school to hang out with his friends or whatever girl he was trying to impress at the time. Sometimes he’d head over to Wirth & Sons to help his dad sort through inventory and stock shelves. I still rode the bus a lot, or caught rides from Abigail. But in the mornings, at least, he’d turn the full force of his attention on me, all energy and heat. I already had a leg up just by meeting him before anyone else in school and there he was, choosing me when he didn’t have to. No matter who else he might have hung out with at other times, in the mornings Jackson was mine.

Not today, I remind myself now, finishing up Jackson’s order with shaking hands. Not today.

“So.” Jackson taps his wallet thoughtfully against the counter. “We should catch up sometime.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and I want to tell him no. But also yes.

Thank god there’s a counter between us.

The bell above the front door rings, snapping me back to the present. I’m grateful for the interruption, for the way it lets me put some distance between us even though Jackson’s been so chummy. I can’t deal with him right now. My life has too much chaos in it already for him to come in and upend everything again.

I sound like an older but just as rude version of Jess when I hand Jackson his coffee. “I’ve got to get this,” I say. Then, like a bitch, I turn away.