Chapter 9 A Seat Saved (Doris Vale POV)
Two days. It's been two days since I gave him my number, since he saved my fake name in his phone. Two days of checking messages every few minutes, jumping at every notification, pretending I'm not waiting.
He texted once, the day after: Coffee was good. We should do it again.
I replied: Anytime.
And then nothing.
I tell myself I don't care. I've got work—the Henderson account, the Boston client file Martin sent over. I spend the morning at my desk, crunching numbers, building spreadsheets, losing myself in formulas that have clear answers. By noon, my eyes are burning, and my stomach is growling.
I need groceries. And maybe some air.
I grab my purse and keys, pulling on my jacket. The day is cool but clear, the rain finally gone. I walk down Maple Street toward downtown, no particular destination in mind. Just errands. Normal errands.
Except my feet carry me past the hardware store, past the post office, straight toward Bean & Bone.
I pause at the corner, staring at the café. Through the window, I can see people inside—Claire behind the counter, a few customers scattered at tables. And there, by the window, newspaper spread out in front of him, is Donald.
My pulse kicks up. I should keep walking. I should go to the grocery store like I planned. But my feet move forward, pushing open the door before I can talk myself out of it.
The bell chimes. Claire looks up and grins. Donald glances over, and when he sees me, his face lights up. He taps the chair across from him with two fingers, a clear invitation.
I walk over, trying to keep my expression casual. "You're here."
"So are you." He folds the newspaper, setting it aside. "Let me guess—just passing by?"
"I was running errands."
"Uh-huh. And those errands just happened to bring you here at exactly lunch time."
My cheeks warm. "Maybe."
He laughs, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not complaining. Sit. You want coffee?"
"Yeah. Let me just..."
"I got it." He stands before I can protest, heading to the counter.
I watch him go, my heart doing something stupid in my chest. I sit down, dropping my purse on the floor beside me. Through the window, I can see the street—cars passing slowly, a woman walking a dog, everything moving at the pace of a town that's never in a hurry.
Donald comes back with two mugs, setting one in front of me. "Medium latte, right?"
"You remembered."
"I'm a detective. Remembering stuff is kind of my thing." He sits, wrapping his hands around his own mug. "So, what errands were you running?"
"Groceries. Maybe some other stuff."
"And you decided to make a pit stop?"
"The coffee here is good."
"Best in town," he says, echoing our conversation from the other day.
"Only coffee in town."
"Exactly."
We both smile, and the familiarity of it feels easy, comfortable. Like we've been doing this for months instead of days.
He takes a sip, then sets his mug down. "So, Dora. Tell me something. What do you do when you're not working or drinking overpriced lattes?"
"They're not overpriced."
"Compared to gas station coffee? They are."
I laugh. "You drink gas station coffee?"
"Sometimes. When I'm desperate." He grins. "But you're avoiding the question. What do you do for fun?"
I pause, thinking. "I used to sketch. Draw people, places. Haven't done much of it lately."
"Why not?"
I shrug. "Lost the motivation, I guess."
He nods slowly. "I get that. Sometimes you just… stop doing the things you love. Life gets in the way."
"What about you? What do you do when you're not solving crimes and drinking terrible coffee?"
"Not much." He scratches his jaw, thinking. "I used to play guitar. Had a band in high school—we were awful, but it was fun. Haven't touched it in years."
"Why'd you stop?"
"Work. And… other stuff." His expression shifts, something darker passing through his eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by that easy smile. "Favorite movie?"
The shift is abrupt, but I follow it. "That's a tough one. Maybe something old. Black and white."
"Really? You don't strike me as a classic film person."
"What do I strike you as?"
He tilts his head, studying me. "I don't know yet. That's what makes it interesting."
My cheeks warm again, and I look down at my mug. "What about you?"
"Anything with explosions. Big, dumb action movies. Turn-your-brain-off kind of stuff."
"Of course you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're a cop. It tracks."
He laughs, shaking his head. "Fair. Okay, food. Favorite food."
"Italian. Pasta, specifically."
"Good choice. I'm more of a burger guy. Simple, reliable."
"Boring, you mean."
"Hey, don't knock burgers."
"I'm not knocking them. I'm just saying they're boring."
"And pasta isn't?"
"Pasta is elegant."
He snorts. "Elegant. Sure. Next you're gonna tell me you eat it with your pinky out."
I kick his shin lightly under the table, and he grins, leaning back in his chair. The conversation flows like this for a while—easy, light, trading harmless details about ourselves. I learn he takes his steak medium-rare, hates mushrooms, and once got food poisoning from a taco truck. He learns I drink tea more than coffee, can't stand cilantro, and have a weakness for dark chocolate.
It's simple. Safe. Until he shifts the conversation.
"So, what about family?" he asks, his tone casual but curious. "You mentioned it was rough when you came back. They nearby?"
The question hits like a brick. I freeze, my hands tightening around my mug. For a heartbeat—maybe two—I can't breathe. Sarah's face flashes in my mind, her laugh, her blood, the footage I can't unsee.
"It's just me now," I say finally, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
His expression shifts immediately, concern replacing curiosity. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine," I say quickly, forcing a smile. "It's just… not something I talk about much."
He nods, and I see it in his eyes—he understands. He's carrying something too, something heavy that he doesn't talk about. We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken things settling between us.
Then he clears his throat, breaking the tension. "Fair enough. We don't have to go there."
"Thanks."
"But if you ever do want to talk…" He trails off, leaving the offer hanging.
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Same to you."
He smiles, small and sad, and takes another sip of his coffee. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. It's just… heavy. Like we're both holding things we're not ready to share.
Claire appears at the table, setting down a plate of cookies. "On the house. You two look like you need sugar."
"Thanks, Claire," Donald says.
She pats his shoulder, then walks away. I grab a cookie, breaking off a piece.
"She's determined to fatten us up," I say.
"She's determined to meddle," Donald corrects. "But yeah, the cookies help."
We eat in companionable silence, the earlier tension fading. When we finish, he checks his watch and sighs.
"I gotta head out soon. Paperwork's calling."
"Exciting."
"Thrilling." He stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. Then he pauses, reaching into his wallet.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Paying for your drink."
"I can pay for my own drink."
"I know you can. But I already did." He sets cash on the table, enough to cover both our orders and a generous tip for Claire.
I stare at him. "You're ridiculous."
"Old-fashioned, maybe. Take the win, Dora."
I shake my head, but I'm smiling. "Fine. But next time, I'm paying."
"Deal." He pulls on his jacket, then looks down at me. "Same time tomorrow?"
My heart does that stupid thing again. "Yeah. Same time."
"Good." He taps the table twice, then heads for the door. I watch him go, the bell chiming as he steps outside.
Claire appears beside me, refilling my mug even though I didn't ask. "You two are adorable."
"We're not..."
"Sure you're not." She winks, then walks away.
I sit there for another twenty minutes, finishing my latte, replaying the conversation in my head. His smile, his laugh, the way he didn't push when I shut down. The way he offered to listen, even if I'm not ready.
By the time I leave, the afternoon sun is warm on my face. I walk home slowly, my mind drifting. At the apartment, I drop my purse on the couch and move to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water.
I catch myself humming—some tune I don't recognize, just a melody that's been stuck in my head. I stop mid-note, staring at my reflection in the window.
"Careful, Doris," I whisper.
But the warning feels hollow. Because the truth is, I'm not being careful. I'm falling, and I don't know how to stop.