Page 95 of Common Grounds

On Saturday morning, James and I barely get the banner hung before our first customers arrive. I don’t even have time to register any emotion at the Sponsored by Baker’s Grove Living featured prominently in the corner. It’s for the best.

I’ve been able to keep myself distracted enough for the past few days that I haven’t thought about Emery too much. Only when I bring the extra whipped cream dispenser back to the shop. Or when someone orders a hazelnut latte, which is surprisingly frequent. Or when I wake up in the morning and wish she was next to me. Or when I go to sleep at night and wish the same. Or when I bump James out of the way to make every single drink someone orders on Friday so I can avoid looking at the Baker’s Grove Living website.

So, I guess maybe I have been thinking about her a lot. I haven’t heard from Cass. I tried to call Emery a few more times, but her phone is still off. The closest I get is when Ethan comes in on Thursday and asks if he can take a picture of me holding my framed photos of my dad and Dida. He said Emery hadn’t been in the office since Monday but had asked for this specific picture to run with her article. Someone must have told him something, though, because when I asked if I should roll up my sleeves, he smiled sadly and shook his head.

After Ethan left, James suggested I should hang the photos behind the counter. I nailed them up on the wall, above the patch my dad made when he was a teenager.

On Saturday, the customers come in a steady stream. James is doing great, but it doesn’t take very long to realize we need more help. I text Mike an SOS, and he arrives about thirty minutes later with extra provisions. He jumps right behind the counter and gets to work. For a moment, it feels like the summers he’d spent working here during college. I almost expect my dad to walk out from the back room and throw on an apron.

A swell of pride bubbles up over the ever-present numbness of the past few days because I’m sure he’d be proud of me. I’m proud of the work I’ve put in here, too. But also because I’m proud of Emery. Whatever she wrote, it has had some effect. The amount of people pointing out the photos hanging on the wall would suggest most of them are here because of her articles.

During a lull in the action in the early afternoon, James dips out to touch base with his band members. Mike starts to clean up while I man the front. When he comes out of the back room, he catches me looking at the pictures.

“Did you read the article?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Couldn’t do it.” I shrug. “It felt too final, you know?”

He folds his arms and comes to stand next to me. We’re both facing the photos, now, taking an unintentional moment of silence.

“I miss them,” I say quietly.

“I know,” he responds. “I do, too.” He’s silent for a second before he says, “They’d be proud of you, though.”

A sudden swell of emotion blocks any words trying to come out, so I just nod.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I don’t think it would have felt final if you had read it.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t take his eyes off of the photos when he says, “She gets it, I think. What this place means to you. To all of us. To them.” He nods at the photos before turning to face me. “Just read it, Trev. She wrote it for you.”

Because I am who I am, and I can’t help it, hope starts to worm its way up through the numbness, through the pride. It settles itself right on top of my chest.

Mike’s smile spreads slow and wide as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He taps it a few times, then hands it to me.

I read it slowly, letting each word register. By the time I reach the end, I can barely see the page. I look up at Mike, and he’s blurry, too. I swipe a hand at my eyes, and it comes away wet.

To know Trevor is also to love him.

“Do you think…” I don’t have words to finish the sentence. The numbness is gone. I’m all nostalgia and pride and hope.

“I think,” Mike says slowly, “you should take a look outside.” He winks, then tips his head toward the windows that face the street.

I almost don’t want to look. If Emery’s not standing out there, it’ll crush me.

Mike sees my hesitation. He claps both hands on my shoulders, then nudges me ever so slightly toward the front of the shop.

Chapter thirty-seven

Emery

I restlessly shift from foot to foot, praying I don’t sweat through my pink blouse in this late-summer heat. Trevor is standing there, on the other side of the glass, staring at the wall. Mike comes out from the back room, and I glance to my right. Cass gives me a thumbs up while Vi taps out a message on her phone from where they stand, out of the guys’ sight. Mike takes his phone out, taps a few times, then hands it to Trevor. He glances up, sees me, and nods once before turning his attention back to his friend.

I had set aside time yesterday to stalk Mike on social media since I didn’t have his number, but he was shockingly easy to find. I needed to know if Trevor had read the article. When he said Trevor hadn’t, I told Mike he had to read it before I talked to him. Mike came up with this ridiculous plan, and I roped in Cass and Vi for moral support.

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