Begin Again

I never set an alarm because my entire life I’ve been wired to wake up at 7 A.M. on the dot, like a human sundial. I laid out all my shower stuff and an outfit the night before so I wouldn’t wake up Shay, but when I look over at her side of the room, it is distinctly Shay-less; the bed is already made with its mountain of fluffy pillows, and her coat isn’t hanging by the door.

In the quiet of the early morning there’s this new kind of potential, like maybe the sun just needed to come up and reset yesterday. I breathe a little easier in the steam of the shower, walk a little bit lighter when Ellie plugs in her hair dryer next to me at the mirrors and asks if we can make Werewolf a weekly thing.

The sting of yesterday is still raw enough that as I’m packing my bag, I scrap my usual routine for the second day in a row and don’t listen to the episode of The Knights’ Watch recorded earlier this morning. It’s only going to stress me out if they reference any ribbon clues, knowing I’ve already blown my chance at playing. I allow myself one indulgent moment of self-pity, thumbing through my mom’s old ribbons where I splayed them out last night on my desk, then square my shoulders and tighten the scarf around my neck to leave.

Bagelopolis is only about a mile from Cardinal, just off the main road that divides campus from town and nestled within a bunch of other small shops—a bakery, a toy store, a local artisan’s shop, a mini grocery. The sidewalk is wide with cobbled brick, with lots of space for outdoor tables and chairs, even if nobody’s sitting in them in the January chill. It looks like a quaint little painting, and for a moment I feel like part of the scene. Like someone would paint me in here on purpose. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

“Andie!”

I turn my head and see Shay poking out of Bagelopolis, gesturing for me to come in. “We need reinforcements.”

I hustle into Bagelopolis, which feels like getting hugged by a very large, warm loaf of bread. The smell of fresh oven-baked bagels hits my nostrils and the warmth of it goes straight to my chest and all the way down to my fingers and toes. The space is small and cozy, with just a few cushioned chairs and tables scattered throughout, but the bright, rainbow-color-coded menu is large enough to take up most of one of the walls. The display case at the register has at least two dozen cream cheeses and infinite bagels in all different colors and cheeses and salts. I skim some of their names, my mouth watering: Everything Pretzel, Chocolate Chip Sourdough, Peanut Toffee Crunch, Strawberry-Streaked Rainbow Pride, Cheese-Crusted Salt.

Before I can fully get my bagel bearings, Shay tosses me a powder-blue apron with a bagel and the name of the shop embroidered on it. “I assume you can work a register.”

“Oh. Wow. I thought I was just interviewing—”

“So did we, but Milo’s brother Sean’s car won’t start, so . . . congratulations,” says Shay, pinning a white card on a lanyard to my apron pocket. “You’re hired.”

I finish tying the strings around my back and roll up my sleeves. “These aprons are so cute.”

Shay types something into the register, then pulls the white card up to a scanner and grants me guest access. “That’s half the reason I took this job, but trust me, everything’s going to look a lot less cute in a few minutes.”

“What’s happening in a few minutes?”

The phone rings and Shay holds up a quick finger to answer it. I go back to staring at the menu, which is so prolific it deserves to be adapted into a novel and a Netflix original movie. Then the bell to the store jingles, and in comes a group of freshmen loudly speculating about whether the first event for the ribbon hunt will drop this weekend or next.

“Wow. I turned my back for like, a second. What’s the look of abject despair for?” asks Shay.

I swallow down the bitter taste in my mouth. “I can’t collect any ribbons. My professor took my starter one.”

Just then a hand interrupts my line of vision. A hand holding a white ribbon with my name inked on it.

“What the . . .”

I look up to find Milo looking somehow even more sleep-deprived than yesterday morning, but nonetheless conscious and holding what might as well be a winning lottery ticket.

When I’m too stunned to move, he puts it in my apron pocket and says, “Hutchison and I go back.”

“Milo, I . . .” Absurd as it is, I have to blink back tears. “Thanks.”

I want to ask him how he managed this feat, but he’s already waving me off, attending to a coffee machine behind us that’s large enough to have its own zip code. I assume it must have something to do with one of his “zillion” siblings Shay mentioned.

“Well, problem solved,” says Shay. “Except don’t you have to get one for Connor, too?”

“Who’s Connor?” asks Milo.

“Her boyfriend. She transferred to surprise him, but then he’d already transferred out to surprise her. It’s all very rom-com of them.”

“I didn’t transfer for him.” I’d press that point, but I’m too overwhelmed by the miraculous return of my white ribbon to care. I put my hand back in my apron pocket, skimming the silky surface of it with my thumb. “And . . . I’ll figure it out.”

“Eh, why bother. Love’s dead anyway,” chimes in Milo, feeding a massive bag of beans into a coffee grinder. Before I can ask where that grim pronouncement has come from, he shakes the dregs of the bag and says, “Hold on. Need more beans.”

“Don’t mind him,” says Shay as Milo ducks into the back, revealing a massive setup of ovens and a boiler and a seemingly infinite mound of bagels in every flavor imaginable. “His brother Harley stole his girlfriend, and he now refuses to speak to or acknowledge either of them, resulting in a Flynn family schism of epic proportions. Hence, why he’s trying to flee the state like some kind of CW teen-drama antihero.”

Milo swings the door back open with a fresh bag of coffee beans slung over his shoulder. For a moment I see it flash again—whatever it was I saw in his face last night, before we both pushed past it as fast as it came. But his voice is steady and flat when he says, “You’re making me sound very dramatic.”

“You’re brewing a special blend of coffee you call ‘Eternal Darkness,’” says Shay, lifting the cap on the grinder for him. “I think you’ve got your own drama covered.”

“Eternal Darkness?” I ask.

Milo nods as he pours another batch of beans in, squinting at them as he measures. “It’s about as caffeinated as you can legally make coffee. But the special ingredient is having no regard for your mortality.”

Shay nimbly moves from the coffee grinder over to the front counter, where there are several cups full of coffee perched in wait. “Here,” says Shay, handing me a cup. “This morning’s test batch.”

I hold it up to my nose and try not to gag. There’s no way I could allow it near my human form, let alone my mouth. “It smells like death.”

“It smells like resurrection,” Milo corrects me.

“Is this why your sleep schedule is so wonky?” I ask, handing it back to Shay. To my concern, she shrugs and tips it back herself, in the manner of someone taking a shot. “Because you’re chugging five cups of this a day?”

“Three cups,” says Milo, affronted.

“Plus ten more out of the Keurig in his room,” says Shay out of the side of her mouth. She turns back to me. “You might have noticed there’s an entire HomeGoods worth of mugs in there.”

“Look who’s talking, Barnes and Noble,” Milo shoots back.

“Books don’t destroy my sleep schedule, though.” Milo opens his mouth to protest this, but Shay amends, “Usually.”

“Eh,” says Milo dismissively. “I was gonna try and cut back over winter break, but then I thought to myself, I’m not dead yet, so.”

“Have you tried switching to tea?” I suggest.

Milo’s eyebrows rise up into his unruly curls. He turns to Shay. “You heard that too, right? You heard the new kid try to murder me.”

We’re interrupted by the sound of the coffee grinder and the sudden nearness of the group of freshmen at the register, their eyes alight with the promise of carbs.Material © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“Hi, what can we get for you?” asks Shay, who moves aside to let me work the register but thankfully stays close in case I muck the whole thing up.

Even as I’m inputting all their orders in the system for the line cooks in the back, I’m acutely aware of just how many co-eds are lining up behind them. I ring up their order without a hitch, then quickly ask Shay, “What is going on?”

“The first-period rush hour,” she explains. The next kid must be a regular, because she taps in the order before he even opens his mouth. “Half the campus is hooked on Eternal Darkness.”

Shay is not exaggerating. A good hour later I feel like I’ve rung up enough orders for Eternal Darkness to make Satan himself mad for stepping on his toes. Shay and I make an excellent team swapping between the register and the coffee orders as Milo relays bagel orders to the back kitchen, only pausing to chug another cup of coffee so fast it looks like he’s competing in a sleep-deprivation Olympics.

“That can’t be good for him,” I say as he heads to the kitchen to collect another round of orders.

“I think he’s been like this awhile,” says Shay. “He’ll be fine.”

“Really?” I ask doubtfully. “A few minutes ago I watched him walk into a trash can and apologize to it.”

Shay’s face registers mild concern, but not necessarily surprise. “He’s a little overscheduled,” she says, just in time for us to watch Milo return from the kitchen while popping a coffee bean into his mouth and eating it raw. “Okay. Maybe a lot.”

I examine him as he hands a group of students their bagel orders, taking in his mildly bloodshot eyes and unkempt curls and overly tall but nonetheless slouched posture. “Hmmm.”

“Oh, no. I already know that look,” says Shay.

“What look?” I ask innocently, smiling at the next wave of students coming up to the register.

“The little miss ‘I’m gonna fix this’ look,” says Shay. “And trust me, when it comes to Milo and his common-law marriage with caffeine, you’re setting yourself up to fail.”

She’s probably right. But the thing is, Milo has helped me, and now I feel compelled to help him, too. I know that whatever is going on with his brother and his ex is none of my business, but coffee isn’t personal.

“We’ll see about that,” I say through my smile, which I then aim at a group of fellow students clutching their laptops like lifelines. “What can I get you?”

We get through the morning rush without a hitch. I take about a bajillion orders as fast as I can, and even then manage to make enough meaningful conversations to get invited to two parties, a neighborhood knitting club, and a rock-climbing gym.

I’m trying to decide whether or not my sneakers would survive such a feat when Milo appears, seemingly from out of nowhere. He hands me an ID badge that says “Andie” on it, spelled in the precise right way. “In case it wasn’t clear that you were hired,” he says.

I secure it to my apron, beaming. “We’re officially coworkers now.”

“Despite your aversion to my masterpiece,” he says, turning toward the coffee grinder. The gesture is short, but still long enough for me to see the slight way he almost seems to tremble at the movement, like there’s too much energy to contain.

This time I’m the one who reaches out and touches his shoulder. He’s done the same for me twice now, and both times I found such an immediate calm in it that it feels almost instinctive to do the same for him. But the moment I place my hand down—the moment my palm connects with the warmth of his skin, with the unexpected taut muscle of his upper arm—I feel a beat of hesitation so unlike me that I almost forget to speak.

I clear my throat. “Feel free to tell me to buzz off. But what if I had an idea to help with this coffee situation of yours?”

Milo’s lip quirks. “I’d say you’re fighting a losing battle.”

“You’re sure?”

Milo’s shoulder shifts slightly under my hand, the movement of it so subtle that it’s almost like he’s leaning into my touch. “You know what? If you’ve got any ideas, hit me with them. But know if they have anything to do with those wet leaves you call ‘tea,’ you’re fired.”

I beam at his back as he walks off. Eventually the rush passes. Midmorning classes start, and it’s evident that none of us has one on Tuesdays, because we’re all still here cleaning up in the aftermath.

Only once the dust settles does an unwelcome thought start to settle along with it. I try to busy myself with restocking the napkins and plastic cutlery, but all the while I’m replaying all the conversations I’d overhead in my head—other freshmen excited about the ribbon-hunt events, coordinating plans to meet up with one another. They were all so stressed about getting enough of each color. I wanted to join in their excitement, but all I could think about was the impossible task of trying to get ribbons for Connor and for myself.

I pull the white ribbon out of my apron pocket for what must be at least the tenth time today. Once I’ve felt the edges of it and tucked it back in, I find myself face-to-face with Shay.

“I saw the ribbons on your desk. The super old ones,” she says quietly, so Milo and the line cooks wandering out for their breaks can’t hear. “Your whole thing with The Knights’ Watch. There’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” I say carefully.

The strange thing is, I want to tell Shay about my mom. I do. I’m familiar enough with her blunt warmth that I know she’s not going to get uncomfortable and shy away from the grief of it, the way so many of my friends back home did growing up. That telling her isn’t going to open that same kind of gap it felt like it did back then.

But I’ve spent so many years avoiding the topic that it feels like too much of a risk to take—not when Shay and I are just starting to get to know each other. Not when this was supposed to be my fresh start as just Andie, and not Andie with a loaded past.

But Shay just nods solemnly, her eyes as steady as before when she offers a resolute “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll help you,” says Shay, heading over to the coffee machine counter. “Get ribbons, I mean.”

I shake my head, catching the washcloth she tosses me so we can start wiping down the coffee and tea area in the back. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I mean, I can’t collect any myself. But if you need to switch a shift to get to one of the events or something, I’m in,” says Shay, moving the coffee syrups out of the way.

It’s difficult to put up too much of a fight when you’re trying to uncrust toffee syrup from a counter, but I sure do try. “Shay, seriously. I appreciate it, but there’s no reason for you to.”

Shay stops scrubbing for a moment to look back at me. “You’re gonna help me figure out my major, right?”

I unconsciously clench my fists at my side, my energy renewed. “Absolutely.”

“So let me help you, too. I have zero desire to join some secret society, but I don’t mind lending a hand. Lord knows I read enough rom-coms that I’m game to see this ridiculous one through.” She puts down her rag, holding her other hand out for me to shake. “We got a deal?”

I bypass the handshake and go straight in for a hug. Shay lets out an oof of surprise before hugging me back.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” she mutters, patting me on the back.

We’re interrupted by the sound of a ping from her pocket. Shay winces. “We get notifications whenever our test scores come in,” she says, pulling her phone out.

I was supposed to have that set up too, but my phone is too old to sync with the app’s notifications. I follow Shay’s lead and open the student app, and immediately regret it with every bone in my body.

“Strawberry Eggo waffles,” I mutter.

“Slept-on flavor,” says Shay approvingly, looking over my shoulder. “What happened?”

I show her the big, red, resounding zero I got on my stats test. The one that’s worth an alarming portion of my grade. I’d figure out how much, but ironically, I can’t do the math.

“Yikes. Here,” says Shay, taking my phone and tapping a few buttons on the app. “What are you doing at three P.M. tomorrow?”

“Staring into a metaphorical pit and questioning every math-related life choice I’ve ever made?”

“Well, reschedule, because I just booked you a stats tutor in the campus library.” Shay pulls the phone away from her face to show me the screen. “Also, your dad’s calling.”

“Oh. I’ll talk to him later,” I say, taking the phone back from her and putting it in my apron pocket.

“You can take your break now if you want,” says Shay, tilting her head toward the back. There’s a little break room decorated with watercolor prints of bagels and about a dozen coffee-stained mugs that no doubt belong to Milo.

“Yeah. Okay,” I say, heading toward it.

Only once I’ve settled into one of the cozy chairs, I don’t bother calling my dad back. I stare at the phone until enough time passes that I know I better get back to work. I tap on my voicemails, pressing my dad’s to my ear as I walk back out before the next rush between classes begins.

“Hey, A-Plus. Hope the first day went well. I’m going on a quick trip for a few days and won’t have a lot of service, but I’m passing you on the way up today—let me know if you want to grab lunch.”

The shame is quick and sharp, and the anger that follows it more muddled and harder to define. It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s that he had all the opportunities in the world to see me over the past few years, and he still chose to move away. And only recently did he decide to do anything about it. He’s been in touch more, and we did spend Thanksgiving and Christmas together. It was fine. Sometimes more than fine. Sometimes good enough to trick me into thinking it had always been like that, and always will.

But it wasn’t, and it might not be. So I do things like this even though I know I shouldn’t—ignoring calls, letting plans fall to the wayside, taking forever to text back. Keeping him at arm’s length so he can’t get close enough. Never fully letting him in so he never gets another chance to leave.

I tap out a quick text—Sorry I missed you! Maybe next time. Enjoy your trip!—and shove the phone back into my coat pocket. I breathe out long and hard, watching it fog up the afternoon air, and wish the guilt could evaporate with it, too.