Page 5 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Amanda: Go apologize to the woman properly. With actual human emotions instead a bunch of business mumbo jumbo. Try using words like ‘sorry’ and ‘I was wrong.’
I don’t respond because acknowledging Amanda’s superior emotional intelligence would violate decades of sibling rivalry. Also, she’s terrifyingly right about my tendency to hide behind professional jargon when my personal life implodes.
Twin Waves’ downtown looks deceptively peaceful this morning—Victorian storefronts gleaming in autumn sunlight, completely unaware of the emotional warfare about to unfold.
Twin Waves Brewing Co. sits perfectly positioned for maximum tourist foot traffic. Prime oceanfront real estate with architectural charm that photographs beautifully for social media. Everything that makes it impossible to preserve in our development plans without sacrificing the project’s financial viability.
Michelle’s car occupies her usual space beside the building. Through the windows, she moves with sharp efficiency, hair pulled back with severity.
Mrs. Hensley occupies her corner table like a general surveying the battlefield. Caroline nurses her coffee, studying her notebook.
My phone rings. Scott, my business partner.
“Please tell me you’re not stalking that coffee shop from your truck.”
“I’m conducting reconnaissance.”
“From across the street. Which makes you look completely unhinged.” I spot Scott’s Range Rover three spaces down. “Word’s spreading fast. Half the town thinks you’ve lost your mind, and the other half is placing bets on how badly this ends. I may have put twenty dollars on ‘complete emotional devastation with possible property damage.’”
Through the window, Michelle serves Mrs. Hensley with forced brightness while the older woman gestures dramatically. Caroline shoots concerned glances at Michelle’s tense posture.
“Council meeting’s Thursday,” Scott continues. “If she turns the whole town against us?—”
“I know.” Three years of planning, and it might all collapse because I couldn’t figure out how to handle one conversation properly.
“So what’s your brilliant plan for handling this catastrophic situation you’ve created?”
“I’m going to talk to her.”
Silence. “That’s possibly your worst idea since you rescued that psychotic rooster.”
“She deserves an explanation.”
“She deserved a heads-up before her world imploded. Now she deserves space to process without harassment from the person who just nuked her life.”
Scott’s assessment stings because it’s accurate. But avoiding Michelle feels cowardly, and I’ve spent enough time perfecting professional unavailability.
“I’ll be diplomatic.”
“You’ll be a complete disaster. Everything about your relationship with this woman has been one continuous accident.”
He disconnects, leaving me with the uncomfortable realization that I’ve built an entire friendship with Michelle while simultaneously planning the annihilation of everything she’s worked to create.
Smart move: drive away, handle this through lawyers and official channels.
Instead, I cross the street, apparently committed to making poor decisions.
The coffee shop door chime announces my entrance.
Morning bustle pauses. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Michelle stands behind the counter, holding a coffee pot like it’s a hand grenade.
“Mr. Reed.” Her professional smile could cause an ice age. “What can I get you this morning?”
The return to formal address hits hard. After seven years of “Good morning, Grayson” and casual conversations about weather and weekend plans, “Mr. Reed” sounds like she’s preparing to serve me with legal documents instead of coffee.
“Could we talk privately for a moment?”
“I’m working.” Her tone suggests this information should be obvious to anyone with functional brain cells, which apparently excludes me.
