She gestures to my phone. “Not mad. Just...remembering when our coffee made the front page. I’ve owned The Roost for twenty years. Never thought I’d see the day I got outbrewed by one of those drive-by coffee spots. They’re all the rage now. And then there’s this new ballplayer in town? Yeah, he’s come in a couple of times. Caused quite the stir. Someone did a write up of him in the paper. And, well, I suppose people don’t even read the paper any more. But it just makes me think, you know? But that’s how it is in the world. The only constant is change.”
There’s a beat of silence as she wipes her hands on a towel and nods toward the espresso machine.
“Chain shop opened six blocks down,” she says. “One of those places with the neon signs and the cardboard art. They serve everything iced and overpriced, and the high schoolers flock like moths. And they have a drive through and an order-ahead app. We don’t do that here. I always just wanted to have a cute place where people could sit down and really converse with their coffee.”
I offer a small smile. “This place is amazing, though.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But amazing don’t always pay the rent.”
There’s a weight in her words I recognize.
That stubborn hope you hold onto, even when the odds are stacking higher than you want to admit.
“I’m Cassie,” I say, reaching out my hand. “And for what it’s worth—this is the best cappuccino I’ve had in months. Frothy and perfect.”
June smiles. It’s small. But real.
“Well, Cassie,” she says, “you’re welcome here anytime.”
“Oh, I’ll be back.”
And I realize, in that moment, that maybe I needed this more than I thought.
Not just the caffeine, but the quiet and a nice big corner booth to remind me that sometimes the best things aren’t loud or shiny. They’re tucked away, just waiting for you to find them.
I plug in my headphones, put my phone away, and take out my journal.
I write about everything. The breakup. Possible plans. Brainstorm about what an ex-corporate girl like me could do in a town like this.
Maybe it’s the ambience here—she’s got comfy chairs and high ceilings—but the words start to really, really flow.
I don’t usually cook.
Not because I can’t—just because I don’t bother when it’s just me. But tonight, with the house quiet and Logan due back late, I figure…why not? Heispaying me to host him, after all.
There’s something calming about chopping onions and letting garlic sizzle in a pan. I throw together a pasta dish with roasted vegetables and fresh basil, and before I know it, the whole kitchen smells like something out of an Italian grandmother’s daydream. I’m just putting the last touches on the salad when I hear the front door creak open.
“Something smells amazing,” Logan says as he kicks off his shoes.
“Don’t get too excited. It’s just pasta.”
“Still. Major upgrade from the turkey sandwiches I’ve been inhaling all week.”
I smile and hand him a glass of water. He looks flushed from the game, hair still damp from a quick shower, sleeves pushed up, forearms tanned and dusted with dirt that didn’t quite come off. And for a second, I just look at him. He notices.
“What?” he asks, smirking.
“Nothing.”
“You cook enough for two? Or am I on my own?”
“I suppose I owe you from that salmon dinner you made the other night.”
“Yes!” He pumps his fist, so animated you’d have thought he just won the lottery.
“Simmer down, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“It really is. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me.”
