Page 25 of The Coffee Bar on Camellia Court

"You're too nice to me, June-bug." It came out like a moan. "You should hate me."

"I will never hate you, Alex," she returned quietly. Again, she asked, "What happened?"

Alex shook his head, but said nothing, and then she saw a tear squeeze out of the corner of his eye.

"It's okay," she said, touching his shoulder briefly. Why was she pushing him? He was in no shape to have a meaningful conversation. She could give him a little grace and wait for answers. "It's okay," she said again. "We can talk tomorrow. Get some sleep."

Alex swiped at the moisture with the back of his hand, but still didn't open his eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized yet again. "I'm such a screw up."

"Shh. Enough of that." She moved the trash can a little closer to him and rested her hand on his shoulder again, letting it linger a little longer this time. "I'll be down the hall if you need me, okay?"

As she started to turn away, his hand covered hers—not forcefully, just enough to make her pause. She looked back at him and saw that his eyes were open.

"Thank you," he murmured.

She nodded, then carefully withdrew her hand out from under his. "Get some sleep, Alex. Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out tomorrow."

Later, lying in her own bed, she listened to his soft snores through the wall and wondered what she was doing. After everything, after all these years of keeping her distance, why bring him into her home? Into her private space?

Claire's words from earlier that week echoed in her mind."Both of you were just kids when all this happened. Maybe neither of you had the tools to handle what came your way."

Well, like she'd said to her friend, they weren't kids anymore.

And maybe tomorrow, they were finally going to talk—really talk—for the first time since she'd left Autumn Lake all those years ago.

13

Alex

Alexwoketothearoma of coffee and baked goods and the worst headache he could remember in years.

He opened his eyes just a crack, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling and the light stabbing his eyeballs. As he pulled the blanket higher, its scent caught him by surprise.

Juno.

Then everything came rushing back, making his stomach lurch. He'd been passed out in Juno's apartment.

The letters. Mrs. Becker had refused to elaborate, just patted his arm and insisted he go directly to Juno.

So he had. He'd worked up the courage to come last night after Juno's closed. But her car had been gone, and no one had answered his knock.

He'd waited almost an hour before he'd lost his nerve. Because he wasn't just coming to ask about the letters. He wanted to mend fences, to fix what had gone wrong all those years ago, to bridge the chasm between them. But asking for her honesty meant offering his own, and telling her his secrets risked destroying any bridge they might build.

Back at his apartment, he sat in his parked truck, engine idling. Did he want to endure another eight years of unresolved wounds? Could either of them bear it? What if Mrs. Becker was right—that they'd been circling each other all this time because they both longed for something different?

He harbored no illusions about romance between them. Once he revealed everything to her, there was no way she'd even consider him in that light.

But friendship without this brutal tension? He'd take it in a heartbeat.

In utter frustration over his own indecision, he'd gripped the steering wheel hard and shook it, causing the whole truck to shimmy. He'd revved the engine a few times, even knowing The Beast was loud and obnoxious, then he'd roared out of the parking lot and back down the street the way he'd come.

He'd sit outside and wait for her. Wherever she was, surely, she had to come home, right? And when she did, he'd be waiting. He'd be ready to hear her out, and he'd tell her about Lena. And he'd offer her his friendship, his loyalty. He'd be the kind of man that she could depend on, even if it took him the rest of his life to prove it to her.

So, there he'd sat, his thoughts roiling inside him, the quandary of what to do, how to move forward, of how to become someone different, someone new, churning up his gut.

Then his mind had drifted to the old days and what he used to do on Friday nights. How he'd walk the three blocks from his place to Bill's Tavern, then stumble home hours later, having spent way too much on drinks with his buddies. Or with whatever woman was clinging to his arm that night. Of the way that first sip of cold beer felt sliding down his throat. Of the warmth in his belly when he switched to whiskey.

It was unseasonably cool for a mid-July night, and sitting alone in a dark alley, waiting for the woman he ached for, knowing that after they talked, she'd either hate him even more or agree to be friends and nothing more, all Alex could think about was getting his hands on a bottle of whiskey. Just a shot would do it, a couple of ounces of liquid courage.

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