Page 8 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start
Tomorrow, I’ll have to face the town council and defend a project that suddenly feels less like community development and more like systematic destruction of everything that makes Twin Waves worth preserving. With my luck, Michelle will be there with a PowerPoint presentation titled “Why Grayson Reed Is Literally the Worst Person Who Ever Lived, Complete with Citations and Visual Evidence.”
Tonight, I’ll sit with the uncomfortable realization that I’ve become exactly the kind of person I never intended to be— a man who destroys what matters to people he cares about because protecting it would be inconvenient.
It’s a remarkably depressing realization, even by my historically low standards for personal relationship management. And that’s saying something, considering I once broke up with my ex via architectural blueprints.
THREE
MICHELLE
Serving coffee to half of Twin Waves through holiday rushes and off-season lulls has taught me how this town actually operates. Mrs. Hensley’s morning gossip transforms into official policy by noon.
Jessica’s bookshop smells like vanilla candles and desperation. The Bookaholics Anonymous emergency session has commandeered every chair, including the sofa, but Jessica’s red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks tell me this isn’t just about my crisis anymore.
“Oh thank goodness you’re here,” Jessica says, rushing toward me with a crumpled envelope clutched in her trembling hands. “Michelle, I got one too.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “Same company, same sixty days. Reed Development doesn’t just want your coffee shop—they want my bookstore, Jo’s boutique, the ice cream shop, the whole waterfront strip. I called around after I got mine this morning. We all got the same notice, Michelle. Every single business down here. Sixty days for all of us.”
Jo’s voice trembles from the reading corner. “Mine came yesterday. Same envelope, same letterhead. I’ve been too scaredto open it properly, but when I saw you two...” She holds up her own crumpled notice.
The envelope hits Jessica’s reading table like a declaration of war. My hastily assembled army of romance readers stares at both notices with the kind of horrified silence usually reserved for book burnings and poorly written third-act breakups.
Apparently, our lives have devolved into a Hallmark movie where the heroines survive on caffeine and spite while contemplating homicide by espresso machine steam wand.
“Strategy trumps hysteria,” Jessica declares, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand before distributing surprisingly decent coffee in mugs that probably contain more caffeine than my industrial machine produces. “Both our shops anchor this end of Ocean Avenue. We’re not collateral damage. We’re the primary targets.” Her voice steadies with each word, transforming from devastated business owner to war general. “But the town council responds to documentation, not tears.”
“Civil disobedience,” Mads announces, brandishing this month’s book club selection with theatrical conviction. The illustrated cover features a couple embracing on a beach with waves crashing behind them. Of course, it’s enemies-to-lovers.
“We’ll chain ourselves to the buildings,” Amber says. “Force them to arrest respectable mothers on live television. Politicians flee bad optics faster than teenagers abandon part-time jobs.”
“You have three kids,” I point out. “Arrest records complicate carpool logistics.”
Jessica hosts reading groups that keep the over-sixty demographic socially engaged. Jo’s vintage boutique attracts tourists seeking authentic coastal charm instead of mass-produced seaside kitsch, and the ice cream shop has delighted tourists and locals for generations. Years of interconnected community economics are about to crumble because some corporation decided our neighborhood looked profitable.
“Research defeats drama every time,” Hazel states.
“Though feelings matter,” Jo whispers from Jessica’s reading corner. She’s our newest recruit. “My entire clientele comes here for small-town charm that can’t be faked by luxury developments.”
The responsibility slams into me, setting my pulse racing until I can hear it in my ears. My stomach feels hollow, sour, like I’ve downed four espressos on an empty stomach. My palms itch, restless with a jittery energy that has nowhere to go except back into my bones.
Brown eyes flashing recognition. Years of morning conversations that apparently meant absolutely nothing to anyone except me.
Grayson hasn’t returned since our devastating confrontation two days ago. Part of me startles at every door chime, which is ridiculous because I absolutely refuse to see him. The other part dreads his inevitable return, probably acting like our explosion never happened while ordering his double espresso with that polite distance he reserves for purely transactional interactions.
Both reactions infuriate me.
“What kind of intelligence do we have about this development?” Jessica asks, producing a legal pad because she approaches impromptu war councils with the same organizational skills she applies to managing book discussions about problematic romance heroes.
Hazel spreads Mrs. Hensley’s reconnaissance across Jessica’s reading table like battle plans. “Luxury condominiums starting at six hundred thousand dollars. Ground-floor commercial space reserved for ‘upscale dining and boutique shopping experiences.’”
“Upscale.” Amber snorts, gesturing around Jessica’s bookshop filled with rescued furniture and local artinstallations. “Corporate translation: ‘No businesses that actually serve people who live here year-round.’”
“Chain stores replace Michelle’s custom drinks and Jessica’s community events. Mass-produced coastal décor instead of authentic local character.” Jo’s voice carries bitterness.
Jessica scribbles notes with war correspondent intensity. “I’ll research zoning regulations and historic district possibilities. The library may have resources, and I know which librarians have connections to state historical societies that would be interested in preserving the building.”
“We need a social media campaign,” Amber continues, shifting from theatrical protest to practical strategy. “Developers hate negative publicity that threatens profit margins. We document what makes this place irreplaceable and demonstrate what we’ll lose.”
“Photo essays showcasing community events,” Jo suggests, warming to collaborative possibilities. “Before-and-after comparisons. Humanize the economic impact instead of making everything another town statistic.”
My brain spins with possibilities that hover between brilliant activism and complete delusion brought on by sleep deprivation and righteous fury. “I’ll coordinate business owner unity. The town council needs to witness organized opposition instead of individual complaints they can dismiss as sour grapes.”
