Page 6 of Begin Again

Her smile widens with satisfaction. That look—that moment when she knows she’s nailed the balance just right—is what makes people fall in love with her.“I knew you’d love it.”

She perches on the edge of the booth, already launching into a whole explanation about the healing properties of elderberry, and how it’s the perfect autumn drink when everyone starts getting sick. Her hands move animatedly as she talks, her enthusiasm spilling out in every word, pulling me in, and making me want to listen.

I hear a musical chuckle from the other room, right before a honeyed voice with a southern drawl calls out, “Auntie, who are you lecturing? Not everyone wants to know every plant you have in your garden. Besides, I thought you were supposed to be helping me get this recipe just right?”

The voice is warm, playful, and utterly captivating, I don’t lean forward, but a part of me still leans toward the sound, intrigued despite myself.

Aubrey’s nose crinkles at the playful reprimand. “I’m not lecturing her,” she insists. “I made her an elderberry latte and I was simply explaining its benefits. Is that a crime?” She huffs, crossing her arm, but the twinkle in her eyes betrays her amusement.

The source of the voice rounds the corner and I sit up straighter—not because I want to, but because there’s an allure to her I can’t ignore. She’s striking. Her deep brown skin glows under the cafe lights, her curls are pulled back into a sleek low ponytail, her oversized round glasses frame observant, intelligent eyes. She’s effortlessly stylish in high-waisted jeans, a fishnet undershirt, and a cropped vintage band tee. It’s an aesthetic that says she doesn’t follow trends—she bends them to her will.

There is an undeniable confidence in the way she moves—graceful yet assertive, like someone who commands attention without demanding it.

“Morgan, this is Selene,” Aubrey says, grinning. “She’s the girl I was telling you about—the artist who just moved to town.”

Artist. I don’t correct her right away. The term is almost flattering. But still, precision wins out. “Graphic designer,” I say with a small smile.

“It’s the same thing,” Aubrey dismisses with a wave of her hand. “She works for that band you’re obsessed with, Umbra.”

Morgan’s deep copper eyes light up. “You’re the one behind their visuals? That’s amazing. How did you even meet them?” Her excitement isn’t performative. It’s real, eager, a sincerity no one can fake. She slides into the booth beside Aubrey, her energy magnetic. Not just movement—momentum.

“It was literally a fluke. My sister called me one night after I moved in with my brother and asked if I could help her friend with a promotional graphic for a band. I said yes not realizing who she was talking about. A week later, I had a contract, and my life hasn’t been the same since. Thanks to them I was able to move out here, buy a house, and leave the chaos of my old life behind.”

“Wait, your sister knows the band?”

I huff a soft laugh, shaking my head. “At this point, I’m not sure there’s anyone shedoesn’tknow. Celeste has this way of floating into people’s lives and somehow becoming impossible to forget. One minute she’s in Oregon making candles with a woman named Tiger Lilly, the next she’s backstage at a show talking astrology with a lead singer. She collects people like postcards—bright, chaotic, and all over the map.”

They laugh, and for a second, I feel like I’m watching the moment from just outside the glass—close enough to see the warmth, not quite close enough to feel it. Then Aubrey turns, her smile tugging me back in.

Aubrey’s voice is full of pride. “My Morgan here is the youngest lieutenant this town has ever had. We are so proud of her.”

Morgan’s smile is slow and thoughtful. “Aubrey calls me hers because she thinks she raised me.”

Aubrey scoffs. “You’re mine because I love you, but I did raise you. I remember having you at my house almost every day during the summers. Not to mention all the sleepovers.”

Morgan nudges her affectionately. It’s an easy touch that seems like it comes from years of trust. It’s effortless, their rhythm. A closeness that doesn’t need to be explained. It just is.

The low, unmistakable growl of a motorcycle cuts through the moment, drawing all of our attention toward the window. The rider pulls up smoothly, moving with an ease as he swings his leg over the bike and removes his helmet.

Damn.

He’s striking. Not in a polished way—no, there’s an edge to it, a certain roughness that makes it more interesting. Tousled dark brown hair, a strong jawline dusted with stubble, and deep-set eyes that seem to take in everything at once. There’s a rugged charm about him. He’s weathered yet effortlessly cool, like a man who belongs on the cover of an old adventure magazine. His leather jacket is well-worn, molded to his frame like a second skin.

Morgan tilts her head, eyeing him up and down. “Who is that?”

No one answers right away. I glance at Aubrey and find her expression frozen for the briefest second before she smooths it over with practiced ease. But there’s there’s a flicker there—almost a flash of wariness. “I have never seen him before.”

The bell above the door jingles as the stranger steps inside, his gaze sweeping over the space before landing on us. He flashes an easy, charismatic smile as Aubrey gets out of the booth and walks over to the counter.

“Hi.” His voice is smooth as honey. “I was told this was the place for good coffee and better conversation.”

Aubrey smiles back. “You heard right. What can I get started for you?”

He rattles off a simple order before turning his attention back to us. Morgan still hasn’t spoken, though her fingers drum lightly against the tabletop.

“You all locals?” He asks, his gaze flicking between the three of us as he casually leans against the counter, hands resting in his pockets.

“Born and raised,” Aubrey says easily, retrieving a cup and setting to work on his drink.

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