Page 12 of The Coffee Bar on Camellia Court

Their hero.What she wouldn't give to be able to call Alex Frampton her hero.

To be able to call anyone her hero.

Nope. She was her own hero. Always had been. Always would be. She'd learned the hard way a few too many times that depending on anyone but herself was a loser's game.

"Yeah. You're right." She held up the coffee carafe to offer Claire a refill, but her friend shook her head.

"He's all right, then? He didn't say anything to upset you, Juno?"

Juno shook her head. "Of course not. He's a big lug, but he's not intentionally cruel." Then she filled Claire in on the details of Alex's injuries and recovery expectations. "If you want to contribute to meals or anything, give Penny a call. Ward said she and Hazel are going to put together a little meal schedule for the next few days."

Later that night, Juno stood at her upstairs apartment window, watching the last customers leave the shops along Camellia Court. The day's events replayed in her mind, but it was that single word—babe—that kept echoing.

Her father had called every woman he knew "babe" too. And her mother had never seemed to mind. Granted, she'd usually been pretty out of it by the time he came home late smelling of cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey. But Juno noticed. She noticed all of it. The pills he brought home with him to tuck into her mother's hand. The crumpled cash falling out of his pockets on good days, the emptiness of his splayed wallet on bad days. The bruises on the inside of her mother's wrists that could only be seen days after they were inflicted. The empty liquor bottles clinking too loudly in the trash bags that Juno snuck out to the neighbor's trash can well after midnight since the trash collector always came early for pickup, and she couldn't risk missing it.

She didn't miss the ramping up of tension, the air practically sizzling with it, in the days before things came to the same end over and over again.

Somehow, her mother was always– always– surprised when her father packed them up in the darkest hour of the night to run from his sins, ranting at them to hurry, hurry, hurry. Juno knew to sleep fully clothed, and to keep anything she treasured tucked inside her pillow case; her pillow was often the only thing she was allowed to bring with them, other than the clothes on her back and the shoes on her feet.

Her mother had never learned, but Juno had made a pact not to be like her mother. Not back then, not now. Not ever.

Juno wrapped her arms around herself, fighting off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Some things you couldn't outrun, no matter how far you traveled or how long you stayed away. She might never figure out how to fully get over Alex Frampton, but why was she always –always- surprised by the piercing of her heart whenever he proved over and over again that he hadn't changed his ways?

Maybe she was like her mother after all.

6

Alex

Alexsatinhistruck, parked across the street a block down from Juno's Coffee Bar. He slouched low in his seat, his arms crossed tightly, his flannel just enough to ward off the pre-dawn chill. Through bleary eyes, he watched Juno navigate her morning routine, her silhouette clear through the front windows of the cafe, even with the blinds only half-open. She moved efficiently between the prep stations and the industrial coffee makers, her posture upright, her steps precise and graceful.

He wished he felt as put together as the woman inside the shop looked.

He hadn't slept. Again.

He'd been sitting here for at least half an hour, fighting the urge to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. The pain medication had worn off hours ago, but he'd refused to take another pill. One was enough. One had to be enough. He'd gone down that road before, and he wouldn't—couldn't—travel it again.

His ankle throbbed inside the walking boot. The urgent care doctor had said to stay off of it and keep it elevated for at least three days, and then to only put weight on it to help with balance until the swelling was down.

Well, it had been almost four days now, and Alex was tired of lying around being miserable and feeling sorry for himself. Ward and Penny had been over bringing him dinner the last three days, and they'd tag-teamed bandaging his shoulder last night, hoping he could rest easier, but to no avail. Between the physical discomfort and. of course, the memory of Juno's face when he'd called Payton "babe," sleep had been a lost cause.

Who was he kidding? Sleep had been a lost cause for a whole lot longer than the last couple of days.

Juno was now straightening chairs around tables and nudging small vases of fresh-cut flowers into their proper places. She paused at the door and gazed out, and for a heart-stopping moment, Alex thought she'd seen him. But she must have only seen her reflection in the glass because she just smoothed her apron, glanced at the wristwatch she wore, then headed back. Even with her back to him, he could tell that she was portioning out fresh-ground coffee into the machines for the morning rush. Fresh. Juno wouldn't have it any other way.

Not that he should know her routine so well. What was he doing out here, anyway?

He scrubbed a hand over his face, his palm rasping against three days' worth of stubble. The familiar pressure behind his eyes was building again, that bone-deep exhaustion that made operating any kind of machinery dangerous. That was a lesson he'd not soon forget. It had been in the early hours of a morning just like this, a little over a year ago, when he'd dozed off at the wheel and nearly joined his brother in the afterlife. If Ward hadn't answered the phone that night....

Alex's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He could still hear the screech of metal on metal when he'd hit the guardrail, still feel the sickening lurch as his truck left the road and the jarring jolt as he ended up nose down in the irrigation ditch. He still felt the rush of shame when Ward had pulled over to the side of the road where Alex had been waiting for him, the concern in his friend's eyes as he gave what felt like the third degree. "Are you hurt? Bleeding? Did you hit your head? Let me look at your eyes." He hadn't gone so far as to ask if he could smell his breath—Ward was a better friend than that—but Alex had noticed his flared nostrils, and knew he'd been scenting the air around him for the telltale stench of a man on a bender.

Although he didn't acknowledge Ward's unspoken suspicions, Alex insisted that he didn't need to go to the hospital, nor did he need to report the accident, and that the truck was fine. He just needed help getting it back up on the road. Even with the four-wheel drive, his tires spun in the thick mud in the ditch, and he had no scrap lumber in the truck bed to shove under them for traction.

Ward had finally backed off a little, and with a tow chain and his own 4x4 in gear, they'd managed to get The Beast back up on the road. The truck's front grill had taken the brunt of the abuse, but Alex had assured his friend that it was nothing he couldn't fix with a little Bondo and touch-up paint.

When the proverbial dust had settled and Ward started probing again, Alex had stuck to his story. He'd gone to bed too late, gotten up too early, and hadn't had his coffee yet, but they both knew exactly why he'd been out driving on that country road on that pre-dawn morning.

It had nothing to do with alcohol, although he didn't blame Ward for worrying. But sleep deprivation was its own kind of intoxication, and Alex found himself succumbing to the bad decision-making that came hand in hand with both. Over the years on nights when sleep eluded him, Alex had often made his way out to the cemetery at the edge of town in a vain search for answers for the tragic death of his brother. A death Alex still struggled to come to grips with even after all this time.

---