Chapter 6 Coffee and Routine (Doris Vale POV)
Morning light creeps through the blinds, harsh and unforgiving. I'm already awake, lying on my back, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looks like a bird. Or maybe a hand reaching. I don't know. I've been staring at it since five-thirty, my mind too loud to let me sleep.
I roll out of bed, my muscles stiff, and shuffle to the bathroom. The mirror shows me what I already know—dark circles, pale skin, hair that needs washing. I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and pull my hair into a ponytail. Good enough.
In the kitchen, I make coffee, the machine sputtering and hissing. While it brews, I grab my laptop from the desk and set it on the small dining table. The screen lights up when I open it, and I pull up my email. Forty-seven new messages since last night. I scan through them, mostly junk, a few client updates, nothing urgent. Nothing that requires me to think too hard.
I open a job board tab, scrolling through listings. Financial analyst positions, consulting gigs, contract work. I bookmark a few, but my heart's not in it. The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself a cup, black, no sugar. I take a sip, the bitterness grounding me, and go back to the laptop.
A calendar notification pops up: Call with Martin — 9:00 AM.
Right. I glance at the clock on the wall—8:43 AM. Plenty of time.
I sit at the table, nursing my coffee, and scroll through my phone. A text from Alisha, one of my friends from London: How's the States treating you? Miss your face already!
I smile faintly, typing back: Quiet. Small town. Still settling in. Miss you too.
Another text, this time from James: Doris! You alive? Heard you're back in America. Call me when you can.
I don't reply to that one yet. Instead, I open WhatsApp and see a group chat with a few other friends; Alisha, James, Priya, and Tom. They've been messaging all morning.
Alisha: Doris is back in the land of burgers and freedom!
Priya: She better not forget about us.
Tom: She will. Americans always do.
James: Stop being dramatic, Tom.
I laugh under my breath, typing: I'm alive. Town's boring. You'd hate it, Tom.
The responses come quickly.
Tom: Boring? Already? You've been there two days.
Alisha: Give it time. Small towns have charm.
Priya: Or serial killers. One or the other.
I snort, shaking my head. Thanks for the optimism, Priya.
At nine sharp, my phone rings. Martin's name flashes on the screen. I answer, setting my coffee down.
"Doris, good morning!" His voice is bright, chipper in a way that grates at this hour.
"Morning, Martin."
"How's the new place? Settling in okay?"
"It's fine," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Quiet. Good for focusing."
"Great, great. Listen, I wanted to touch base on the Henderson account. They've been asking for updated projections, and I need your eyes on the numbers before we send anything over. Can you have that to me by Friday?"
I pull my laptop closer, opening the file he's talking about. "I can have it to you by tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? You're a lifesaver." He pauses. "You sure you're good to jump back in this fast? I don't want to overload you."
"I'm fine, Martin. Staying busy helps."
"Alright, if you say so. Oh, and one more thing...there's a potential new client, tech startup in Boston. They're looking for someone to consult on their financials. I thought of you. Interested?"
"Send me the details. I'll look it over."
"Perfect. I'll email you later today. Take care, Doris."
"You too."
The call ends, and I set my phone down, staring at the laptop screen. Numbers, projections, budgets, things that make sense, that have clear answers. I can lose myself in this. I need to.
I work for an hour, crunching numbers, adjusting formulas, until my eyes start to blur. I save the file and close the laptop, rubbing my temples. The apartment feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I need air.
I grab my purse, slip on my shoes, and head out. The hallway is empty, the stairs creaking under my weight. Outside, the morning is cool, the sun climbing higher but not yet hot. I walk without a destination, just following the sidewalk, letting my feet decide.
Two blocks down, I spot it...a small café tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookstore. The sign above the door reads "Brewed Awakenings" in hand-painted letters, a steaming coffee cup underneath. The windows are lined with potted plants, and through the glass, I see a few people scattered at tables, laptops open, mugs in hand.
I push the door open, a bell chiming softly. The smell hits me first, fresh coffee, cinnamon, something baking. It's warm, cozy, the kind of place that feels lived-in. A chalkboard menu hangs behind the counter, listing drinks in looping cursive. I step up to the counter, where a woman in her thirties stands, wiping down the espresso machine.
"Good morning!" she says, her smile bright and genuine. "What can I get you?"
"Uh, latte, please. Medium."
"You got it. For here or to go?"
"Here."
"Great. Name?"
"Doris."
She writes it on a cup with a marker. "Doris. Pretty name. You new around here? I don't think I've seen you before."
"Just moved in a couple days ago."
"Well, welcome to Millbrook! I'm Claire. I own this place." She gestures around the café. "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"
"Thanks."
She turns to the espresso machine, steaming milk and pulling shots. I pay, dropping a couple bills in the tip jar, and find a corner table by the window. The chair is worn but comfortable, and I set my purse down, pulling out my notebook and phone.
Claire brings my latte over a few minutes later, setting it down with a napkin. "Here you go. Enjoy."
"Thanks, Claire."
She heads back to the counter, and I take a sip. It's good—smooth, not too bitter. I pull up the job board on my phone, scrolling through listings again. A few consulting gigs, some contract positions. I bookmark one for a financial analyst role in Chicago, another for a remote consulting position. I'm not desperate, but staying busy feels necessary.
Around me, the café hums with quiet activity. A woman at the next table types furiously on her laptop, earbuds in. An older man sits near the door, reading a newspaper, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. Two teenagers share a table, laughing over something on their phones.
I watch them, my pen hovering over my notebook. I used to sketch in London; people, places, anything to keep my hands busy. I flip to a blank page and start drawing. The woman with the laptop first, her fingers flying over the keys, her expression focused. Then the old man, his newspaper folded neatly, his posture relaxed. I lose myself in the lines, the shapes, the way their faces tell stories I'll never know.
The door chimes, and I glance up briefly. A man walks in, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark jacket and jeans. He moves to the counter, his back to me. Claire greets him with familiarity, and they exchange a few words I can't hear.
I go back to my sketch, adding details to the old man's newspaper. The pen moves across the page, and for a moment, I'm not thinking about Sarah, about the check, about the stranger in Vegas. I'm just here, present, focused on something that doesn't hurt.
The man at the counter turns slightly, waiting for his order. I catch his profile—graying at the temples, a strong jawline, tired eyes. Something about him tugs at me, a fleeting sense of recognition I can't place. Maybe I've seen him around town. Or maybe he just has one of those faces.
Claire hands him a cup, and he thanks her, his voice low but warm. He turns toward the door, and our eyes meet for a split second. He pauses, his expression unreadable, then offers a small, polite smile.
I smile back, just as brief, just as polite.
Then he's gone, the door chiming behind him.