When I return, she’s handing off the cappuccinos and taking the next order, but her eyes flick toward me as I restock the fridge behind the counter.
“Seriously, Ames,” she murmurs, leaning closer.“Did something happen after our call yesterday?”
Only everything.
“Ended up running some errands and got very little sleep,” I say, reciting my rehearsed answer.I turn away to grab another order slip, forcing brightness into my tone.“Anyway, busy, busy.What’s next?”
Helen exhales sharply, but the next customer is already ordering.She gives me one last worried look before turning back to the register, her professional smile snapping into place.
The shield holds, barely.
But I can feel her eyes on me whenever there’s a lull, her concern a quiet weight in the bustling space.
Finally, the Sunday morning wave crests and recedes.The queue dwindles to one person, then none.The frantic pace slows to a manageable rhythm.Helen wipes down the espresso machine, humming again, but I still feel her occasional glances.
Near the register, I spot the petition clipboard.Helen leans over and points it out to a customer, who nods, picks up the pen, and fills in his information.That small act of support sparks a warmth in my chest.
My gaze sweeps over the regulars chatting at their tables, and lands on Lou.He’s tucked into his usual corner, newspaper spread out, glasses perched on his nose.
Watching him, the frantic edges of my fear smooth away.In its place, something hard, clear, and definite forms.
Purpose.
Grabbing two mugs, I turn to the Bunn brewer.I fill one with the dark roast I know Lou prefers and pour myself another, needing the caffeine.
“Looks like it’s easing up a bit,” I say to Helen.“I’m gonna take five to check in with Lou about those signatures.”I lift the mugs.“I’ll take him a refill too.”
Helen pauses.There’s a flicker of worry, but she masks it with a sigh and a nod.“Go ahead,mija,” she says, forcing a smile.
“Thanks.”
Balancing the two steaming mugs, I navigate around the counter.Lou lowers his newspaper as I approach, folding it neatly beside his empty mug.His kind eyes crinkle above the rim of his glasses.
“Looked like you might need a refill, Lou,” I say, offering a weary smile as I place the fresh coffee in front of him.
“Amy, my dear, thank you,” he replies, his voice warm as a hug.“Ever so thoughtful.”
I gesture to the empty chair.“Mind if I join you?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
I sink into the chair, setting my mug down.
Lou’s expression shifts from welcoming to gently concerned.“So,” he begins, picking up his fresh coffee.“Did you get some rest yesterday?”
Rest.
The word pulls me back to the sunlit path at Picnic Point.The vast blue shimmer of the lake.The warmth of Matthew’s hand guiding me over the gnarled tree root.The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
It was a pocket of peace, like finding an island when I felt like I was drowning.
Focusing on that small island of peace feels less like a lie and more like a necessary omission.Lou doesn’t need the full, ugly truth right now, and honestly, I don’t think I could bear to tell it.
I meet his caring gaze, offering a small smile that feels less forced this time, warmed by the memory.“Yes, actually,” I say, my voice steadier.“I did.It was good to get away for a bit.”
Lou takes a slow sip of his fresh coffee, his gaze thoughtful over the rim.He sets it down gently.There’s a knowing softness in his eyes.Something tells me he sees right through my answer, sensing the turmoil beneath the calm I’m clinging to.But thankfully, he doesn’t push.Instead, he leans forward slightly, his expression full of empathy.
“I know times are challenging, dear,” he says, his voice calm.“And sometimes it might very well seem like it’s the end of the world.”He pauses, letting the acknowledgment sink in.“But trust me,”—his eyes hold mine with quiet conviction—“it’s not.It never is.”
