All the mismatched furniture spreads throughout the space, making it feel cozy, like you’ve never left home. Sip-Sip Hurray! is family-owned and has been passed down from generation to generation. The only things that have changed are the furniture and some decorations.
Town folks chatter among themselves. Some of them brush past me or run into my shoulder, then apologizing in that friendly Dove Point way.
"August!" a man a couple of feet behind me shouts.
I turn around to see Mr. Miller—James and Beau's dad. The man is tall, like his sons, and he's one of Dad’s close friends. His salt and pepper hair are covered by a baseball cap that’s pulled down low.
"Mr. Miller." I put my hand out, his clasping in mine, giving a firm shake. "How's it going?"
He slides his hands in his jean’s pockets and rocks back and forth. "It's going well, just out getting coffee and scones. They look like they're about to be sold out."
"Yeah, I was looking forward to a glazed donut, but I should know better than that. Those are the first to go."
He squints at the menu that hangs above the back of the counter on a large, black chalkboard. "How's your dad been? I saw him last week, but I haven't had time to stop by since then. Has he decided if he'll be getting the surgery?"
My focus goes to the line I'm in and the slow pace it's moving at. Dad is the last thing I want to talk about, especially in a crowded place like this, where everyone will hear. I'm sure people already know everything that's going on, but I don't feel comfortable talking about it.
I clear my throat. "He’s not getting the surgery."
From the corner of my eye, Mr. Miller looks at me. "What?"
I nod once. "Yeah, he decided on it yesterday after his visit with the doctor."
Mr. Miller shakes his head, his hands going from his pockets to his hips, in that disapproving dad stance. "I love the guy, but he's as stubborn as a damn mule."
I cross my arms over my chest and silently agree.
"Did he tell you why?"
We take two steps up to the counter, so close, yet still so far, when it comes to this conversation. I look around where people are lounging in chairs, typing away on their laptops. There’s a mom feeding her son a blueberry muffin while she sips on her coffee.
Someone else bumps into my shoulder. They say they're sorry and pat me where they ran into me.
“All he said was that he’s tired and doesn’t see the point.”
“Maybe I should go talk to him,” he whispers. “He knows what I went through with my mom. Different cancer, but similar process.”
I turn around. "I didn't know that."
His forehead crinkles, and the corner of his lip tips up. "Why would you? James and Beau know the story. She passed away before they were born."
"Well, good luck getting anything out of him."
Finally, we make it to the front counter, where a cheerful teenage boy asks for my order. I tell him and step to the side, standing in front of the glass display where the food is scarce. My stomach growls, but I ignore it because I'm suddenly not feeling so hungry.
When my coffee order is ready, I say thanks to the worker and put five bucks in the tip jar. I pass Mr. Millerand give him a curt nod, saluting him with one of the brown paper cups in my hand.
I make my way up the narrow stairs that lead to Riley's place, the old wood creaking under my shoes. When I get to the door, I try very carefully not to spill the hot coffee when I balance them both in my hand, turning the knob and pushing the door open with my foot.
Hopefully, she's still asleep and I can surprise her with the cup of coffee that's warming up my hand. Her bedroom door is wide open.
But the bed is empty. The sheets are thrown on the floor, and her jeans are gone. Walking back out to the living room, I stare at the spot where her shirt was when I left, only to see that it's gone too.
"Riley?" I whisper.
Silence.
I stand there, with two coffee cups in my hand, alone with my thoughts again.
