Jitter snorts again like he knows where my brain went.
Or possibly I need to let him out of the car so he can do his business and shake it all out one last time before we head inside to meet the new boss.
I’d been hoping to get in and start the coffee beforeMr. Greyson Cartwright, the new owner of my family’s café, arrived for his first actual day in town and on the job, but even before five a.m., he’s beat me.
Not good.
For so many reasons.
After a week of regular communication from his personal assistant with instructions to keep the café running as usualfor now, I had convinced myself that the new boss would forever be a distant presence. That I’d keep running the café the way I have since I got home from college. That I could pretend it was still in my family, and I could sign us up for a booth at the spring festival, for sponsoring the rodeo when it comes to town this summer, and for participating as a crew in the fun run this fall, and know that we wouldn’t be backing out because the new boss didn’t like it.
“Think positive, Sabrina,” I mutter to myself while I climb out of the car and into the cold morning, clutching my coffee tumbler as if it’s my lifeline. I let Jitter out of the back seat and walk with him to the edge of the parking lot, where he does his business like a good puppy while I finish caffeinating myself. Then I turn my back while he does the one thing I wasn’t fully prepared for when I decided I wanted a Saint Bernard.
He gives his massive, furry, still-not-fully-grown-even-at-a-hundred-pounds body a shake that makes his jowls flop and sends drool flying in all directions.
“Good boy,” I say. “Shake it all out.Good boy.”
We have an agreement.
He shakes it all out before we go into the café.
If he shakes it all outinsidethe café, he doesn’t get to come back.
“Best behavior today, okay, Jitter?” I tell him.
He’ll go to doggy daycare soon, but before the café opens, while I get everything prepped for opening, he hangs out in his doggy house in the kitchen with me.
This isnormal.
I was told to donormal.
Jitter and I head for the building, and for a split second, I see my grandma sitting in a folding chair just to the left of the concrete pad. I can still picture her leaning back against the brown wood shingles, wiping her forehead with a white rag, recovering from the heat of the kitchen after pulling the last batch of her famous scones out of the oven and telling young Sabrina stories about the trouble her brother and Grandpa used to get up to back in their own youth.
Or offering advice on how to handle Theo, Emma’s brother, when he was picking on Emma and Laney and me.
Or explaining to me—patiently, and without judgment—that some things aren’t supposed to be said out loud, and I’d have to learn the difference between things that needed to be shared and things that needed to be kept quiet.
God, I miss her.
I wish I’d thought to ask her while she was still alive what I should’ve done when I found out ten years ago that Chandler was the one who’d damaged the statue of Ol’ Snaggletooth at City Hall.
Not Theo, who ultimately spent time in jail for that crime.
Would she have told me that if Theo wasn’t willing to tell his sister what really happened, then it was none of my business?
Or would she have told me that Theo was so hellbent on living up—or down—to his reputation at the time, even if it meant self-destruction, that I was the only person whocouldtell Emma the truth when she started dating Chandler again after college?
I know why I didn’t ask Grandma the questions.
I didn’t want to tell her that her golden grandson who was their pride and joy after leaving to attend college at Grandpa’s alma mater had actually done something pretty shitty.
Jitter whines and pushes against me, making me take a step back to steady my balance.
“Sorry, pup. Hard day.”
And it’s barely five in the morning.
I shake my head as we reach the door, where I have no idea what to expect inside.
