Page 1 of Cooking Up My Comeback
ONE
AMBER
The ancient coffee maker is dead again.
This machine has survived on desperate prayers and creative repairs since the nineties. No steam rises from the pot. The red light that usually blinks as my pre-dawn beacon of hope has surrendered entirely.
“Morning, sunshine.” I address the corpse of caffeination. “Perfect timing to give up on me.”
Six AM feels too early for an existential crisis, but my life missed that memo entirely.
I yank open the supply closet and grab the backup pot, the one that brews something resembling coffee if you squint and maintain low expectations. Behind it sits a stack of requisition forms I’ve submitted for months, each stamped with the same response:Pending approval.I’ve documented every failure, near-miss withthe health department, and appliance surviving on hardware store fixes.
“You’re early again,” Bernice calls from the prep station, where she arranges bacon with the precision of someone who’s done this since my parents were kids. “Young folks these days, always rushing around.”
I’m forty-three and hardly qualify as “young folks,” but Bernice operates on her own timeline.
I hold up the backup pot. “Emergency backup day! Consider it a reliable friend who’s not quite as good at their job.”
She grimaces. “Better than nothing. Barely.”
The front bell jingles, and five tourists shuffle in wearing matching “Beach hair, don’t care” t-shirts. The woman in front studies our menu as though decoding ancient hieroglyphics, then asks if we have any gluten-free, dairy-free pancakes made with organic coconut flour.
I beam at her. “We have regular pancakes that haven’t personally offended anyone yet! They’re made with love, flour that comes from actual wheat, and a sprinkle of small-town charm.”
She doesn’t laugh. Tourists never do.
The bell jingles again, and Brett Walker walks in. He’s come here three mornings a week for eighteen months now, ever since he moved to Twin Waves and became the contractor everyone actually wants to hire.The one who shows up on time and finishes what he starts.
Brett heads straight for his usual stool at the counter, work boots scuffing the worn tile. His Henley sleeves pushed up past the elbows, revealing forearms that could rebuild this entire place from the ground up. That full beard and the medium brown hair with silver threading through the temples give him the appearance of someone who could fix anything.
Including the disasters that follow me around.
He settles onto the corner stool without so much as a glance in my direction, studying the menu as though he hasn’t ordered the exact same meal for eighteen months straight. When our gazes finally meet, no smile appears, only that flat, assessing stare that suggests I’ve become another problem he doesn’t have time to solve.
“Morning, Brett!” I chirp. “Let me guess. Short stack, bacon, and eggs scrambled?”
He grunts something that might pass for acknowledgment. “Black coffee.”
“Oh, come on, you need actual food. You can’t survive on grumpiness alone, though you’re certainly giving it your best shot.”
“Coffee,” he repeats.
I pour him his usual mug. “How’s the backup pot treating you today? I prefer to consider it charmingly inadequate rather than completely useless.”
He takes a sip, grimaces. “Your coffee tastes terrible.”
“And yet here you sit, three mornings a week, clockwork reliable. Either you’ve become a glutton for punishment or you secretly love my sunny disposition.”
“The other places taste worse.”
“Practically a love song from you.”
The hint of amusement flickers across his face before he scowls into his mug.
One of the tourists squints at us. “Do you two have a relationship?”
I laugh. “Oh no! Brett and I have what you’d call a committed diner relationship. I pretend his grumpy exterior doesn’t hide a marshmallow center, and he pretends my coffee doesn’t personally offend his taste buds.”
