“I’m going back to Vancouver tomorrow,” he said when I didn’t reply. “I’ve got a mural commission starting Monday—another coffee shop. I’d be into spending the afternoon walking around the city.”
Hours ago, all I wanted was to get high, make my way home, and starfish across my bed, but the idea of seeing Will’s Toronto was exciting. Spending more time with Will was exciting. And that was a problem. Jamie was the only guy I should want to spend time with.
“So?” Will asked. “What do you think?”
I could feel my heartbeat everywhere—in my lips, my throat— a heavy thud of warning throughout my body. I looked over my shoulder at the plane and then back at Will. He was fidgeting with his ring.
“I’d love to,” I told him. Because more than anything, I didn’t want to waste one more moment of my time left in the city.
5
Now
I wake up at 2:02 a.m. It’s always just after two—my insomnia arrives with Swiss precision. Sometimes I open the window and listen to the breeze in the tree boughs and the lake lapping against rock, willing myself to doze off. Sometimes I put on a meditation app and attempt to mindfulness my way back to sleep. Most often, I lie here in my childhood bedroom, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.
Tonight, I shift onto my side, then my back, then my stomach, but I can’t get comfortable, not when my mind is circling on the fact that Will Baxter is here, and that my mom met him. My mom hired Will.
I know the resort isn’t as busy as it should be, but the idea of my mother ceding an ounce of power to a consultant doesn’t track unless things are far worse than I guessed. Why did Mom seek Will’s help instead of mine? The possibility that she didn’t believe I was capable bothers me.
Eventually, I text Whitney.
You up?
Unfortunately. Everything OK?
It’s one of the perks of my best friend having a five-month-old. Owen is the sweetest little guy, but he’s a terror when it comes to sleep.
Do you remember Will Baxter?
Whitney never met him, and at first, I didn’t tell her much. She and Jamie were close, and I was afraid she wouldn’t approve. But I couldn’t not talk about Will.
The Will Baxter from a million years ago? The one you were obsessed with?
Ha ha, I write back.
What about him?
He checked in here today.
In seconds, my phone is vibrating.
“Tell me everything,” Whitney says in an excited whisper when I answer, and I can’t help but laugh. I feel less stressed already.
I fill Whitney in on the little I know.
“What does he look like?”
“Tall. Dark,” I say.
“And handsome?” Her ability to sound so gleeful while whispering is a skill.
“Extremely,” I grumble. “And he’s staying in Cabin 20.”
There are two rows of cabins on the lakeshore. My grandparents built our house, a small board-and-batten home with a gabled roof, at the end of the north path. It’s tucked into the woods and directly across from Cabin 20.
“This just gets better.” Whitney lets out a squeal. “Mystery Guest!”
I groan.
Mystery Guest is the spy game we invented the summer between sixth and seventh grades. It essentially involved us low-key stalking one of the resort guests, collecting as much information about them as possible. We tracked our findings in a spiral-bound notebook, the words top secret scrawled on its cover in black marker. Because they were so close to the house, the lucky residents of Cabin 20 were often our unwitting subjects. If Whitney shows up on my doorstep in the morning dressed in a trench coat and holding a pair of binoculars, I won’t be surprised.
“Anyway,” I say, “I’m supposed to be back to work at Filtr next week, but . . .”
“You can’t leave yet. You shouldn’t leave at all.” Whitney isn’t subtle about wanting me to move home for good. She went away to school for her dental hygiene diploma and has been back in Huntsville ever since. “Besides, I’m sure they’ll survive without you a little longer. No offense.”
Normally, I’d protest—we’ve had versions of this conversation before—but tonight I know she’s right. I’ve been back to my apartment in Toronto once, just to make sure there were no science experiments growing in the fridge and to ask my neighbor to collect my mail. I miss my things. But I have to stick around at least until I find out what’s happening at the resort. I’ll call the accountant first thing tomorrow, and after that, I need to talk to Will.
“I spoke to Philippe yesterday,” I tell Whitney. “He said to take all the time I need.”
Philippe was my boyfriend—that is, until I found him bent over the hat designer from the shop next to our original location. I should have known something was up when he started wearing fedoras. Lesson learned: Dating your boss is always a bad idea.
We broke up two years ago, and I’ve been on a hiatus from men ever since. Scratch that, I added sex back into the equation after five very long months—it’s relationships I have no interest in. All that time and energy and compromise, for what? Dirty man socks lying around my apartment followed by the disappointment of things not working out. No thanks.
“I would have told him to take a biscotti and shove it,” Whitney says.
“We don’t serve biscotti.”
“Then whatever gross vegan hemp energy ball you do serve. You should have left that job a long time ago.”
I’m not going into this with her again. Philippe aside, I like what I do. I started working at Filtr when there was only one location. Now we’re a little west end espresso empire, and I helped get us there. I have an office on the second floor of our original coffee shop, and when they’re slammed, I’ll pop down and help behind the counter. The crunch of the grinder, pressing the coffee into the portafilter, the whir of the steamer—I find it soothing. Crunch. Press. Whir. Repeat. There’s a singular satisfaction in watching the line dwindle. A task conquered, disorder controlled. It’s perfect, except for the fact that I share the office with Philippe. And that it’s his empire, not mine.
I’ve wanted my own place for ages. The fantasy goes like this: I renovate the little mom-and-pop convenience store in my neighborhood, the one the owners will never sell. But this is my fantasy, and they do. It’s a red-brick building with big windows on the corner of a leafy residential street. I paint the walls the deepest shade of blue and outfit the space with overstuffed furniture from antiques markets. The orange velvet chair goes in the corner by the window. I hang a community bulletin board and find a gorgeous old bookshelf. I fill it with cookbooks. Instead of Nigella Lawson, I collect ones with recipes for pastries and tarts and pies—The Violet Bakery Cookbook, Maida Heatter’s Book of Great Cookies, New World Sourdough, The Complete Canadian Living Baking Book. They are a nod to Peter. The shelf of Agatha Christies is a nod to Mom. I spend weeks selecting the music for opening day—songs that are all triumph and joy. The first one I play is Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.” My coffee shop is cozy and warm and not at all like Filtr’s Scandinavian cool. I name it after myself. I call it Fern’s.
I had at least another year of saving before I could cover start-up costs and look for a space to rent, but now everything’s changed. If I sell the resort, I’d be able to buy a commercial property outright. I could turn Fern’s into a reality, minus my fantasy location. But giving up Brookbanks to bankroll my dream doesn’t sit easily with me. The resort has been in the family for more than fifty years. It was my mother’s life’s work. It’s home.
Owen starts crying and Whitney swears. “I thought he’d nodded off,” she says. “I should go, Baby.”
I growl.
“Sorry, sorry. It slipped out. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Realizing how one-sided our conversation has been, I ask, “What about you? Are you okay?”
“Yeah? I mean, as okay as you can be when you’re a certified dairy cow functioning on little to no sleep.”
“I’m sorry. I get the no sleep part, but not the milk thing. You’re a hero.”