Page 43 of Hometown Heart

Rory dropped his bag onto a nearby chair and looked around the room. "Chairs, check. Coffee, check. Mic stand that will go completely unused by our host, as usual, check."

"I provide the venue. That's enough."

"Right. That's why you've been practicing that poem in your apartment every night for a week."

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. "Who told you that?"

"Mrs. Henderson. She says you're finishing it up when you open in the morning." Rory approached the counter. "You can recite every regular's coffee order from memory, but you're telling me you can't handle a few lines of poetry?"

I busied myself with the grinder settings. "They aren't the same thing."

"No? I think the poetry's simpler. It involves reading words on paper instead of remembering that Dottie likes her cappuccino with exactly one-and-a-half pumps of vanilla, and Vi needs her tea steeped for precisely three minutes, or she'll give you that disappointed grandmother look."

"Those are facts. Poetry is..." I trailed off. I couldn't figure out how to explain that reading my own words would mean a bold step into the spotlight when I'd spent years content to hover in the background.

The door chimed again. A gust of crisp evening air swept in, along with a lanky figure in a UMaine hoodie and battered jeans.

I beamed. "Ziggy. You came."

Ziggy Knickerbocker, pride of Whistleport, a hockey star with an unlikely talent for verse, grinned and dropped his duffel bag by the door. His dark hair was longer than I'd last seen him, curling slightly around his ears.

"You doubted me? After that desperate voice message?" He crossed the room in three long strides, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. "So? Are you ready?"

I swallowed hard. "Not at all."

He smiled. "Perfect. That means it matters."

Rory laughed and exchanged a fist bump with Ziggy. "Told you he'd try to back out."

"I'm not backing out. I just—"

"You're overthinking it," Ziggy interrupted, hooking an arm around my shoulders. "It's a classic Brewster move. Remember when you spent three weeks deciding what color to paint this place."

"It was an important decision."

"It's blue, man. The obvious choice for a place called Tidal Grounds."

The door chimed again, and a new wave of people filtered in—teachers from the high school, a few of the harbor crew, Dottie, and her book club. Each arrival ratcheted up the tension inside me.

I retreated behind the counter, finding comfort in my familiar coffee-brewing rituals. I measured grounds, tamped them down, and watched the rich brown liquid stream into waiting cups.

Appearing at my elbow, Rory announced, "He's here."

As I scanned the crowd, I spotted Jack near the door, brushing snowflakes off his shoulders. His gaze connected with mine immediately. He raised a hand in a small wave.

Ziggy leaned against the counter nearby. "So that's him, huh?"

"That's who?" I did a pathetic job of trying to sound innocent.

"The guy who's got you writing poetry again after, what—ten years?"

"Keep your voice down."

"Relax. I'm glad to see it. It's about time someone broke through that fortress you call a life.

As I watched Jack find a seat near the back, shrugging off his coat and revealing a deep blue sweater that matched his eyes, I wished I wasn't the host. Then, I could sit beside him.

The paper still lingered in my pocket. Tonight, whether ready or not, I would step out from behind my counter and into the unknown.

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