Page 67 of Healing Hearts
“Maybe the lines are blurred a little,” I admit. “But it’s still sex with a purpose, and once that purpose is served, we’ll go back to how we were.”
Maggie takes a deep breath and purses her lips, but she doesn’t contradict me.
When I get home, I fill in the calendar on the wall with the dates for July and then I fill in the potential dates for August too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Trent
Once a week when my mother is manning the reception desk, I go get coffee and pastries for the crew. Today, all three bays are booked solid, and it feels like a gigantic win. Looking at the rest of this week and next, there are hardly any spots unfilled. That might mean a lot of overtime after hours for me and, possibly, Brett because I’ve committed to not turning anyone away. When people in Little Falls think of getting their vehicle repaired, their oil changed, or troubleshooting a tricky electrical problem, I want my shop to be at the forefront of their minds.
Each week I’ve picked up coffee and pastries, I’ve avoided Kathy’s Café. Everyone says it’s the best, but I went to high school with Kathy, and I’ve heard through the Little Falls gossip grapevine that she’s not my biggest fan.
So it’s with a fair bit of trepidation that I enter her packed café this morning. People who’ve been to the shop or who remember me from high school call out a “hello” as they collect their orders and breeze past me. It helps that Grady is so popular intown. His bid for mayor a couple of years ago helped restore the Castillo name.
The shop has large, curved windows at the front, and there are people dotted at the tables all around. The line is substantial, but if I want local people to support me, I need to do the same for them. The big-box stores and the chain restaurants aren’t as small-town minded as the grassroots ones like Kathy’s Café, where she and Sabrina know everyone who enters.
“What can I get for you?” Kathy asks when I get to the till.
The drink orders are memorized after so many weeks of coffee runs, and I rattle them off with ease. Then I scan the rows of pastries behind clear glass.
“Just an assortment, I guess,” I say, unsure of what’s even any good. I probably should have asked everyone before I left the shop, but I wasn’t sure I’d actually get up the guts to come in here. “A dozen or so.” My mom will give the rest to customers who stick around while we work on their vehicle.
“Sure,” Kathy says, ringing up the order and then grabbing a strip of wax paper to put pastries into two large boxes. “Anything else?” she says when she returns.
“No,” I say. “That’ll be all.”
She clicks through the total, and as the machine to pay loads, Kathy’s gaze rakes over me. I brace myself for some snide comment. I do have slightly more respect for people who can say shitty things to my face and not just behind my back.
“Heard a lot of good things about your shop,” she says as I dig out my credit card. “Bit of a buzz in the café about how goodyouare, specifically.”
“Oh,” I say, completely taken aback by her compliments. “That’s—that’s good to hear.”
“I’m just glad you’re not dragging another Sullivan into some shitshow.”
Ah,thereit is.
“Em and I are just friends.” It irks me to say the words.
“Still,” she says, “what you do impacts her, since you’re living in her house, spending time with her kid. I’m just glad you’ve turned into a positive influence. Couldn’t have said that in high school.”
“Peoplecanchange,” I say, paying for my order and tucking my card back in my pocket before sweeping the boxes off the counter.
“It appears so,” she says. “Collect your coffees from Sabrina over there.” She nods toward the back and left where a chest-high counter sits and Sabrina seems to be frantically making drinks.
When I get to Sabrina, she passes over the drinks stacked in some fancy carrier thing. I’d been a bit worried about how I’d handle everything when I had to park a couple of blocks away, but it appears Kathy’s Café is used to big orders from the local crowd.
“How are you, Trent?” Sabrina asks as she reads the order screen and starts mixing more drinks.
“I’m good, and you?”
“I heard your shop’s doing really well, and Grady’s studio is booked solid for months. Look at you Castillo boys, huh? Who’d have thought?”
“Who’d have thought…” I say, and I don’t add anything more as I turn to head out the door. As I go, other people stop me to say “hello” or to talk about some issue they’re having with their vehicle.
“Sounds like a fuel pump,” I say to Mike McGregor. “Bring it by, and we’ll get it fixed for you.”
“Glad I ran into you,” he says just before I squeeze out the front door and breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve always liked talking to people—more of an extravert than an introvert—but coming back to live in this town has been harder than I expected. I justnever know what people are going to say to me, and I hate the uncertainty of not knowing where I stand.
