The Clash of Yesterday Read online

  Leaning a hip against the counter, I take a quick sip of the hot java before asking Adira, “Are we carpooling today?”

  Adira and I work at the same downtown coffee shop—one of about a few thousand—and we’ll often take turns driving to save gas. That’s how we met and eventually became roommates—I heard she was looking to move out of her ex-boyfriend’s house after a bad breakup.

  She shakes her head, her dark wavy locks bouncing. She has the coolest hair. It’s cut in asymmetrical layers, shorter on one side, longer on the other, but never touching her shoulders. She has pretty blue eyes with a light smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. She’s tiny like a waif and while she’s sweet and genuine, it takes a while to get to know her.

  “I have a job interview after I get off work,” she explains.

  I cock an eyebrow at her. As the manager of the coffee shop where we work together, I’m a little surprised she’d admit such a thing to me.

  Noting my expression, she smiles reassuringly. “It’s for a second job doing proofing for a small educational publisher. It won’t take away from my shifts.”

  “Phew,” I say with a dramatic swipe of my hand across my brow. “I was fearful for all coffee drinkers I was going to lose one of my best baristas.”

  Blushing, Adira busies herself putting cream cheese on Myles’ bagel, which popped out of the toaster.

  It’s at this moment Myles sits up straighter in his chair as Rainey shuffles into the kitchen. She has on a blue silk robe wrapped tight around her body, her golden blonde hair quite the mess. Still, she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever had the pleasure of being friends with.

  Rainey has one of those perfectly symmetrical faces with large blue eyes and a perfectly straight nose, along with full lips, gleaming, straight teeth, and contoured cheekbones. Her body—just from an unbiased, non-lesbian perspective—is the unrealistic model of perfection every woman dreams about, from her exquisitely shaped breasts to her tiny waist to her long legs.

  I’d absolutely hate her for her perfection if I didn’t love the wench so much. After four years as roommates, she’s my closest friend.

  My gaze moves to Myles, who shoots her a longing glance. He’s my closest friend, too. To be honest, it’s a draw between them and I hate being the one who holds the secret of his unrequited love. Still, I couldn’t bear to tell Rainey as she’d feel awful not being able to reciprocate, and Myles would be so mortified he’d probably move out.

  So I hold my tongue like I always do.

  “Okay, nerds,” I announce to my household posse. “I’m outta here. I’m thinking of grilling some burgers tonight, so I need to know who’s in.”

  I’m the household cook. Long ago, we divvied up responsibilities and since I was the best at cooking, I became the resident chef and chief grocery shopper. Rainey, Myles, and Adira have a system worked out for cleaning the house, and they all three chip in to cover the groceries.

  “I’m out,” Adira says, and I figured as much if she has a job interview after work. “I’ll just grab something downtown.”

  “I’m in,” Myles says, his attention now back on his laptop. Adira brings him the bagel she’d just prepared. He ignores it like he did the one before it, but that’s just the way he gets wrapped up in his work.

  “I’m in, too,” Rainey mutters as she sips at the coffee she just poured. It takes her a while to wake up and function. She works in the mall as head of the makeup section in a fancy department store. Unlike me, she has a college education. Like me, Rainey’s happy doing what she’s doing and not aspiring toward a more ambitious and lucrative career. Deep down, she’s just waiting to land the right rich man who will keep her in lavish comfort, and I can respect that ambition.

  I wolf down the rest of my bagel and coffee, grab my backpack by the side door off the kitchen, and head out to my car.

  Since this is my house, I get privileges of parking in the gravel driveway that runs right up to the detached garage that serves as Adira’s room. The only real perk is I’m a few feet closer to the door. Rainey and Adira park on the street, and Myles has never owned a car. He either takes the bus or bikes wherever he needs to go.

  I love my car. It’s a Subaru Forester in the coolest metallic gray-green color I’ve ever seen. It’s eight years old, and I got it for a great price. It’s been a trusty mode of transportation, and even though traffic in Seattle is some of the worst in the world, I love driving the jam-packed freeways into downtown. It helps me polish my skills of observance, calm steadiness, and the ability to make dangerous maneuvers without hesitation by slipping into the next lane when needed. Not sure when I would ever need such skills outside of driving the Seattle freeways, but they’re nice, shiny, and ready for use.

  I’m less than a mile from 99—also known as Aurora Avenue—which is a straight shot south into downtown where I work. It’s roughly an eleven-mile trip that can sometimes take me an hour, depending on rush-hour traffic. It’s my time to gear up for the day, though, and I jam to the prince of Seattle, Kurt Cobain, as I make a mental list of tasks I need to accomplish at the coffee shop.

  Just before I cross the Aurora Bridge, it starts to rain, and my hands go white-knuckled on my steering wheel. I flip on my windshield wipers, grimacing each time they lift as they make a horrible squeaking sound. While I love the rain of the PNW, it makes the metal grating of the Aurora Bridge slippery as hell and causes my anxiety to go sky high when I have to travel over it. It’s the thing I hate about my city the most and all of my daredevil, rush-hour traffic maneuvers grind to a halt as I slow my speed down to a near crawl, clearly pissing people behind me off.

  As I inch across the bridge, I ponder that what I do love about Seattle can’t be found in tourist attractions or guidebooks. It’s the cultural diversity that attracts me to stay here despite the bad traffic and rainy weather. It’s the environmental conscience of most of the residents, a shared love and commitment to keep our planet healthy and whole. It’s the vibrant art scene and gorgeous scenery that’s unparalleled. Sure, call me a granola cruncher, but there’s not a lovelier place in the world to live than my city, especially on a clear day when you can see west across the Puget Sound to soaring views of the Olympic Mountains, or the even clearer days when Mount Rainier shines from the south with its snowcapped peak. I’ve heard that it can even be seen as far away as Oregon and British Columbia, but I’ve not seen that with my own eyes, mainly because I’m not much of a traveler.

  Of course, that’s more by circumstance than desire, as I pretty much live hand to mouth working as a coffee shop manager in an expensive city and am thus too poor to travel.

  I park in a garage two blocks from where I work. There’s a light mist—nothing that could actually be called rain—so I leave my umbrella tucked away as I move with the pedestrian crowd. It’s not enough to get my clothes wet, but the mist will wreak havoc on my hair.

  My dad always used to say, “Finley… if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life”.

  I know that to be true because I really love my job and never think it’s a burden in any way. I even get a little squeeze of fondness in my heart when the front door of the coffee shop comes into view.

  It’s called One Bean, and it’s the most amazing place ever.

  Recessed in between a pharmacy and a small branch bank on 6th Avenue, the exterior is a worn red brick. The front door is solid wood on the bottom, painted black, with paned glass on the top. Just above the door is a small sign in white cursive lettering that says One Bean. I’m sure many marketers would frown on such a horrible effort on getting the shop noticed, especially since it’s recessed inward by about ten feet, but the owner was far smarter than they’d expect. As the shop itself is two stories, there’s a small balcony above the door that holds two tables where patrons can sit on a nice day. It’s bordered with black wrought-iron railing and attached to the exterior of said railing is the word COFFEE, done in marquis lettering thre
e feet tall and blazing with light bulbs along each letter.

  Edison light bulbs are also strung across the width of the recessed space, crisscrossed back and forth, and it provides for a magical atmosphere at night. I freaking love this place.

  We open at six for the early morning commuters, and my day-shift manager, Lisa, has the place in tip-top shape by the time I walk in at eight. The interior is packed, and three espresso machines are chugging behind the counter at the same time. Glass cases on either side of the two registers showcase a delicious array of pastries, muffins, yogurts, granolas, cookies, breads, and other sweet edibles to have with coffee—or tea for the weird ones.

  Glancing around with pride, I take in every filled table. The inside of One Bean is as charming and eclectic as the outside. The walls are the same worn red brick, and the flooring is reclaimed pine. The tables are bleached oak, and the chairs have the same matching wood on the seats, but the back and legs are painted black. Immediately to the left of the entrance is a floating staircase that leads up to the second floor, which has about half the space as the first floor. It’s a popular spot, and I know there won’t be an empty seat up there either.

  I make eye contact with Lisa, who has been at One Bean for almost five years now. She wears her hair shorn into a buzz cut, which one might think would make her look mannish. On the contrary, her face is delicately feminine, and her makeup is so expertly applied that it enhances her beauty. She is always wearing some type of floating, gauzy dress, usually patterned in flowers or butterflies, giving her a bit of a hippie vibe. This totally contradicts all the piercings in her face—at least seven or eight in each ear, an eyebrow bar, a nose ring, and a stud on the outside of her lower lip. She’s like a patchwork of different styles, which is another reason I love working here. We aren’t required to wear uniforms, and we’re encouraged to be ourselves.

  Lisa’s working behind the counter, and she gives me a chin lift. I point to the bathrooms down a short hall to the right, then to my hair. She grins, knowing exactly what I mean, given the weather outside and my unruly mop.

  Weaving through the line of customers waiting to place their order, I head into the women’s bathroom. Same red brick walls and pine floors. Amber-colored bowl sinks are set into a wooden vanity with two stalls done in lacquered black paint.

  It’s empty and as I step up to the mirror, I blow a frustrated sigh out of my mouth. Placing my backpack on the wooden top, I fish out a hair tie.

  My mom was a redhead like me, but I only know that from the stories my dad tells or by old pictures of her. But my red is a bit different.

  “Like fire,” my dad would always exclaim with pride. It’s vivid, bright, and loud.

  And there’s a bunch of it. It hangs midway down my back and despite the fact I rarely cut it, it has various layers. Moreover, my hair can’t decide which way it wants to behave. Half is a mass of coiled curls that, when pulled taut, would reach my butt. The other half is merely wavy. When the two intermix, it makes for a crazy, hard-to-tame mane—and that’s on a good day. It’s impossible to manage on a misty day.

  As such, I gather it up into a huge messy knot on top of my head. A few of the wavy shorter pieces fall out and frame my face.

  I take a second to study said face, knowing I look like my mom there, too. Classic heart-shape, pale skin, adequately full lips, and I was blessed with the best eyebrow shape in the history of women’s eyebrows. They are delicately arched and rarely need to be plucked.

  My most striking feature, by far, is my eyes, but far be it from me to be the one to laud my peepers. So many people comment on them—even strangers stop me on the street. From a few feet away, they are a strange bluish-green tint. Up close though, the colors don’t actually mesh but are differentiated. Close to my pupils are rings of gold, which striate into a circle of green, which melts into an outer border of blue. In my life, I’ve never seen another person with eyes like mine and sometimes that can make me feel overly strange.

  My dad used to say that on the night I was born, an angel shot a bolt of magic into me, which fried my hair into curls and filled my eyes with the heavens.

  Of course, my dad was nutters, so it wasn’t something I believed. I just found it to be charming.

  Finished with my perusal, I leave the women’s bathroom and step across the hall to the office. I’m the only one other than the owner who has a key, and I unlock it to open the door enough to toss my backpack inside. The other employees have lockers in the small break room at the end of the hall. After locking it back up, I head to the heartbeat of the shop.

  I make my way behind the counter where magical coffee dreams are made and money is collected.

  I greet each of the employees by name and with a smile. I’m a good boss, overly genial and fair. I can be hard when warranted—such as come in late three times and the fourth, the employee would see the temper of a redhead—but for the most part, it’s a very chill work environment.

  We have two cash registers and only one person working them, so I step up to the unmanned one and turn the key to fire it up. The line splits, and customers come over to me.

  Looking up from the register, I greet the first one with a bright, cheery smile. “Welcome to One Bean. What can I get…”

  My words trail off because my stomach sours, and my heart starts pounding as I take in the customer before me.

  To every other person in this shop, he looks normal enough—a morning commuter dressed in slacks and a nice button-down with a crew-neck sweater over it. It’s the standard attire for most businessmen downtown and you rarely see men or women in expensive, tailored suits. Seattle’s just way too casual for that. He has a briefcase in one hand and a phone in the other. Ordinary face, brown hair, and brown eyes.

  But as I take him in, I don’t have to look hard to know there’s something wrong with him. The vibe I’m getting—while making me distinctly nauseous—is cold, hard… maybe even psychopathic.

  I could see him with clearer eyes if I so chose, but I tamp down on that particular gift. It’s not a pleasant experience. Like Mr. Pelman, he’s one of “them” and I learned my lesson where “they” are concerned a long time ago. The less I know, the better. It’s bad enough knowing my dad was a little crazy—I don’t want anyone thinking the same about me. And I definitely don’t want to believe that about myself anymore.

  I lock myself down tight, even as a cold sweat chills my body. My vision glazes slightly as I look at him, a cheery smile still in place. “Sorry… what can I get you today?”

  He gives his order, which I write on the cup. His voice is hard and gravely, his tone just short of snide. In just that short meeting, I can tell he’s a jerk to most people but that’s not the reason I’m experiencing fear. That’s just surface personality. It’s what lies beneath that has my knees shaking just slightly.

  His name, so normal… Dan. If he had a knife in hand and no witnesses, I bet he’d take pleasure in slitting my throat.

  And I hate that I know that about him.

  I take his money, careful not to touch his fingertips, and hand over his change. I avoid obvious eye contact the entire time, instead keeping a hazy awareness of his body in general. My mouth feels like it’s going to crack as I desperately hold onto my smile.

  When he steps to the side to await his order, my gaze lowers to the cash register. I let out a long exhale, returning it immediately with a calming breath.

  I lift my head, welcoming smile back in place, and ready myself to greet the next customer.

  “Shit,” I mutter when I see the woman standing before me.

  My twin sister, Fallon.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  About the Author

  New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestselling author Sawyer Bennett uses real life experience to create relatable stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From contemporary romance, fantasy romance, and both women’s and general fiction, Sawyer writes something for just about
everyone.

  A former trial lawyer from North Carolina, when she is not bringing fiction to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to her very adorable daughter, as well as full-time servant to her wonderfully naughty dogs.

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