Duncan was completely understanding, just like he always was. Somehow, that only made me feel worse. But it was addicting, talking to him again. So addicting, that somehow, we ended up talking for most of the night–like we used to when we were kids. I think he got the message rather quickly that I didn’t want to talk about leaving, my reasons for doing so, my parents’ untimely deaths, or my lack of wanting to return home, so instead, he changed the subject.
He told me about things I missed. He told me about getting a certificate in coding online, and how hard it was to break into the tech industry in a place like Chestnut. He told me about his family, how his parents were still happily together, and had made it through their rough patch. He told me about his older brother, Teagan, and his high school sweetheart Brea, and how they got married. They had a kid, a two-year-old, and they weren’t sure they were going to have more. But they were happy, as a little family, and that was nice to hear.
Everyone was doing well, they all missed me, they would be so excited to know that Duncan heard from me, all that great stuff. Didn’t make lying to him feel any better, but the longer we talked without the truth coming to light, the harder it was to rip the band-aid off.
So I didn’t.
4 AM rolled around before we realized it, and thank God it was a weekend because I would have felt even more guilty knowing I (however unintentionally) caused him to lose sleep on a work night. Unfortunately for me, my body clock did not get the message, and I was awake promptly at 7 AM, as always.
I tossed and turned in my bed for about half an hour before I accepted my fate, and resolved to get myself some coffee to hopefully perk up a little. I hadn’t had the opportunity to get groceries, and poking around in my parent’s fridge (which hadn’t been gone through since the accident) sounded not dissimilar to a nightmare in the making, so… coffee shop.
That was one thing I had missed about Chestnut: our local coffee shop, The Bean Machine. It was one of those quaint, homey places with that undeniable smaller-than-average town appeal. Plus, it was a prime location–the heart of the town’s main shopping center, which was right off the freeway, and close enough to the local high school that the kids could walk there after school. Well, sort of. It was a 45-minute walk on a good day–but when you live in the suburbs, you learn to find adventure wherever you can.
Needless to say, even eight years later, I knew the way by heart–even on three hours of sleep.
Miraculously, I managed to find a parking space that was a reasonable distance from the shop, and hopped up onto the sidewalk. The familiar jingling of a bell drifted into my ears when I pushed open the large, glass door, and a bittersweet aroma greeted my nose.
They had remodeled since the last time I had been there. The bar area had expanded on the right side of the store, giving their baristas ample room to move. The walls were that familiar brick, but they had added chalkboard menus where there had originally been signs. The seating area had also been expanded–now including a bar with several stools along the front wall to the left of the entrance.
The Bean Machine was about as busy as one would expect for 7 AM on a Saturday. Students populated the tables, typing away on their laptops or scribbling in notebooks. Groups of friends chatted at the bar. Business people rushed around with their steaming hot mugs, yelling into cell phones and weaving through the crowd with expert precision. Thankfully, the line wasn’t terribly long, so I slipped in at the end and shoved my hands into the pockets of my overalls, idly scanning the walls as I waited.
They were one of those shops that put up pictures of their customers and workers, displaying little notes from family and friends. I had never been so bold as to let them take my picture for their ‘regulars’ wall, but it was easy to spot various people I knew.
That annoying feeling twisted in my gut again, and I tore my eyes away.
To Chestnut, I was either a stranger or a memory. That was my legacy, and I wasn’t sure it was worth bothering to make a new one.
The cashier called for the next guest, and I slipped up to the counter. She was younger, with blonde hair tied up in a hasty ponytail, and crystal blue eyes. Soft freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, framing the undeniable olive birthmark on her left cheek.
“Mornin’, Jessie,” I spoke without thinking, pulling my wallet from my jeans. She was two grades below me in school, but I was friends with her older brother, so we knew each other in passing. I remember her being pretty sweet, though–unlike her brother.
She blinked, clearly taken aback. “Um… Good morning?” Her customer service smile faltered, twisting into several indiscernible expressions as she stared at me.
My brain finally booted, and I remembered that it had been 8 years, no one knew I had come home, and I had a fucking beard. I cleared my throat and pointed at her sticker-covered nametag. “Just being polite. Or do people not greet service workers in Chestnut?”
She blinked, looked down at the tag like she had forgotten she was wearing it, and forced a smile back onto her face. “Oh, right! Sorry, I just didn’t… We don’t get a lot of newcomers around here. What can I get started for you?”
“A large Americano, please.” As great as the urge to order my regular Bean Machine Black-and-White Mocha with an extra pump of syrup and whipped cream drizzled with chocolate sauce was, it was almost a dead giveaway. Besides, being in LA and working in construction, of all freaking things, had changed my coffee habits significantly.
One day I would return for that Mocha, though.
One day.
“Coming right up! Anything else I can get you? We have a variety of baked goods, we make them in-house each morning, and they are quite delicious!”
I knew that, but it was still kind of nice to hear the familiar Bean Machine sales pitch. “In that case, I’ll take a blueberry muffin too.” I fished a ten out of my wallet and passed it over the counter to her as she punched in my order.
“So, what brings you to Chestnut?” Jessie asked as she counted out my change.
I shifted on my feet. “I’m fixing up the Dawson house.”
Jessie stopped what she was doing, her hand hovering over the ones in the register for several moments before she collected herself and got back to counting. She handed over my bills. “Oh. I take it you know Dawny, then?” She moved to the display case of treats to the left of the register to dig for my muffin.
“You could say that.” Suddenly, I was extremely grateful everyone called me by that nickname. I always hated my name growing up–it was so… not me. I told everyone to call me by my last name in middle school as a joke, but it caught on, and eventually, that got shortened to Dawny. Better than hearing my dead name, that’s for sure.
Jessie hummed, placing the muffin in a little paper bag for me. “Wow, haven’t heard from her in forever. It’s such a tragedy, what happened. I hope she’s doing ok.” She handed me the paper bag, that fake but pleasant customer service smile plastered on her face. “Well, have a good day, um-”
“Liam.”
Jessie nodded. “Liam! Nice to meet you! And welcome to Chestnut! Your coffee will be ready in a moment, just wait over there.” She pointed out the order pickup side of the bar and moved on to greet the next customer.
Welcome to Chestnut.
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