Chapter 2
My throat tightened.
"Over two years?" I echoed.
"Yep. The place was old, but it never collapsed. Then this guy, George, came along with a gorgeous girl. They cleaned it up top to bottom, and now it's what you see today," the old man said.
"So who's the owner?"
"Never met the owner. George said it's his wife's café, and he's managing it for her."
I gripped the wooden frame of the umbrella stall, trying to steady myself.
The old man shot me a look. "You look a bit pale."
"I'm okay."
"If you're here to see someone, don't come on weekends. They throw small parties and book out the whole café."
"What kind of parties?
"Engagements, birthdays, girls' hangouts, pretty much anything," the old man replied, biting off the thread. "Last month, they even did a wedding photoshoot.
"George was dressed in a traditional suit, and that girl wore a bright red dress. There was a crowd outside, all saying they looked like a perfect match."
As I walked out of the alley, my stomach felt like it was stuffed with a cold, heavy lump.
My phone buzzed.
It was a message from George. [Did you have lunch? Don't skimp on the food.]
He sent me some money, 10 dollars.
I stared at the number and suddenly let out a bitter laugh.
For three years, I'd walked four stops to save on bus fare. Every month, he'd send me half his salary, saying the other half was for paying off the café's repair loan.
Turned out, that café hadn't collapsed at all. He let another woman turn it into her own coffee shop.
I pressed my hand to the screen, and in the end, I only sent back two words. [Ate already.]
That night, George came home later than usual.
He set a box of baked treats on the table.
"I picked these up on my way back from Oak Street. You used to love these, didn't you?" he said.
I stared at the red stamp on the box.
It read Maple Yard Café.
"Are the baked treats from Maple Yard Café any good?" I asked.
"They're alright," he said, hanging up his coat. "A coworker gave them to me."
"Which coworker?"
"Are you checking up on me?" he teased.
"Just curious."
He opened the box, grabbed a piece, and offered it to me.
"Jennifer, you weren't like this before. We've been through so much, and we're finally starting to get back on our feet. Don't let that old café drag you down again."
"Is that café really in such bad shape?"
He paused, the baked treat still mid-air.
I looked up at him.
"George, just take me there. I promise, I'll only look from the door."
He set the baked treat back in the box, his tone growing heavier. "I told you; it's not safe there."
"I won't go inside."
"Even just standing outside isn't safe," George said, his voice rising. "Oak Street is pretty rough these days. What if something falls and hits you?"
A child's cry drifted in from next door.
The room was so quiet, you could only hear the kettle boiling.
George rubbed his forehead, his voice softening again.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you. I just don't want you getting hurt," he said.
"Are you free this weekend?" I asked.
"I've got a delivery to make in the next city."
I nodded. "Who are you going with?"
"Just with Cara," he said.
"Isn't it Maya?" I asked.
His expression shifted.
He looked at me like I was a stranger.
"Have you seen her before?" he asked.
"You posted a photo of her on Instagram," I said.
He let out a sigh of relief. "She's been looking for a place in the next city lately, so I'm helping her out while I'm there. Don't overthink it, she's just my cousin."
"Which side of the family is she from?"
"My mom's side," he said, picking up his glass. "It's a complicated family tree. Even if I explained, you wouldn't know her anyway."
I didn't ask any more questions.
While he was drinking, his glass made a quiet clink against the table.
*****
On Saturday morning, George dragged his suitcase out the door.
"Don't go wandering around these next couple of days," he said, slipping on his shoes in the entryway. "There's food in the fridge, and your medicine's on the cabinet."
I stood by the door.
"Is the next city far?" I asked.
"Not really, just two hours away."
"Where are you staying?"
"Just a little motel by the freight station."
He slipped the keys into his pocket and turned to give me a hug.
"Once we get the café sorted out, I'll open a real coffee shop for you. You won't have to wash dishes at that restaurant anymore," he said.
I caught the familiar scent on his collar, warm and comforting.
It wasn't laundry detergent.
It was that sweet osmanthus scent from Maple Yard Café.
After he left, I changed my clothes and caught the earliest bus back to Oak Street.
Red ribbons hung over the entrance of Maple Yard Café.
A wooden sign read: "Private Event Today."
The door was half open, and laughter drifted out from inside.
Standing at the entrance of the alley, I saw George in a dark suit, helping Maya with her hairpin.
Maya wore a dress, her waist slim.
The people nearby were egging them on, making a scene.