Mari

“You’re getting good at these.” My mom’s friend, Terri, sips the turtle mocha I whipped up a minute ago and pats my shoulder. “Well done. I’ll be in the office if you need anything. You and Jaime have the front, right? Morning rush should be over.”

I’ve been home a week and already my parents lined me up with a job. This is like college all over again, but I’m grateful to have something keeping me busy. Moping around the house and ruminating on everything is only making me feel a thousand times shittier.

The bells on the door jangle and a woman walks in. Jaime calls her by name and asks if she wants “the usual.”

A couple of guys from the phone company walk in next, so I hit the register to take their orders while Jaime fusses with the cappuccino machine.

“Small coffee,” the first one says. “One cream. Two sugars.”

I ring him up and he takes his change, sparing none for the clearly marked tip jar mere inches from him. The second guy orders a large coffee with two shots of espresso, no cream or sugar, and tips two dollars. Just eyeballing the tip jar, I think we’re at somewhere around fifteen bucks for tips, and we’ve been open the last four hours. At this rate, I might be able to buy myself a half tank of gas by tomorrow.

The second man steps away. I’m seconds from grabbing their drinks when I realize there’s a third man. I didn’t see him come in with them, and I must not have heard the bells on the door, but he’s there.

Standing right in front of me.

“Hudson,” I say, feeling the hot flush of my face in real time. I walk away from the cash register and up to Jaime. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have to deal with something really quick. Can you get the other two orders?”

Jaime’s eyes glide over my shoulders toward Hudson. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give me a minute.” I storm from around the counter and pull him toward the back of the shop. “Stalking is illegal in all fifty states. Including Nebraska.”

He smirks. “I literally had no idea you worked here. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

Frowning, I say, “Seriously, Hudson? Or is that just another one of your lies?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know,” I say, arms folded. “I know all about Audrina. How you wanted to get back at her. And how you used me to do it.”

His smirk fades.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I thought.”

“I was going to tell you,” he says. “I came to your house last week. Your dad wouldn’t let me in.”

“You did?”

“Yep. He didn’t tell you?”

“No,” I say.

“I didn’t expect him to,” Hudson says. “But I was there. And I fought like hell, but your dad is pretty fucking persistent.”

“That he is.” I don’t let it show, but I’m slightly disappointed that my father kept that from me. Not that I’d have wanted to see Hudson, but it would’ve been nice to know that he flew all the way here just to see me. “Have you been here all this time?”

He shakes his head. “I put an offer on a house last week. Came here today to finish the deal and take possession.”

“You bought a house? In Orchard Hills?”

“I’m restoring a Frank Lloyd Wright house. It’s on that street you liked, the one with all the big houses,” he says.

I know the house he’s talking about.

“The Arthur Feuerstein house,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the one. I’m restoring it, and then when I’m finished, I’ll probably donate it to the local historical society if I can’t find a buyer who’ll appreciate what it means to live in a literal work of art.”

“How noble of you.”

“I don’t expect you to understand how deep my passion for architecture runs,” he says. “But the mocking is completely unnecessary.”

“How long are you going to be here fixing it up? And what about the firm back in New York?” It’s weird asking him questions like we’re on good terms. Nothing has changed. I’m nothing more than curious.

“Six months, give or take?” he says. “And I’m going to divide my time. Every other week until the house is finished.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I decide to get back to business. Lifting my head high, I say, “Okay, well, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of my way while you’re in town and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“Mari.”

Another customer, an older woman, enters the shop. So much for the end of the morning rush.

“I was hoping we could still talk sometime,” he says, his eyes drinking me in like it could be the last time.

“There’s nothing left to talk about, Hudson.” I look to the lady, watching her huff at the counter. Jaime’s still working on drinks for the guys. “I have to get back to work.”

“You’re angry with me,” he says. “I get that. And you should be. You’re right—I misled you. And you can be as angry as you need to be. But you should know I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

With that, he turns and leaves. My chest tightens.

I want to scream.

I want to cry.

I want to run to him.

I want to kiss him.

I want to slap him.

But I can’t do any of that, so I force a smile on my face and greet the silver-haired lady shooting daggers my way.