Page 23 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“I really want to know,” I reply, a hint of dry humor in my voice. “And I promise not to use this information for evil developer purposes.”
She launches into explanations about coffee beans, roasting, brewing timing, flavor notes that range from chocolate and caramel to floral and citrus like she’s describing a symphony written in caffeine. She talks about relationships with coffee farmers, ethical sourcing, the difference between arabica and robusta beans. She explains coffee with the same passion I explain construction—love for the craft and respect for the process that borders on religious devotion.
“The magic happens in the roasting. Too light, and you taste the bean’s potential but not its character. Too dark, and you burn away everything unique about where it came from. The perfect roast reveals exactly what that particular bean has to offer.”
“Finding the right balance between preservation and progress?”
She pauses, coffee cup halfway to her lips like I just solved advanced math. “That’s... actually a surprisingly good metaphor.”
“I do occasionally produce useful thoughts despite my apparently villainous exterior.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Accidental Wisdom.”
We spend the next twenty minutes debating coffee preparation methods with the same intensity most people reserve for political arguments or sports rivalries. She challenges my belief that espresso is automatically better than pour-over with the fierceness of a defense attorney. I question her devotion to French press brewing. We discover a mutual appreciation for cold brew and shared skepticism about flavored syrups that could probably fuel rockets.
“You know,” she says, gathering wrappers, “this is the longest conversation we’ve had that didn’t involve building permits or threats.”
“We’ve talked before.”
“We’ve exchanged pleasantries that could have been performed by robots. Weather, weekend plans, holiday greetings. This is an actual conversation where we’ve revealed personality traits and possibly mutual intellectual compatibility.”
She’s right, and it’s terrifying. Years of careful politeness, and we’ve just spent an hour discovering chemistry that extends far beyond customer service transactions and into territory that could be dangerous for my emotional well-being.
“We should have tried actual conversation earlier.”
“Should we have?” She studies me with curiosity instead of suspicion, like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve instead of an enemy she’s trying to defeat. “Why didn’t we?”
Because I’ve spent years rebuilding emotional walls after my divorce like some kind of construction project. Because caring about people leads to disappointment and anger and the kind of vulnerability that makes you do stupid things like buy breakfast for women whose lives you’re disrupting. Because keeping relationships surface-level felt safer than risking genuine connection and potential heartbreak.
“I don’t know.” The admission feels like emotional surrender.
She nods like she understands incomplete answers and the general messiness of human feelings. “I don’t know either. But I saved your table this morning.”
“What?” The word comes out strangled.
“Your usual spot by the window. I put the reserved sign on it before the committee meeting started. Force of habit, I guess, or maybe muscle memory overriding rational thought.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at this revelation. Despite everything—the demolition notice, the accusations, the community warfare—she still saved my table.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t read too much into it. A decade of routine is hard to break, and I’m apparently a creature of habit even when I’m plotting somebody’s professional downfall.”
But I am reading into it. Hope and possibility and the chance that this situation doesn’t have to end in mutual destruction or me fleeing town under cover of darkness.
My phone buzzes like a fire alarm. Scott’s name is on the screen, and he’s probably wondering if I’ve been kidnapped, had a mental breakdown, or joined a cult.
Scott: Where are you? Investor call in 20 minutes.
Reality crashes into our coffee shop peace treaty like a bucket of ice water thrown by a vindictive universe. I have responsibilities beyond this conversation, and she has a community to organize for what’s probably going to be my public execution. We can’t solve everything over breakfast and jazz music, no matter how much my traitorous heart wishes we could.
“I have to go.” The words taste like disappointment mixed with construction dust.
“Of course you do.” She’s already turning back to her legal documents, but her posture suggests the kind of disappointment that makes my chest feel like someone’s using it for demolition practice.
“Michelle.”
She looks up with wariness.
