A reporter from the local news station approaches and asks us if we’re about ready, so I reluctantly hand the baby back to Jesse. Jesse, Ivy, and Kelley head out into the café’s dining area and I watch as they move to stand by Riggs’s dad and my mom. A few moments later, Jocelyn and the kids come down the stairs, and I stifle a laugh at the suit Jude is wearing.
“He even kind of looks like a food critic,” I whisper to Riggs.
“I know, right?” Riggs laughs. Jocelyn’s six-year-old son is a crack-up. No wonder he and Jesse get along so well.
“Okay,” the reporter interrupts, “we’re going live in ten. We’ll ask the prepared questions, then cut the ribbon, and then you can be open for business. We’ll be here for about an hour or so interviewing customers, though, as long as that’s still okay?”
“Yep, we’re good with that,” I say with a smile, nerves fluttering around like mad in my belly.
I still can’t quite believe this is happening. This time last year, I was in Indianapolis working for a CPA firm, Riggs was taking extra business classes online while working remotely for his dad, and we were both restless. Happy with each other, but with not much else. Then, one night, after some good wine and phenomenal sex, we started talking crazy. Big, dreamy, impossible things.
Riggs asked me what my ideal life looked like for us.
“If we could do anything in the world, what would it be?” he asked.
“Anything at all?” I pressed my lips to the ink of the tattoo just above his heart.
“Anything. No limitations.”
His eyes sparkled and shot sparks of desire through my body. His brown eyes always get me; so deep and full, it will take me a lifetime and then some to discover all the magic they hold. So I, drunk on drink and love, started rambling.
I said we’d live in Chicago—a brownstone in Lincoln Park, specifically. We’d have brunch with Ivy and Kelley every Sunday morning. We’d visit the Night Bean once a month, and we’d bake something new together once a week. And we’d own a coffee shop. A multi-level coffee shop, where the baked goods and beverages on the menu were named after poets and popular fiction characters, and spoken word open mic nights were hosted monthly, and shelves of used books lined the walls for customers to take and read as they pleased. We’d display art from local artists, decorate the ceiling with white Christmas lights and origami stars made from book pages, and play 2000’s pop punk and indie rock playlists from my personal collection.
And we’d do it all together. Every day. We’d work and play and create and live together, every day, for as long as we could make it last.
“Forever,” he said. “We’ll make it last forever.”
The next morning, I was hungover as hell when I trudged into my CPA firm, but my step was light, and my heart was full. When I got home from work, Riggs told me he’d made some calls to commercial realtors he knew in Chicago and asked if I wanted to maybe go look at a few properties with him the following weekend.
From there, things just started happening. Good things. Amazing things. Some small hiccups here and there, but mostly the ride has been thrilling and wonderful, and I still can’t quite believe this is my life.
We live in a two-bedroom apartment in a renovated brownstone in Lincoln Park. We have a cat named Pierre-Boo (who admittedly wasn’t part of the original plan, but he was too cute to say no to), we have brunch with Ivy and Kelley almost every Sunday, and we bake something new every week. We’ve been to the Night Bean six times just this month alone, and today is the grand opening of our new café, The Poet’s Keep.
It’s two levels, with the upper level being a loft that houses two couches, a handful of bistro tables and chairs, and a chalkboard wall for customers to make art on.
The lower level has more tables and couches, several “Love a Book, Leave a Book” bookshelves, and two hundred and fifty-seven origami stars (and one origami dinosaur) are hanging from the ceiling. I know exactly how many because I helped Riggs fold them. I also know exactly where the origami dinosaur is hiding, and I’ll never tell.
The display cases are teeming with delicious baked goods, the menus above the cash register are full of clever and creative literary references, and right now, The Shins are filtering through the shop speakers.
And on one of the walls, there is a large, black and white canvas picture of Riggs and Odette from when he was about six or seven. They’re wearing matching chef’s coats, and she’s teaching him how to pipe whipped créme fraiche onto a tray of tarts. It’s my favorite thing in the entire café.
It’s all even better than I imagined, ten times better than I could have even hoped for, and I say as much during our interview with the reporter, which takes about fifteen minutes. We’re so insanely busy that the day flies by in a blink, and our display case is almost empty when we flip the sign to CLOSED. The plan is to donate any unsold items to the homeless shelter, but it looks like tonight, we’ll only have enough to wrap up and send home with family members.
“It went so well,” Ivy says from the sink where she’s currently washing dishes. We have a dishwasher and a staff to do things like this, but Ivy can’t not help. The baby was getting fussy, so Jesse left with Joss and the kids, but V and Kelley stayed the whole day.
“You were so busy today, B. You should have seen the line! It wrapped around the block a few times. I made sure to take pictures.” She wipes her hands on the towel she has tucked into her apron. “How’s your head?”
“In the clouds, V,” I say through a huge smile. “I didn’t even know I could feel this happy.” I blink away a few tears, and she wraps her arms around me.
“You deserve it all, Bailey Bear,” she says as she squeezes. “All the happiness. All the success. All the warm and fuzzies and the biggest, biggest love. It’s all yours, B.”
“I think I might finally be starting to believe it,” I whisper, then break away with a laugh. “I fucking love you, V.”
“Love you back, B.” Her grin is wide, dimple popped, blue eyes dancing, when she lowers her voice and asks, “and the other thing? How do we feel about that?”
I meet her eyes and share her conspiratorial grin. “We feel good about it.”
“Think we’re done out here,” Kelley says as he walks into the kitchen through the swinging doors, carrying an empty bus tub with a towel slung over his shoulder.
“Yep,” Riggs says from a few steps behind him. “And everything for tomorrow is prepped so we should be good to head out.”
“Perfect!” I look at Ivy and Kelley. “You guys wanna go out and celebrate?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but,” Ivy stutters, “I’ve got this case writeup that I need to—”
“Yeah, and I have forty more essays to grade,” Kelley chimes in, and I wave them both off with a tired smile.
“Fine, whatever, losers, just go.” We exchange hugs and goodbyes, and as Riggs walks them back out into the front to unlock the door for them, I slip into the back bathroom to change.
“Jesus,” I grumble as I look in the mirror. Why didn’t anyone tell me I was such a disaster? Thank god, I was wearing an apron. I tug off my outfit and slip back into my ratty jeans and band tee, then take my hair out of the bun and shake it out. I clean up my eyeliner smudges with a piece of wet paper towel and apply a little more ChapStick. “We did good today,” I say to myself in the mirror. “Enjoy this. Bask in it. You’re main character material.” One last smile at my reflection, then I step out and turn off the light.
Riggs is waiting for me in the kitchen when I walk in. He’s leaning on one of the stainless-steel work tables, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes trained right on me. Damn, he’s so hot. I’ll never tire of looking at him.
“Stop looking at me like that, Sundance,” he growls.
“Or what,” I purr back.