It’s taken.
A man I don’t recognize is sitting there with a laptop, even though there are plenty of other empty tables.
Fine. I choose a table closer to the middle of the room than I’d like. I open my book and try to lose myself in the story, but I can’t concentrate.
“Shame what that girl put that boy through,” someone says behind me. I don’t turn around, but my hands tighten on my book.
“The Carlstons have always been good people.”
“And now their son is sitting in jail because some woman can’t handle a little breakup.”
My face gets hot. My hands are shaking. I push my glasses up my nose and stare at the same sentence three times before giving up on reading.
“I heard she got that cop wrapped around her finger. Probably promised him something, if you know what I mean.”
I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. My book falls to the floor with a thud.
I leave it there. Several people look over.
I head for the door, leaving my barely touched mocha on the table.
“Alice.” Diane’s voice stops me before I reach the exit. She's holding my book and my mug. “You forgot your drink. And this.”
When I reach for it, she doesn’t let go right away.
“Table seven's been running their mouth for the past ten minutes,” she says quietly. “Some people don't have anything better to do than gossip about things they don't understand.”
She says it loud enough that table seven can definitely hear.
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” Diane glances over at the table where the conversation was coming from. “You’ve been coming here for months. Never caused trouble, always polite, always tip well. Some customer I’ve never seen before wants to talk trash about one of my regulars?” She shakes her head. “That’s not how I run my business.”
I look at her, surprised by the edge in her voice.
“Your coffee’s on the house today,” she continues. “Your usual table will be open tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard.
I take my mug, feeling something loosen in my chest for the first time all day. “Thank you.”
“People talk because they don’t have anything better to do. Doesn’t mean they know what they’re talking about.” Diane pauses, wiping her hands on her apron. “My son’s a good judge of character. If Sawyer thinks you’re worth protecting, that’s good enough for me.”
I stare at her. “Your son?”Who’s her son? Do I know him?
“Sawyer Edwards.” She says it like she's proud just saying his name. “Comes in here every morning ordering hot chocolate instead of coffee like a normal person.” She smiles. “He talks about you, you know. Always speaks well of you.” My throat tightens. His mother is defending me to strangers. His mother, who just heard people call me manipulative, is standing up for me anyway.
I push my glasses up my nose.Oh.Sawyer's mom owns the Cozy Cup.I don't know what to do with that information.
I sit back down, this time at a small table near the counter where Diane can see me. Choosing to stay instead of running feels like a small victory. Maybe the only one I'll get today, but I'll take it. The conversation at table seven has moved on to something else. Maybe it’s because Diane walked by their table twice, or maybe they just got bored. Either way, the whispers about me have stopped.
I try reading again, but my mind keeps drifting. Last night, my mother chose Lance and his family over me. Today, strangers in my favorite coffee shop think I’m some manipulative woman who seduced a cop into arresting an innocent man.
But Diane stood up for me. A woman who barely knows me beyond my coffee order took my side without me having to ask.
My phone sits face-down on the table. No texts from Sawyer today, which is probably for the best. We’re both trying to be careful about appearances, about not giving the investigators more ammunition.
But sitting here, listening to people call Lance a “good kid” and me a troublemaker, I realize something. I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of protecting other people’s feelings while mine don’t seem to matter.
