Page 7 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I’m sorry that protecting my business interests meant destroying something that mattered to you.”
“Are you sorry you made those choices, or just sorry I found out about them?”
The distinction matters more than I want to acknowledge, and Michelle waits for an answer I’m not sure I can give honestly.
“I’m sorry they hurt you,” I say quietly. “I’m not sure I could have made different choices given the same circumstances.”
She nods like this confirms something she already suspected. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Does honesty help?”
“It helps me understand who you actually are instead of who I thought you were.”
The coffee shop feels smaller suddenly, air thick with seven years of memories I never valued the way I should have. Her laugh when I ranted about Reggie’s latest disaster. How she remembered I like my coffee black but always offered cream anyway. The corner table she saved me during tourist season, like it was a given.
“And who am I?”
“A guy who’s very good at protecting himself while convincing himself he’s protecting everyone else.”
The door chimes. Three more customers step in, the bell sounding sharper than usual, and suddenly I feel every set of eyes shifting my way. The room tilts on its axis, too bright, too close. Conversations falter as if the entire crowd has tuned into our frequency. I smooth a hand over my tie, pulse hammering in my throat, the starch of my collar scraping against suddenly damp skin.
They came for caffeine, not a public autopsy of my character.
“I have to work.” Michelle’s professional mask slides back into place, polished and airtight. “This conversation is over.”
“We could continue this later.” My voice sounds strained to my own ears, thinner than I want it to be.
“No.” She turns, plastering on a brightness that makes my chest ache. “Good morning! What can I get started for you today?”
Dismissed. Definitively dismissed.
The onlookers don’t return to their conversations right away. I feel their gazes pressing into my back, hot and unrelenting, as I force my shoulders square and stride toward the door. The smile I usually deploy in boardrooms won’t come—not with my chest hollowed out and my palms itching for escape.
Mrs. Hensley gives me a nod as I pass, equal parts encouragement and glee, and I know she’s already drafting the social media post that will immortalize my humiliation.
Outside, Scott’s Range Rover has disappeared, leaving me alone with the consequences of my diplomatic disaster and the growing realization that I’ve just defended decisions that hurt the person I care about more than I was willing to admit.
My phone buzzes immediately.
Scott: How did damage control go?
Me: I think I may have actually made things worse, which I didn’t think was mathematically possible.
Scott: Define worse.
Me: She understands exactly who I am and what she means to me, and both revelations were apparently deeply disappointing.
Scott: Which is?
Me: The woman whose friendship I valued right up until it became inconvenient for my profit margins.
Scott: That’s not who you are.
Me: It’s exactly who I am. And now she knows it too. Also, Mrs. Hensley witnessed the entire thing, so by noon the whole island will know exactly how badly I handled this.
I drive through Twin Waves’ charming streets, past Victorian houses and small businesses that have survived generations of economic uncertainty, while my conversation with Michelle replays endlessly. Each replay somehow makes me sound worse.
Her quiet devastation when she realized what our friendship actually meant to me. The way she forced me to articulate positions that sounded reasonable in my head but felt brutal when spoken aloud. How she saw through seven years of careful compartmentalization to the uncomfortable truth underneath—that I chose the safe path and dressed it up as community service.
