KYLE
I told myself I was going in that direction anyway.
It wasn't entirely a lie. The farmers' market on Clayborne was on Saturday mornings, and I usually picked up eggs and whatever looked good from the produce stand near the entrance. So walking down that block was a reasonable thing to do and not stalkery at all. If anything, I was being a good neighbor by checking in on the man I'd caught crying on the floor three days ago.
But there was that other part of me that was a tiny bit stalkery and couldn’t stop thinking about the man. The way he was folded into a ball was oddly familiar and extremely heartbreaking. I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I knew he was okay. I didn't know anything about him, but I hated that I left without at least asking if I could help.
The farmers' market was busy, but that played well into the lie I told myself that I was trying to get away from the crowd by walking closer to the store fronts. When I approached the coffee shop, I was relieved to see the door was open again. And thistime, there was upbeat music streaming out of it. That had to be a good sign. Right?
I stopped in the doorway and peeked in, unsure what the protocol was for stalking local businesses.
The man I’d previously seen crying was on a ladder with a paint brush, cutting in along the top of a cabinet. He moved with a confident rhythm. The wall behind him was already painted in a warm cocoa that immediately made me feel cozy and relaxed. But when I looked closer, I saw large drops of paint on the floor underneath the ladder that he probably hadn't noticed.
He looked like a whole new man compared to the person I'd seen a few days ago. His shoulders were loose, and he was singing along to Taylor Swift, loudly and off key.
I knocked on the door frame between songs. “Excuse me.”
The man startled and jerked back. The brush went one way and his body went the other. He made a grab for the brush mid-air and then his arm started to windmill through the air to catch himself.
I was already moving.
I got across the room fast enough to catch him in my arms before he hit the ground. The momentum spun us both sideways, and I dropped to my knees with him still tucked safely against my chest. “Whoa, there.”
“Oh my gods!” He wrapped his arms around my neck and squeezed his eyes shut. “Am I dead?”
I smiled and chuckled lightly. “No, you’re not. My knees aren’t so lucky, but I think we’ll survive.”
His eyes popped open, and he looked guilt-stricken. “I’m so sorr—” He stopped mid sentence and narrowed his eyes on me. "Mr. Rupert. Is that you?"
Only students called me that. I was finally able to get a good look at him and instantly recognized the shy boy who had once been in one of my cooking classes. "Ethan?" How long ago was he my student? Eight years? Ten? "Ethan Andersen?"
He nodded, and we both just stared at each other for a moment as we processed the moment. Then he seemed to remember he was still in my arms and quickly scrambled to his feet. There was a streak of paint across my sleeve from where he'd grabbed me, and he winced when he saw it. "Oh, no. I’m so sorry."
"It'll wash out." I looked around the room, impressed with the progress that had happened in just a few days. "I was just walking by and wanted to check in on you."
His brow furrowed. “How did you know this was my place?”
“Oh, I didn’t.” I wasn’t sure how much to reveal about my true reason for stopping by, but I didn’t want to lie to his face. “I’ve seen the Not Open Yet sign on the door for months and noticed the door was open a few days ago, so I wanted to see if you were open yet.”
He swallowed and nodded, satisfied with that answer. “Well, no. Not yet. It might be another month or two…or more. But I’m finally working on it again.” He bent down and picked the brush up off the floor then laid it across the paint tray. "I don’t really know what I’m doing here, as you can see."
"You’re doing great." I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and reached over to wipe a drop of paint from his chin. “But it’s a big job.”
"Yeah, I’m realizing that now." He put his hands on his hips and threw his head back. "There’s so much to do. I don’t even know what all there is. I can’t even figure out how to set up the espresso machine, much less use it. And there’s a letter somewhere about getting the food-handling permits renewed because they expired when we didn't finish the buildout last year. And then there’s the cosmetic stuff, like painting and tables and chairs and…ya know, coffee." He laughed a little manically. "There's probably a hundred other things I don't even know about yet."
"There are." I took a step closer and placed my hand on his shoulder. "But they're all doable."
He didn’t look convinced. “How do you know?”
I shrugged and gave him a squeeze. "The permits are straightforward. Tedious, but most of that can be done online. And the espresso machine, what brand is it?"
“No idea.” He pointed at the crate and made a face. "I’m afraid to unpack it."
"Mind if I take a look?" When he waved toward the box, I crossed the room and checked the label on the side. It was a commercial-grade brand that I’d seen in other coffee shops. "I’m sure I can find some tutorials online. You can learn just about anything on YouTube."
He watched me from across the room. "You think?"
I glanced at him and raised a brow. "Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I taught culinary arts for the past fifteen years. I’ve worked one or two of these in my time." I walked back toward the ladder and looked up at the trim. "You've got drips up here, by the way."
