Page 38 of Rise
Help always came dressed this way, to Hazel; causal and simple on the surface, but just beneath, it was dark and jagged along the edges. A weariness settled over her limp, exhausted muscles. How long could she turn away from the people of Bar Harbor, before they gave up on her, too?
Hazel stood there for another beat, her mat under one arm, her bag slung across the other. Around her, the room had thinned. Shoes squeaked gently against the hallway tile.
She closed her eyes for just a second and let herself imagine it.
Then, on a deep inhale of air, she headed for the door.
7
Mid-October crept into Bar Harbor on quiet feet and Hazel had begun to find her rhythm, her balance. Not quite ease, not yet. But something near enough to pass on mornings like this, when the world moved softer, quieter, as if it too was still trying to remember how to begin again.
Outside, the sky hung low and grey, a thick woolen blanket pulled tight over the coastline. It dulled the edges of everything— the sea a smudged blue, the sidewalks slick and subdued, the red-and-gold leaves along Main Street as vivid as brushstrokes against the gloom. Rain had been flirting with the forecast since dawn, hovering somewhere offshore like a secret not yet brave enough to land.
Inside Rise, the warmth felt earned. The ovens had been on since before first light, and the scent of brown sugar and vanilla curled through the air like a memory— rich, sweet, almost tangible. Hazel had cracked the front window just an inch to cut the heat, letting in the salt-laced breeze from the harbour.
Behind the counter, she pressed the heel of her palm to the countertop, feeling the cool stone ground her, a small ritual she didn’t always notice herself doing. The register light blinked softly beside her, as patient as ever.
Then, the door creaked open, and the bell gave a quiet, deliberate chime.
Hazel lifted her head just in time to see Mr. Everett step inside, careful and slow, his shoulders slightly hunched with the kind of pain that had long since become a part of his posture.
His right leg dragged slightly, stiff with age or injury, and his windbreaker whispered with every motion. A corduroy cap sat low on his forehead, casting a shadow across the familiar shape of his face. Hazel recognized him not just from his near-daily visits since she’d opened, but frombefore—from those foggy years of middle school and high school when everything had felt either too sharp or too far away. He’d been her substitute teacher once or twice. She couldn’t remember what he’d taught, only that he’d let them read quietly if they asked politely and that he’d once complimented her handwriting when she’d been too shy to speak aloud.
“Mornin’, Miss Simmons,” he said, voice as rough as tree bark but not unkind. “You know every day when I step in these doors, I think my cholesterol jumps ahead a few steps.”
Hazel smiled, already reaching for a waxed paper sleeve. He was her regular, after all.
“That’s the cinnamon and the butter conspiring against your better judgment, Mr. Everett.”
He chuckled as he stepped up to the case, peering in with the exaggerated deliberation of a man who already knew exactly what he wanted. Who always asked for the same thing. “You got those caramel things again?”
“Last one,” she said, slipping the sticky bun into the sleeve with practiced ease.
He tapped the counter with one knuckle. “Knew it was fate.”
“And how about some tea this morning?” Hazel asked, already turning toward the espresso machine. “Might help keep you warm out there.”
“You know what, that sounds good,” he admitted, his smile gentle and unguarded.
She moved without needing to think— grabbing a to-go cup, tugging the jar of tea bags from its home on the open shelf above the counter, fingers skimming the collection until she landed on one labeledspicedblack pear. A favourite among her regulars. She set the cup down, dropped in the bag, and poured the water from the side nozzle on the espresso machine. Steam curled up, fogging the air around her.
She pressed the lid on, then carefully tucked the little paper tag into the rim beneath the lip, anchored, but still visible. Something about the small act always felt important, even if no one else noticed, like a quiet signature. Hazel then sprawled his name on the side of the cup in her familiar, angled cursive print. It was looping and neat, just the way her grandmother had taught her back when she still thought good handwriting meant something more than legibility.
When she turned back, Mr. Everett was already sliding a few folded bills across the counter.
She handed him the paper sleeve with the sticky bun first, folded at the top so the sugar didn’t smear through. Then the tea, still steaming, her fingers brushing his. He tucked the pastry into the pocket of his coat and cradled the cup in both hands like it was already doing its work.
She rang him through, fingers moving on autopilot, but something in her shoulders eased. The regulars did that, each one a small anchor in the day. Familiar faces, quiet rituals, steady ground beneath her feet.
“Weren’t you in Mrs. Hammond’s English class once?” he asked, squinting at her as he dropped his change into the nearbyTipsjar. Hazel smiled at the gesture, a soft warmth spreading through her chest.
“Twice,” Hazel said, nodding. “Seventh grade and again in tenth when she broke her hip.”
“Thought I knew you from those days,” he nodded, satisfied. “Your grandmother was a sharp one. Great teacher, too. Was real sorry to hear she’d passed.”
Hazel’s throat pulled tight, the way it always did when someone said it like that—passed,like it was just another mile marker she’d crossed and left behind. She forced her face to stay soft, but for a moment, the smell of chalk and spearmint gum hit her, a phantom trace of her grandmother’s classroom.
She’d never been one of the lucky ones officially assigned to her grandmother’s class— never had her name written on the roll sheet or her art pinned to the bulletin board with a gold star, but she’d spent more time in that classroom than anywhere else in those early years. On rainy days, or days when the world felt too loud, she’d find her way there. Slipping into the quiet hum of it, the corners warmed by lamplight and the soft thrum of young voices in reading groups. While other kids ran wild through the halls or scraped their knees on the playground, Hazel would sit tucked into a corner desk beside her grandmother, unwrapping a grilled cheese sandwich still crisp at the edges, dipping triangles into steaming tomato soup from a thermos that clicked when it opened.
