I donut know what I’d do without you.
He’s been calling me, wanting to talk, and there are times I badly want to pick up the phone. But the person I want to find on the other end is the Alex who would take silly photos with baked goods to make me laugh. The Alex who believed in my career and not just his own.
It took me two times around this same year to realize it, but Alex isn’t that guy anymore.
Feeling more alone than I have in a long time, I haul myself off the stoop and keep walking. What if I called Owen to spill everything? Not about my second chance year, because my brother would definitely wonder if I’d fallen headfirst into a pot of dulce de leche when I started going on about wishes and fortune tellers. But I could talk to him about all the other stuff… Alex, and Xavier, and Jacob.
My shoulders slump. I can’t talk to him about Jacob. I can’t tell him his best friend tossed me aside like a fallen soufflé. Aside from the sheer humiliation I’d suffer, I do love my brother and wouldn’t want to harm his friendship with Jacob. And I shouldn’t break the news about the promotion at Xavier’s until it’s official, either.
As I approach Higher Grounds, the café glows from the pendant lamps hanging above each table, and their warmth spills out the picture window and onto the sidewalk. I peer in to see who’s working tonight. José Luis stands behind the counter, smiling as he places a cup and saucer in front of a customer whose back is to me. I’m about to pull the door open when I realize I’ve seen that back before. It was in my apartment, and the man attached to it abruptly decided he wanted nothing to do with me.
It never occurred to me that our ill-advised make-out session would result in a joint custody arrangement, but apparently it has. Jacob quit stopping by Higher Grounds on the days I make pastries there, and I’m slowly backing away from the door now that he’s inside.
It’s fine. Everything is fine. I’ll go home and celebrate my impending promotion with popcorn, Netflix rom-coms, and my cat.
There’s nothing sad about that at all.
Chapter 24
It’s not my usual day to bake at Higher Grounds, but Zoe texted to see if I’d come in and make another special order. We’ve been getting more customers who try my pastries at the café and then ask if they can place large orders for more. I’m a sucker for anyone who loves my baking, so I haven’t been able to say no. But it means that I’m spending my days running back and forth between Higher Grounds and Xavier’s, and when I finally fall into bed at night, I dream of pastry flour and confectioners’ sugar.
The extra money is helping me to grow my Someday Bakery fund, and I can tell it’s been helpful for Zoe, too. Right now, she’s sitting at the front counter with her laptop open to a spreadsheet, and she looks like she’s ready to tear her braids out of her head.
I slide a croissant in front of her, and she looks up from the computer. “Is there any possible way that two hundred and twenty-five minus three hundred and eighty-three isn’t a negative number?”
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re asking the person who scraped by with C-minuses in high school math. But I’m going to go out on a limb and say no?”
Her shoulders slump. “Damn it.”
“I’m sorry.” I top off her cup of coffee. “Anything I can help with?”
She sighs and rips off a bite of the croissant. “You’re already helping—Mmmm. This is amazing. Is that apricot?”
I nod. “It’s a new recipe.”
Zoe slams the laptop shut and pulls the plate closer. “Thank you for coming in to do these special orders, Sadie. I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but… they’re really helping to keep this place afloat.”
“I’m sure it’s expensive to run a café like this.” I’ve been saving to open my bakery for five years. If Zoe is struggling to keep Higher Grounds going, will it ever be possible for me to run a place of my own?
Zoe tears off another piece of croissant. “It was easier when I first opened about ten years ago. But my rent nearly doubled recently, and unless I increase my prices to match, it’s harder to keep up.”
“But if you raise your prices too much, people will just go to Starbucks.”
“Exactly.”
“Higher Grounds is so special, though.” Unlike so many Brooklyn coffeehouses where, unless you have the perfect oversized flannel shirt, high-waisted jeans, and slouch in your beanie hat, you’re an outsider from the minute you walk in. Here, Zoe makes everyone feel like they belong. Even crazy cat ladies and lonely, gruff older women and shy musicians with a special place in their hearts for lonely, gruff older women.
“Thanks. I really wanted to create a space where people would feel welcome. And a community for musicians and poets and local artists.”
“Well, you’ve definitely done that.” There are packed performances like the one for the pink-haired singer-songwriter several nights a week, and a revolving display of artwork on the walls. But with Williamsburg real estate beginning to rival Manhattan prices, none of that probably brings in the kind of money Zoe needs to keep this place in the black.
My gaze slides around the room from the piano on the wood stage to the blue paint on the display cases rescued from an old five-and-dime in upstate New York. This place could easily be featured in a magazine. Zoe’s wife, Natalie, is an interior designer, and she put careful thought into every little detail, like the whitewashed exposed brick walls that contrast with the dark wood furniture, the warm pendant lighting that gives each table an intimate feel, and the quirky orange and turquoise accents. There’s even a wall of succulents growing behind the stage that I have no idea how Zoe keeps alive, but apparently, she has a magic touch with both people and plants.
“You know, Zoe…” I lean on the counter and look at her. “My ex-boyfriend Alex used to take me to swanky cocktail parties with his clients, and rarely were they in spaces as nice as this.”
“It’s all Natalie’s doing,” she says with more than a hint of pride in her voice over her wife’s decorating skills.
“When you walk around Williamsburg, every coffee shop looks the same. They’re either leather chesterfields and reclaimed wood, or they’re mismatched furniture and…” I laugh. “Well, and reclaimed wood. This place is beautiful and unique.”
“Thanks,” Zoe says with her signature warm smile. “I really appreciate that.”
“So, it occurred to me that on the nights that you close early, you could do private events here.”
Zoe’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? Hmmm.”
I nod, getting into the idea. “I bet there are hundreds of companies around Williamsburg that would love a space like this to host clients or parties for their employees.”
Zoe gazes around the room. “You really think people would pay money just to host a party here?”
“Absolutely.”
“What do you think I could charge for something like that?” Zoe flips open her laptop.
I name a price and she nearly drops her coffee mug. “Really?”
“That’s just for the space. José Luis is always looking to work extra shifts. He could bartend, and if you apply for a liquor license, you could make a lot of money on wine and maybe a couple of signature cocktails. I could help you apply for one.” Working in the restaurant industry, I have a little bit of experience with this. “And there’s food, too. Cheese plates or—”