Chapter 1
Jade:
I don’t belong here. That’s my first thought as I push open the door to The Daily Grind, the bell above my head announcing my presence to a room of strangers. The scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee hits me immediately. It’s a promise of warmth I haven’t felt since moving to Maplewood three weeks ago. I scan the café quickly, cataloging exits and empty tables, a habit I can’t seem to break even in this sleepy town where nothing ever happens. The locals turn to look, then away again. New face. Not worth the attention. Not yet.
The café is exposed brick and reclaimed wood, that carefully cultivates rustic charm that’s neither too polished nor too rough. Local art hangs on the walls in watercolors of the town square, abstract pieces that look like they’re trying to say something profound about suburbia. I approach the counter where a woman with wild red curls is laughing with an elderly customer. Her green eyes find mine as the older man shuffles away with his coffee.
“Morning, honey!” Her voice has the easy warmth of someone who greets strangers like old friends. “First time in? I’m Lila, owner and chief coffee wizard.”
I feel like I’m in a Hallmark Movie.
“Jade,” I offer, keeping my smile measured. “Just moved to town.”
“Well, welcome to Maplewood! What can I get you?” Her hands hover expectantly over the espresso machine.
“Latte, please. Oat milk if you have it.”
“Do I have oat milk?” She winks. “Honey, I’ve got milk from every plant and animal that’s legal in this state.”
I don’t tell her I’ve been surviving on grocery store coffee since I arrived. I don’t mention that this is the first place in Maplewood where I’ve ventured beyond necessities. Instead, I pay, drop a dollar in the tip jar, and retreat to the corner table that gives me the best view of the room.
The latte arrives in a wide ceramic mug, a perfect leaf pattern in the foam. Show-off. But I appreciate the effort, the small artistry of it. I wrap my hands around the warmth and observe. The college student typing furiously on her laptop. The two middle-aged women leaning close, sharing secrets. The old man from the counter now reading yesterday’s newspaper. Everyone has their place, their routine. I’m the variable in their equation.
The bell chimes again, and he walks in.
He’s tall, with sandy brown hair that falls across his forehead in a way that seems accidental rather than styled. He carries a worn leather messenger bag and a sketchbook tucked under one arm. There’s a quiet focus in his movements, an economy that draws my eye. His clothes are simple jeans, a faded blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms marked with what looks like ink or paint. An artist, maybe, or tattoo artist.
I look down at my coffee before he catches me staring.
“Owen!” Lila calls out from behind the counter. “The usual?”
He smiles, and his whole face transforms. “Thanks, Lila. Been up since five with Max. Need the extra shot today.”
Max. A partner? Child? I shouldn’t care either way.
Owen takes his coffee—black, I notice—and chooses a table two over from mine. Close enough that I can see him without being obvious, far enough that it doesn’t suggest he’s interested. He sets his sketchbook on the table, opens it, and pulls out a small wooden case. When he unrolls it, I glimpse an array of pencils, organized by shade.
So artist, it is.
I pretend to check my phone, but I’m watching his hands. They move with carefulness, selecting a pencil, testing it with a light stroke at the corner of the page. He begins to sketch, his brow furrowing slightly in concentration. His eyes flick up occasionally, taking in the café, then back to the page. Once, I think he looks at me, but I’m careful not to meet his gaze.
Fifteen minutes pass. I should leave. I have emails to answer, a bare apartment to furnish, a life to rebuild. But my coffee is still warm, and there’s something mesmerizing about watching someone who’s good at what they do. His pencil moves in confident strokes across the paper, pausing only when he reaches for his coffee.
I watch him capture the light falling through the café windows, the steam rising from cups, the texture of the brick wall. He draws the world as it is, but somehow more honest. I envy that. The ability to see clearly, to translate reality into something meaningful is something I’d long to do. My own reality has been a blur of cardboard boxes and echoing rooms since I arrived.
Then it happens. His elbow bumps the wooden pencil case as he reaches for his mug, sending a pencil rolling across his table, onto the floor, and directly toward my feet.
I pick it up before he realizes it’s gone. It’s worn to the shape of his fingers, the wood smooth from use. H2. The label is almost rubbed away.
“I think this is yours,” I say, standing to return it.
Owen looks up, and our eyes meet properly for the first time. His are warm brown, crinkled at the corners from a habit of smiling. There’s a moment—just a heartbeat—where neither of us says anything else.
“Thanks.” He takes the pencil, our fingers brushing briefly. “Would’ve missed that one. It’s my favorite for shading.”
“It looks well-loved.”
“Most reliable things are.” He smiles again, and I notice a small scar above his left eyebrow, a tiny imperfection that somehow makes his face more interesting.
I should return to my seat, end the interaction there. But I find myself asking, “What are you working on?”
He turns the sketchbook, giving me a glimpse of his drawing of the café interior, captured with remarkable detail, but with an emphasis on the light and shadows that transforms the ordinary space into something worth looking at.
“Just practice,” he says. “I try to draw something every day.”
“It’s good,” I say, inadequately. It’s more than good. It’s honest in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It sees what’s really there.
“Thanks.” He hesitates, like he might say more, then simply nods.
“Your perspective is interesting,” I say, nodding toward his sketch. “The way you’ve captured the light coming through those windows.” I’m not usually this forward. But something about his quiet concentration pulls at me, makes me curious in a way I haven’t been since arriving in Maplewood.
Surprise flickers across his face before settling into a pleased smile. “I’m always drawn to how light changes spaces.” He hesitates, then gestures to the empty chair across from him. “Would you like to sit?”
I should decline. My latte is cold and I should get back to my empty apartment, but instead, I find myself sliding into the chair. “I’m Jade,” I offer.
“Owen,” he replies, closing his sketchbook partially but keeping his finger between the pages. “So you know something about art?”
I shrug. “Just an observer. I appreciate it, but I can’t create it.” A confession I wouldn’t normally share with a stranger. “My stick figures look like they have medical conditions.”
His laugh is quiet but genuine. “Everyone can create something. It’s just finding your medium.” He fully opens the sketchbook again, turning it so I can see better. “These are just warm-ups. Visual note-taking, really.”
I lean forward, studying the details he’s captured. They’re not just the objects in the café, but the relationships between them, the mood, the atmosphere. “This doesn’t look like note-taking to me.”
“It’s my job to notice things.” His fingers tap lightly on the page. “I’m an illustrator. Children’s books, mostly, but some editorial work too. I work from home.”
“That explains the practiced hand with the pencil.” I gesture toward his case of drawing tools. “And the ink stains.” I nod toward the blue smudges on his left hand.
He glances down as if noticing them for the first time. “Hazard of the profession. My son thinks they’re tattoos.” Ah max. He smiles, his whole face softening at the mention. “What about you? What brings you to The Daily Grinder this morning?”
“Besides the promise of decent coffee?” I wrap my hands around my empty mug. “I just moved to Maplewood. Still exploring.”
“Recently?”
“Three weeks ago.” I don’t elaborate on why—the exhaustion of city life, the need for space to breathe, to rebuild. Oh my god, I am truly in a Hallmark Movie. “Fresh start.”
“Bold move,” he says. “Most people leave places like Maplewood, not move to them.”
“Maybe I’m not most people.” The words come out more flirty than I intend.
“I didn’t think you were.” His response is quiet, his eyes holding mine for a moment too long.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, aware of the nervous gesture as I’m doing it but unable to stop. Owen leans forward slightly, his elbows on the table, reducing the space between us. I notice the way his shoulders tilt toward me, how his full attention makes me feel oddly exposed.
“What made you choose illustration?” I ask, steering us back to safer ground.
“I’ve always drawn. Even as a kid, I was the one with perpetually ink-stained fingers.” He smiles at the memory. “But making a career of it was accidental. I illustrated a friend’s self-published children’s book as a favor, and somehow it got noticed by the right people.”
“Sometimes accidents are the best career counselors.”
“Speaking from experience?”
I nod, surprised at my willingness to share even this much. “I was headed for law school until I spent a summer at a non-profit. Changed everything.”
“So what do you do now?”
“Environmental compliance consulting.” I watch his face for the glazed look that usually follows this revelation. It doesn’t come.
“Keeping corporations from destroying the world?” There’s genuine interest in his voice, which is surprising. Sometimes people will ask what it is, but before I even finish their sentence they’ll already be looking over my shoulder, hoping to be saved from the hippie chick. Happened once. On a date, no less.
“More like helping them navigate regulations while doing minimal damage. Less heroic than it sounds.”
“I don’t know. Seems pretty important to me.” He sketches a quick line on his page, almost absentmindedly. “We’ve only got the one planet.”
Before I can respond, a shadow falls over our table.
“Refills, you two?” Lila stands there, coffee pot in hand, her smile knowing in a way that makes me straighten in my chair. “Owen, honey, you’re running low.”
“Thanks, Lila.” He holds up his mug. As she pours, she winks at me.
“Don’t let this one fool you with the quiet artist act,” she says, nodding toward Owen. “I’ve known him since he was knee-high. He once put half a dozen frogs in my mailbox in second grade.”
Owen’s cheeks color slightly. “I was testing a hypothesis about amphibian habitats.”
“You were being a little terror,” Lila counters affectionately. “His mother and I were in the same book club for years,” she explains to me. “I’ve watched this one grow up.” She pats Owen’s shoulder. “Good to see you making friends, though. You need to get out more.”
After she leaves, Owen shakes his head with a small smile. “Small town,” he says by way of explanation. “Everyone knows everyone’s business.”
“And yet you stayed.”
“It’s home.” He shrugs. “Plus, it’s a good place for Max.”
I raise an eyebrow, silently questioning, though I suspect I already know.
“My son,” Owen clarifies, a hint of nervousness entering his voice for the first time. “He’s eight. I’ve got full custody.”
The clues were there—the mention of his son earlier, Lila’s comment about him needing to get out more. I wait for the familiar urge to retreat, to find an excuse to leave. Single father means complications, attachments, limitations. Yet I find myself leaning forward instead of away.
“What’s he like?” I ask, genuinely curious.
The question transforms Owen’s face, lighting it from within. “Max is...” he pauses, searching for the right words. “He’s incredible. Smart, creative. He sees the world differently and finds wonder in places most people overlook.”
“He sounds like his father,” I say, the observation slipping out unfiltered. Great, Jade. Just great.
Owen’s smile turns shy. “He’s better. Purer somehow. He’ll spend hours constructing entire worlds with just paper and colored pencils. Last week he invented a language for a species of mountain-dwelling dragons who can only communicate through straw raven feathers.”
“Impressive linguistic skills for an eight-year-old.”
“He keeps me on my toes.” Owen turns a page in his sketchbook, revealing a portrait of a boy with unruly curls and a gap-toothed smile, surrounded by fantastical creatures that seem to spring from the child’s imagination. “This is him.”
I study the drawing—the obvious love in every carefully rendered line, the pride evident in the detail. “He has your eyes,” I say softly. Soft with a dosing of kindness. Owen’s really talented to convey such details through a pen stroke.
“He gets the creativity from his mother,” Owen says, a shadow passing briefly over his features. “She’s a photographer. Lives in New York now.”
I catch the past tense relationship, the hint of old pain. I recognize it because I carry my own versions.
“He’s lucky,” I say. “To have a father who sees him so clearly.”
Owen studies me as if trying to understand what experiences have shaped my words. For a moment, I worry I’ve revealed too much.
But he just nods. “I’m the lucky one.”
As we talk for a few more minutes, the lunch crowd arrives. A steady stream of bodies fill every empty table, raising the volume in the café from whispers to a persistent hum. Owen glances at his watch, a flash of regret crossing his features. I recognize it because I feel this strange reluctance to end a conversation with someone I barely know, and I suspect he does, too.
“I should probably get going,” I say, though I make no move to stand. “I’ve got some unpacking to finish.”
Owen closes his sketchbook, sliding it carefully into his messenger bag. “And I have a deadline.” He hesitates. “But this was nice.”
“It was.” The simplicity of the agreement surprises me. I’m not usually one for casual connections, for conversations with strangers that stretch beyond pleasantries. Yet here I am, two hours later, reluctant to leave.
A group of office workers in pressed shirts and sensible blazers eye our table hopefully. Their collective hunger is an effective motivation. I stand, gathering my phone and wallet.
“I hope the unpacking goes well,” Owen says, shouldering his bag. “Moving is hell.”
“The seventh circle, at least.” I smile. “Good luck with your deadline.”
We navigate through the growing crowd toward the door, our movements synchronized without effort. He reaches it first, holding it open for me with a gesture that’s courteous without being showy. As I pass, the scent of him registers. It’s graphite and coffee and something citrusy, maybe his soap, or maybe just him.
Outside, the autumn air is crisp, the sunlight softer than it was when I arrived. We step away from the entrance but hover near each other on the sidewalk. Neither of us seems quite ready to walk away.
“I come here most mornings,” Owen says, his hands sliding into his pockets. “When I’m stuck on a project or just need to be around people for a while.”
“Sounds like a good routine.” I tuck my hair behind my ear again, aware of the tell. “I’ve been working from home since I moved, but I should probably find a proper office soon.”
“The Daily Grinder has decent Wi-Fi,” he offers. “If you need a change of scenery before you commit to a lease.” Is that a hint he wants to see me again?
I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A pause stretches between us. The moment when we should say goodbye, walk in opposite directions, return to our separate lives. Yet we both linger.
Owen shifts his weight, a hint of nervousness breaking through his calm exterior. “I was thinking...” He stops, then starts again. “Would you maybe want to get coffee again sometime? Or dinner, even?”
My pulse quickens. This is the moment I usually make my exit, offer a vague “maybe” that we both know means “no.” New town, same Jade—careful, contained, keeping people at arm’s length.
But I hear myself say, “I’d like that.”
The smile that breaks across his face is worth the momentary panic my answer triggers in my chest. “Great,” he says. “That’s really great.”
Another pause. I realize we’ve reached the awkward phone exchange portion of this unexpected connection.
“Should I...” I begin, pulling out my phone.
“Oh, right,” Owen fumbles slightly with his bag, extracting his own phone. His fingers, so steady when holding a pencil, seem less certain as he navigates to his contacts. “Here,” he says, handing it to me.
I create a new contact, typing my name and number. When I return his phone, our fingers brush again, and I’m annoyed at how such a small contact sends electricity up my arm. He’s just a man, I remind myself. A nice man with talented hands and kind eyes and a son he clearly adores, but still just a man.
He hands me his card instead of asking for my phone. “My number,” he explains. “And email. For work, mostly, but, yeah.”
I take the card, a simple design with an illustration of a pencil in the corner. Owen Bone, Illustrator. The name suits him. Straightforward, solid.
“I could text you,” I suggest. “So you have my number too.”
“I’d like that.” His voice is soft, almost shy.
I type a quick message—“It’s Jade”—and press send. His phone chimes in his pocket, and he smiles.
“Max is in school until three,” Owen says suddenly. “Most days. If you wanted to meet up sometime during the day, it would work.”
I understand what he’s not saying. How he’s trying to navigate this thing between us while being a full-time parent, that his availability comes with constraints. I appreciate the honesty and straight-forward-ness. Yup, definitely no second doubts with this one.
“Weekdays work well for me,” I tell him. “My schedule’s flexible.”
He nods, relief evident in the relaxing of his shoulders. “I’ll text you, then?”
“Sure.”
We’ve exhausted all reasons to keep standing here, yet neither of us moves immediately. Finally, I take a step backward. “I should go. East side,” I explain, gesturing vaguely toward my apartment.
“Now way. Building C for me,” he says with a small smile. Like I said, small town. “Nice meeting you, Jade.”
“You too, Owen.”
We finally part, walking in the same direction but maintaining a careful distance. I make it halfway across the parking lot before the urge overtakes me. I glance over, just a quick look to see if he’s still there.
He’s looking too.
Our eyes meet across three empty parking spaces, and we share a smile. A small acknowledgment of whatever this is, this unexpected spark on an ordinary morning in a café I only chose because it was a three-minute walk from our apartment complex.
I turn away again, fishing for my keys, but something has shifted. There’s a lightness in my movements that wasn’t there this morning, a subtle buzz under my skin that has nothing to do with caffeine.
I’m still cautious. Still Jade, with all my walls and boundaries carefully constructed through years of learning what happens when you let the wrong people in. But for the first time since moving to Maplewood Pines Apartments, I feel a flicker of possibility.
I don’t trust it. Not fully. But as I walk toward Building D, just one breezeway away from his building, Owen’s business card a tangible weight in my pocket, I allow myself to consider that this fresh start could include more than just a new address on my mail.
