I walked toward Deja Brew.
The bell over the door chimed the same way it had every time I’d walked into this shop for five years. The espresso machine was hissing, the community board by the entrance was covered in flyers, and the morning light was coming through the front windows at the angle that made the whole room glow.
Lena was behind the counter, wiping down the steamer. Her purple-streaked braid caught the light as she looked up, and her whole face opened when she saw me.
“There she is.” She set down the towel and leaned both hands on the counter. “I’ve been hoping you’d come in. I heard about that drug-bust craziness. How are you doing?”
“I’m good. It’s been a week.”
“It’s been more than a week, honey.” She was already reaching for a cup. “Want your usual?”
“Please.”
She pulled the shot and steamed the milk while she talked. Lena was married to Jude Williams, one of the founding members of the Resting Warrior Ranch, so I wasn’t surprised she’d heard about everything. There was no such thing as a secret in a town the size of Garnet Bend.
Except mine. Except the fact that I might lose Pawsitive.
“I don’t know details and I don’t need to,” she said, setting my latte on the counter. “I’m just glad those boys took care of it.”
“They were incredible. The whole team.”
“And Logan?”
I could feel the smile before I could stop it. “Logan was incredible too.”
Lena’s eyebrows went up, and she pressed her lips together, holding back whatever she wanted to say about the look on my face. She let it go with a small nod that said she’d seen enough.
“You know what I keep thinking about?” She folded the towel and laid it over her shoulder. “You take care of every person and animal that walks through your doors. Every kid, every veteran, every family that needs help. You show up for this entire town.” She held my gaze, and her voice dropped. “I’m glad that for once, someone was there to take care of you. Warrior Security and Logan.”
The deflection was right there. I could feel it loading, the breezy laugh and the joke about how the shotgun counted as self-care. A month ago, it would have been out of my mouth before I’d registered what she said.
“Thank you, Lena.” I wrapped both hands around the cup. “That really does mean a lot.”
I wanted to tell her about my financial problems, but at the same time, I didn’t. It wasn’t her burden to carry. I would figure it out.
She smiled and moved down the counter to wipe a spot she’d already wiped. I appreciated the exit she gave me, the graceful shift to busywork that let the moment settle without making it heavier than it needed to be.
I pulled out my wallet and put a five on the counter. My latte cost four dollars and seventy-five cents, which meant the five covered it with a twenty-five-cent tip that was insulting and I knew it. The number added itself to the column in my head, quiet and automatic, another line item on the running total of a life that cost more than it earned.
“Keep the change,” I said, and Lena took it without comment. “Thanks, Lena.”
I pushed back out onto the sidewalk with my latte and walked toward the truck. The sun was higher, the street had filled in with a few more trucks in the angled spots, and the morning was doing its best impression of a normal day in a normal town where nothing was wrong and nobody needed to make a shitty phone call.
The prickle returned as I crossed the street. Must be because of the neon sign I was wearing:I’m about to call my parents and beg for money, and they’re going to tell me I’m a loser and may or may not give it to me.
I sighed, took a sip of my latte, and kept walking. Nobody was watching me except for my own mind’s eye calling me a coward.
But God, I didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to ask them for the money. Didn’t want to prove them right if only in their own minds.
But more than any of that, I didn’t want to lose Pawsitive Connections. My pride would survive the blow of asking. It was worth it.
I reached my truck and pulled the door handle. The door swung open and I stopped.
A rose lay on the driver’s seat. A single stem, deep red, with no wrapping or cellophane, the bloom resting on the worn fabric.
I stood with one hand on the door and the latte in the other and looked at it.
Logan.
