"I hate you."
"You love me." Mae grabbed the coffee pot and started brewing a fresh batch. "So what's the plan? You're gonna actually talk to him this time? Beyond just taking his order?"
"I talk to him every week."
"'Six pork buns and a black coffee?' doesn't count as conversation, boss."
Lucy went back to her croissants, but Mae had planted the seed and now it was growing. Whatwasher plan? Jake would come in at 8:17, same as always. He'd order six pork buns and black coffee, same as always. She'd ring him up, hand him his food, he'd leave.
Except.
Except on Saturday, he'd actually complimented the pork buns. Had looked at her like he wanted to say more but didn't know how. And according to Rei, he'd been asking about her. Asking if she ever took breaks.
Maybe—maybe—this Wednesday could be different.
"I don't have a plan," Lucy admitted. "But I'm going to... I don't know. See what happens."
"Very spontaneous. I'm proud of you."
"Don't make a big deal out of it."
"Too late. I'm texting Rei right now. 'Operation: Get Lucy A Life' is officially in motion."
"There is no operation. And I have a life."
"Do you though?" Mae's voice was gentle despite the teasing. "Because from where I'm standing, you work six days a week, sixteen hour days, and your idea of excitement is trying a new flour supplier."
Lucy opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Because Mae wasn't wrong. When had her life become so small? So predictable?
When you decided it was easier to hide than to risk anything, a voice in her head whispered. It sounded disturbingly like her grandmother.
"Okay," Lucy said. "You're right. I need to... branch out. Be more social. Have hobbies or whatever."
"Start with talking to Hot Hockey Guy for more than thirty seconds. Baby steps."
The morning rush was steady—Mr. Peterson with his bran muffin, the Knitting Circle with their gossip and decaf, Tom and Jerry arguing about whether to get the cinnamon rolls or the danishes (they got both, same as always). By 8 AM, Lucy had developed a low-grade anxiety that she tried to disguise as normal Tuesday-into-Wednesday energy.
At 8:14, she glanced at the clock.
At 8:15, she wiped down the counter for the third time.
At 8:16, Mae caught her eye and mouthed "breathe."
At 8:17, the door didn't open.
Lucy told herself it was fine. He was probably just running late. Hockey practice had gone long, or he'd hit traffic, or—
At 8:19, the door still didn't open.
"Maybe he's sick," Mae offered.
"Maybe." Lucy busied herself restocking napkins. "It's fine. He's a customer. He doesn't owe me his business."
But by 8:25, Lucy had to admit that Jake Morrison wasn't coming. For the first time in three years, he'd missed Wednesday pork bun day.
And Lucy was surprised by how disappointed she felt.
Jake knew he was late. He'd meant to leave at 8 AM, same as always, but Owen had cornered him after practice with questions about forehand technique, and then Tommy had wanted to talk about Saturday's lineup, and before Jake knew it, it was 8:20 and he was still at the rink.
