Chapter 1

Whitney

The morning light filters through the amber-tinted windows of Bean There, Done That, casting everything in a golden glow that screams autumn comfort. Steam rises from the espresso machine like morning mist, and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans mingles with the sweet scent of cinnamon rolls warming in the display case.

"Whitney, can I get my usual?" calls out Mrs. Gonzalez from her corner table, her knitting needles clicking in rhythm with the jazz playlist humming through the speakers.

"One medium maple latte with oat milk, coming right up!" I call back, my hands already reaching for the cup before my brain fully processes the order. Five years of running this place has turned customer preferences into muscle memory.

The morning rush hits like clockwork, a beautiful chaos of coffee lovers seeking their caffeine salvation before facing another day. I dance between the espresso machine and the register, pulling shots and steaming milk while keeping one eye on the growing line of customers bundled in their fall sweaters and scarves.

"Mom, look!" Sam's voice cuts through the ambient chatter, bright as sunshine. He's stationed himself behind the pastry case, his small hands pressed against the glass as he points out different treats to Mr. Garrett, our mailman. "This one has chocolate chips, and this one has those little sugar crystals that make your tongue sparkle!"

Mr. Garrett chuckles, his weathered face creasing into familiar smile lines. "Well, if it makes my tongue sparkle, I better have one of those."

Sam's giggle bubbles up, infectious and pure. The sound wraps around my heart like a warm hug, momentarily easing the tension that's been building in my shoulders since I flipped the sign to 'Open' an hour ago.

"Sam, baby, let Mr. Garrett actually see the pastries instead of just your fingerprints on the glass."

"Sorry, Mom!" He wipes the glass with the sleeve of his Spider-Man hoodie, leaving more smudges than he removes.

The espresso machine hisses as I pull another shot, the familiar sound grounding me in the present moment. But as I reach for the milk steamer, my mind betrays me, drifting to a place I've spent years trying to avoid.

Ryan.

The name surfaces unbidden, like it always does during these quiet moments between the chaos. I haven't thought about him in... who am I kidding? I thought about him yesterday when Sam asked why he doesn't have a dad like his friend Jake. And the day before that when I found Sam's drawing of a stick figure family with an empty space labeled 'Daddy.'

My hands move on autopilot, creating the perfect microfoam while my thoughts spiral backward six years. Ryan Blake, with his devastating smile and those blue eyes that could convince me to do just about anything. Including believing his promises about staying, about building something real together in this sleepy little town.

"Whitney? You okay, hon?"

I blink, realizing I've been staring at the steamed milk like it holds the secrets of the universe. Sarah from the florist shop next door stands at the counter, concern etched across her face.

"Yeah, sorry. Just lost in coffee land for a second there." I force a smile and get back to crafting her lavender honey latte. "How are the chrysanthemums doing?"

"Flying off the shelves. Nothing says fall like some good mums." She leans against the counter, lowering her voice. "You sure you're alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Maybe I have. The ghost of Ryan Blake and all the plans we made that crumbled the second opportunity knocked on his door. The prestigious job offer in New York City. The chance to climb the corporate ladder and leave small-town life behind.

The chance to leave me behind.

I was three months pregnant when he left. Three months along with Sam, though he didn't know anything about him yet.

"Thanks, Sarah. I'm fine, really." I hand her the latte, complete with a delicate foam art leaf on top. "Just one of those mornings."

She doesn't look convinced but accepts the coffee with a grateful nod. "Well, if you need anything..."

"I know where to find you."

The door chimes as she leaves, and I'm left with the steady hum of the espresso machine and the weight of memories I can't seem to shake. I pour shots for the next order—a large dark roast for Tom from the hardware store—and try to focus on the present.

But the past has its hooks in deep today.

The lump in my throat grows as I remember standing in our tiny apartment, watching him pack his single suitcase with methodical precision. He'd been accepted to some high-powered consulting firm. The salary was more than our entire town probably made in a year.

"It's an opportunity I can't pass up, Whit. You understand that, right?"

I understood. I understood that whatever we'd built together—the lazy Sunday mornings, the dreams of opening the café, the tentative conversations about the future—couldn't compete with the promise of everything he'd always wanted.

"What about us?" I'd whispered, my hand instinctively moving to my still-flat stomach.

"You'll be fine. You're stronger than you think."

Stronger than I think. As if strength was a choice when you're twenty-one, pregnant, and watching the father of your child walk away without looking back.

"Mom, can I have a cookie?" Sam appears at my elbow, having abandoned his post at the pastry case. His blue eyes look up at me with that hopeful expression he's perfected.

"After lunch, baby. How about some apple slices instead?"

He considers this with the gravity of a supreme court justice. "With peanut butter?"

"With peanut butter."

"Deal." He sticks out his tiny hand for a shake, just like I taught him. His palm is sticky with remnants of the morning's adventures, but I take it anyway, sealing our negotiation with all the solemnity it deserves.

As he skips back to his coloring books spread across the corner table, I can't help but marvel at the little person he's become. All sass and sweetness, curiosity and kindness. He's everything good about both Ryan and me, with none of the baggage that comes with being an adult who's learned that love doesn't always mean staying.

The espresso machine demands my attention again, and I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of morning service. Pull shot, steam milk, pour, repeat. Each latte becomes a small work of art, a moment of beauty in someone else's ordinary day.

But even as I work, even as I smile and chat with customers and keep one eye on Sam's latest masterpiece, which is what appears to be a purple dinosaur wearing a cowboy hat, the weight of the past sits heavy in my chest.

Six years. It's been six years since Ryan Blake walked out of our lives, and I'm still here, still building something beautiful in this little town he couldn't wait to escape.

Still wondering if he ever thinks about what he left behind.

The familiar weight of old memories threatens to drag me under when Mrs. Chen's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts like a lifeline.

"Whitney, dear, I have to say, you've really outdone yourself with the fall decorations this year."

I glance up from the espresso machine, following her gaze around the café. Warm amber string lights drape across exposed brick walls, casting everything in a honeyed glow. Hand-painted wooden signs with autumn quotes sit nestled between vintage coffee tins and mason jars filled with orange and burgundy leaves I collected with Sam last weekend. Miniature pumpkins dot the windowsills, and cinnamon-scented candles flicker on each table.

"The whole place feels like stepping into a cozy autumn dream," Mrs. Chen continues, cradling her chai latte between weathered hands. "It's no wonder you have customers lined up every morning."

Her words hit me like a splash of cold water, washing away the ghosts that have been haunting me since I opened this morning. This is what matters. This warm, inviting space I've created from nothing. The community that gathers here every day, seeking not just coffee but connection.

"Thank you, Mrs. Chen. That means the world to me." I gesture toward the corner where Sam has arranged his latest artwork, construction paper leaves cut into imperfect shapes and taped to the window. "Sam helped with a lot of the decorating. He's got quite the artistic vision."

"That boy has excellent taste," she says with a knowing smile. "Just like his mother."

The compliment settles into my bones, replacing the ache that Ryan's memory always brings. Mrs. Chen is right, I have created something beautiful here. Something that's entirely mine, built with my own hands and heart and determination.

I watch the morning light dance across the walls, illuminating the carefully curated collection of local art I've displayed over the years. Paintings from the high school art teacher, pottery from the woman who runs the studio downtown, photographs of Ivy Grove's changing seasons from our amateur photography club. Every piece tells a story about this community, about the people who choose to make their lives here.

Ryan never understood that. He saw Ivy Grove as a launching pad, a temporary stop before real life began. But this is real life. The elderly man who comes in every Tuesday for his decaf americano and shares stories about his late wife. The group of moms who meet for coffee while their toddlers play with the basket of toys I keep behind the counter. The teenagers who study for exams in the back booth, sustained by hot chocolate and the free wifi I pretend doesn't cost me extra every month.

This is the life I've built. This is what I've chosen to pour my energy into instead of dwelling on what might have been.

"Mom, look!" Sam appears beside me, tugging on my apron with paint-stained fingers. He holds up a piece of paper covered in orange and red handprints arranged like flower petals. "It's a turkey! Well, kind of. Maybe it's a really fat chicken."

"It's perfect, baby." I ruffle his curls, still damp from where he splashed water while washing his hands. "Should we hang it up with the other decorations?"

His face lights up like Christmas morning. "Really? Next to the real art?"

"Your art is real art, Sam. Some of the realest I've ever seen."

He beams and scampers off to find the best spot for his masterpiece, his excitement infectious. Watching him, I feel that familiar surge of fierce protectiveness that's driven every decision I've made since the day I found out I was pregnant.

The door chimes again, admitting a rush of cool October air and three college students from the community college twenty minutes down the highway. They've been regulars since the semester started, always ordering the same thing—two large cold brews and one pumpkin spice latte with extra whip.

"The usual?" I call out before they even reach the counter.

"You know us too well," laughs the blonde one whose name I think is Jessica. "How do you remember everyone's order?"

"Trade secret," I say, already reaching for the cold brew pitcher. "Plus, you guys tip well enough that I'd remember your orders even if I had amnesia."

They laugh, and I lose myself in the familiar choreography of making their drinks. The repetitive motions—grinding beans, measuring shots, steaming milk—ground me in the present moment. Each cup I craft is a small act of creation, a way of showing care for the people who choose to start their day in my space.

This is what I'm good at. Not just making coffee, but creating experiences. Building relationships. Turning a simple transaction into a moment of connection that sends people back into the world feeling a little more seen, a little more cared for.

Ryan never got that either. He saw the café idea as charming but ultimately small-scale. A cute hobby that would never amount to anything substantial. He couldn't understand that impact isn't always measured in salary figures or corner offices or the size of the city where you make your mark.

Sometimes impact is measured in the consistency of showing up. In creating a space where people feel welcome. In employing three part-time baristas from the community college and buying pastries from the local bakery even when I could get them cheaper from a distributor.

"Mommy!" Sam's voice carries across the café, bright with excitement. "I found the perfect spot!"

I look over to see him standing on his tiptoes, trying to reach a section of wall near the counter. His turkey-chicken creation clutches in one small fist while he stretches toward a bare patch between two photographs.

"Here, let me help." I abandon the espresso machine and join him, lifting him up so he can tape his artwork to the wall. His warm weight in my arms, the concentration furrowing his brow as he smooths down the tape—these moments are what real success looks like.

"There!" He leans back to admire his handiwork, still secure in my arms. "Now everyone can see it when they order their coffee."

"Now everyone can see it," I agree, setting him down gently. "You're going to be the talk of the morning rush."

He grins and bounces on his toes before returning to his coloring station, already planning his next artistic endeavor. I watch him settle back into his work, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and feel that familiar swell of pride mixed with fierce determination.

This is my life. Our life. Sam and me and this warm, welcoming space we've created together. The regular customers who've become like family. The seasonal rhythms that mark our days: pumpkin spice in the fall, peppermint mochas in winter, iced lavender lattes when summer returns.

I don't need anyone else to validate what we've built here. I don't need Ryan's approval or his presence or his promises that were never meant to be kept anyway.

The espresso machine calls me back with its insistent hissing, and I return to work with renewed focus. Each drink I make is an act of reclamation—reclaiming my narrative, my worth, my future. I'm not the girl who got left behind anymore. I'm the woman who chose to stay, who chose to build something beautiful in the place others see as too small to matter.