Page 56 of Until I Find You

And when dealing with coffee, there are rules one must follow. Including letting roasted beans sit for three days before grinding and brewing them.

I have roasted sampled beans from each of the farms we visited at the beginning of the week and today, it’s finally time to try them.

I’ve ground all the beans by hand and now, I’ve arranged four glasses on the counter side by side for four separate pour overs in order to taste test what I might be working with. Of course, how good these coffees are depends on my own roasting abilities. I’ve got my confidence back, though. Or maybe I have confidence I never knew was there.

Because in my back pocket, no matter what, my thoughts can return to the safety of Camilla. Her touch, her face, her voice,the way her body has thrummed against mine the past day and a half.

My baby girl.

She’s gone out to buy pastries from a local shop because in her words, “There’s no use tasting coffee without pastries.” Which hurts my little purist heart, but no matter.

What she wants, she gets.

I’ll have coffee waiting for her when she returns. If anything, her opinion is more valuable than mine. She’s a casual coffee drinker, and as much as I’d like to cater to those like myself who drink coffee and can tell what’s good and bad, if we want the shop to flourish, we need to appeal to the masses too.

I pour hot water from the kettle into the final pour over, let the coffee bloom. Then wait. There’s an art to the pour over. It is time consuming, but it must be perfect. It’s an art I’ve learned over time, one I’ve perfected.

One that takes complete concentration.

My mother’s voice wafts in from the kitchen doorway. “Smells good in here.”

Dammit.

I don’t look up from my work, returning to pour the water over the grounds. It requires a constant stream of water for three and a half minutes, a measure of time I know in my bones by this point. However, now that my mother’s entered the room, all bets are off.

“Can we talk, Jack?”

I’m a bit cornered.

Yesterday, I avoided her. Today’s the weekend and she has the day off.

I spent most of the morning distracted with Camilla, but now that she’s gone, I’m unprotected. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, don’t be like that, keiki.”

The word settles through me. It’s a common term of endearment, yes, but it also means son. And that is still me.

“Won’t you look at me?” she asks, her voice a mere pinprick in her throat.

“I have to concentrate,” I say in a cool tone.

She mutters something to herself. A chair scrapes across the floor, and she sits at the kitchen table.

And so, the room is silent as I pour, each second that ticks by feeling like an entire day, an entire lifetime. I feel her watching me, eyes boring into my back.

Loathing my existence, maybe.

Finally, the pour over is finished. The four glasses sit side by side. I hope Camilla will return soon so we can get to tasting these before they’re cold.

With a hefty sigh, I turn around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Okay. Go ahead.”

My mother’s eyebrows rise. “Mego ahead? You should go ahead.”

“Why?”

She smiles out of sadness. It’s in her eyes. “I thought you might want to apologize.”

I could fight. Could balk. Could laugh in her face. I don’t. “No, I don’t think I have anything to apologize for. I’ve apologized to Geoff and to Camilla for making a scene, but to you, I don’t owe an apology.”

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