Page 30 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“I think I’m protecting things that can’t be replaced once they’re gone.”
“And I think I’m building things that can make what’s here stronger.”
We’ve reached my car. The conversation should end here, but neither of us moves.
“Can I ask you something?” Grayson leans against my passenger door, folding his arms like he’s settling in for anargument. He’s close enough that the woodsy scent of him sneaks into my lungs, unhelpfully distracting.
“Shoot.”
“What made you this determined to fight change?”
The question knocks me off balance. His gaze isn’t sharp this time—it’s curious, steady, and that makes it worse.
“I’m not fighting change. I’m fighting replacement.” My fingers toy with my keys, metal edges digging into my palm.
“There’s a reason, though.” His voice is low, almost reluctant. “A reason you turned this into a war.”
I could deflect, make a joke, but the shadows between the streetlights feel safer somehow. Honest.
“I had a business partner once, a person I trusted. We planned everything together—the shop, the recipes, the future.” My voice tightens, and I press my hand flat to the cold car roof, needing the anchor. “And then I found out he’d been planning to cut me out. Bought me out behind my back. Took everything. The business, the money, even the relationship. We were engaged.”
Grayson doesn’t speak. The silence leaves room for the memory to throb like a bruise.
“So when someone shows up with big plans, deciding what my future should look like?—”
“You see him,” Grayson finishes quietly.
“Exactly.” I force a laugh that dies too quickly. “Someone with more resources deciding I don’t matter.”
“That’s not what this is.” His tone is sharper now, defensive.
“Isn’t it? You drew plans that assumed my shop was disposable. You’re talking about preserving community character while erasing the people who make it.”
“I’m trying to build a future.”
“David thought he was building a future too—more scalable, more profitable. Looked just like our dream on paper. But it wasn’t the same.” My throat tightens around the words.
I unlock the door with hands that won’t stay steady. “I should go.”
“Michelle, wait.”
I freeze, hand on the handle. His shadow stretches across the pavement toward me, long and dark.
“This isn’t the same,” he says, quieter now. “I’m not trying to cut you out.”
“No. Just make me irrelevant.”
“I’m trying to find a way it works together.”
The parking lot is empty, the waves pounding louder in the silence between us. I tilt my chin up, meet his eyes. There’s something raw there I don’t know what to do with.
“The problem is that some things can’t coexist. You can’t preserve what makes a place special while fundamentally changing it.”
“We won’t know until we try.”
There’s conviction in his voice that makes me think he’s not just talking about development anymore. This parking lot conversation has shifted into dangerous territory.
My heart pounds—not from anger, but from something far more complicated.
