It wasn’t snowing today; in fact, it wasn’t even that cold out. It had to be above freezing, because the snow on the ground was starting to chunk together. Perfect snowman-making conditions, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a snowman.

Vincent drove easily down the snowy roads, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel. The interior of his truck smelled so good, and for the first few moments, I looked around for an air freshener. But when I didn’t find one, I realized it smelled like him. Like honey and coffee beans. It was a heady sort of scent, so different from the sharp citrus type of cologne Bryce always wore.

Vincent’s truck was spotless—there were no gas station receipts, no old homework worksheets. The only thing on the floor near the toe of my shoe was a leather-bound notebook. I wanted to ask him about it, but that would’ve required opening my mouth, which I hadn’t done since we’d stepped outside of school.

Conversation eluded me—what was I supposed to say to him? I barely knew him, but such a personal thing had happened to us that made things just…awkward.

I had my arms wrapped around my backpack, feeling like I was moments from freaking out. I cataloged every road we turned onto, memorizing the layout. Just in case.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Vincent look over at me. “We’re almost there.”

I cleared my throat. “Where is there, exactly?”

“Do you go to Hallow often?”

“Sometimes.” Hallow was a small town west of Greenville. It was well known for its antique shops and its Halloween event they threw every year. Vesta, Mollie, and I had gone to the Boo-Bash this past year, and it’d been a blast. “Do you work at one of those little shops?”

Vincent flipped on his blinker to turn onto a side street, his brakes squeaking a little as he slowed. “Sort of.” He didn’t elaborate.

We continued down the road for a little bit before turning into a back-alley lot, one with few cars parked. He slid easily into a space, switching off the engine. “We’ll go in through the back entrance.”

“Am I allowed to?”

“Who cares if you’re allowed to or not?” he asked, popping his door open and letting in a rush of cold air. “Do it anyway.”

I was so not a rule breaker. Never had been. There was no point in breaking rules, only just to prove that one could.

I unbuckled my seatbelt slowly, unwilling to get out of the truck. A dumpster sat near the middle of the building, trash overflowing from its depths. The back entrances of the building were a little dingy. There weren’t any signs above the doors that gave me a clue as to what kind of place we were walking into, which didn’t help me in the confidence department.

Vincent rapped his knuckles on the driver’s side window. Though his voice was muffled through the glass, I could hear him ask, “Are you coming, or are you going to sit in there and freeze?”

“I’m coming,” I muttered, opening my door and hopping out onto the pavement. At the last second, I swiped my backpack up and hooked it over my shoulder. “I brought the interview sheet that Mr. Walker gave us, so it shouldn’t take us too long.”

He watched me round the front of the truck, slipping his hands into his pockets. “My shift ends at eight, so hopefully it takes at least that long.”

I hadn’t even thought about how I’d be trapped here—wherever here was.

Vincent walked up to a door on the left side of the dumpster, finding a key from his lanyard and sticking it into the lock.

“We’re going to have time to just talk?” I clarified once again. “I’m not going to get thrown out for distracting the help?”

“Are you normally this much of a worrier?” he asked in a casual tone, pulling open the door that led to a stainless steel kitchen. There wasn’t anyone in the kitchen, but pots and pans were scattered across the countertops, as if someone was going to start cooking soon.

“I’m not a rule breaker. I don’t like getting in trouble.” Even if it was some stranger yelling at me, it made me nervous.

Vincent moved over to an area with coat hooks and hung up his corduroy jacket. He looked at me again, as if noting the serious anxiety bubbling up in me. His voice was softer when he said, “You’ll be fine, okay?”

Somehow, it was hard for me to fully trust him. I tugged my backpack closer against my shoulder blades.

Vincent headed toward the doorway of the kitchen, and even though the double doors had small windows, I couldn’t see where it led; the hallway was too dark. But Vincent pushed open the door with ease, not even glancing back. He just expected me to follow him.

Of course, with a sharp breath in, I did.

And blinked in surprise.

The room that the double doors led into was large and dimly lit, but in a way that made it cozy instead of creepy. The ductwork in the ceiling was exposed, and the brick walls gave the area an industrial edge. Off to the left, there was a wide counter with several people standing in line, but there were booths and tables littered throughout the room. There was also a large wooden stage against the far corner, and someone stood on it now, speaking softly into a microphone.

The smell of coffee beans was strong, and I found myself inhaling deeply.

“Vincent!” a guy standing behind the counter called, and I turned from my gawking to see Vincent throwing a bright teal apron over his head, quickly tying it around his waist. “You’re late.”

“I’m supposed to start at four,” he replied. “It’s four-oh-two.”

“Still late.” The guy’s gaze drifted past Vincent to lock on me. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties maybe, hair cropped short, jawline narrow with a speckling of facial hair. He had small and silver gauges in his ears, almost reflective-looking. “And now I can see why.”

Vincent glanced back at me before washing his hands at a small sink. “Come over here and sit down, Adeline.”

It was rare to hear my full name used. At school, teachers would call out “Addy” for roll call. Not even my mother called me Adeline, not even when she was angry. Dad was the only one who used to say my full name.

Breathe.

Hearing it on Vincent’s tongue felt…weird, but I also didn’t want to correct him.

There were bar stools up against the far edge of the counter, all of them empty, so I dropped my backpack onto a stool and settled into the one next to it.

“Sorry that he was late,” I said to the guy, and when he turned, I could fully read his nametag: JONATHAN.

“Not a big deal,” Jonathan replied easily, moving to slide a ceramic mug underneath a silver machine. His actions were quick. “It’s just the mid-afternoon rush, is all.”

Vincent rolled his eyes, but as he looked at the next customer in line, his voice changed dramatically. The serious tone transformed into something light and easygoing, a sound that had me leaning forward. “Hey, welcome to Crushed Beanz. What can I get you?”

Crushed Beanz. I knew Hallow had a coffee shop, but I’d never seen one this industrial. I turned around to get a better look at the space as another person stepped onto the stage and leaned into the microphone.

“Hey, everyone,” the girl said shakily, flapping her paper in front of her. “I wrote this poem last week and wanted to share it tonight, if that’s okay.”

The people sitting at the tables and booths cheered her on by snapping their fingers.

A poetry reading?

“One of our signature events,” Jonathan told me, passing over the mug of coffee to a woman as he guessed my thoughts. “Crushed Beanz has themed nights.”

“Themed nights?” I asked, unable to hide the interest from my voice. “What else do you do?”

“There’s karaoke on Thursdays,” Vincent said, back to the lower tone. He grabbed a to-go coffee cup, and I watched as he pulled out coffee grounds and put them into a metal object, tapping it flat. “Tonight’s poetry night.”

“And on Fridays and Saturdays we have a live band play,” Jonathan added, casting a sidelong look at Vincent. “Somebody hogs the stage time.”

I waited for Vincent to say more, but only the hum of the espresso machine filled the air.

“You perform?”

Vincent sighed. “Don’t sound so impressed.”

I opened my mouth to object, but the truth was that I was impressed. Or the very least surprised. The whole “band” scene did fit him, I had to say—he had that edgy look about him. “Are you the singer?”

“He doesn’t wear enough eyeliner to be the singer,” Jonathan teased, moving to help the next customer in line.

Vincent didn’t immediately answer me, instead handing the cup off to the customer and helping another with their order.

I watched Vincent and Jonathan with interest, noting the way they moved around each other like a choreographed dance. Vincent’s hands were skilled as he poured the milk into coffee, turning out impossibly intricate finished products.

Vincent does coffee art, I thought with an inward chuckle. Mr. Moody does coffee art. Go figure.

Out of all the scenarios I’d imagined, Vincent Castello as a barista wasn’t one of them. A cook at a diner? Sure. An assistant for a law firm? Maybe. But a barista? No freaking way.

Once Jonathan stepped up to ask the last customer in line for their order, so many minutes later, Vincent finally turned to me and answered my question. “I’m the drummer.”

“Drummer,” I echoed. Yep, it totally suited him. “What’s your band called? The Black Tees?”

Jonathan laughed loudly while Vincent scowled. “Untapped Potential.”

“I like it,” I said honestly, unzipping my backpack to grab my bullet journal. I needed to start taking notes. “How many members do you have?”

“Three. I’m the drummer, Natasha’s the guitarist, and Harry’s the singer.”

I’d gotten my pen out as he was talking about Natasha, and scrawled quickly to fill in the rest. “How did you three get together?”

When I looked up, I noticed Vincent was arching a dark brow. “You’re going to put this in the report?”

I glanced around the coffee shop. “That’s why I’m here, right?”

There was something comforting about the atmosphere of Crushed Beanz that made me feel so much more relaxed, my earlier nerves and worries now seeming silly. And maybe it was the fact that Vincent was wearing a teal apron over his dark ensemble, making him seem a little more normal. The lip ring still stood out, as well as his sharp eyes, but there was something less intimidating about him wearing an apron.

Vincent pulled up against the edge of the counter, letting out another sigh, as if this whole interview thing were ridiculous. “Harry and Natasha knew each other before. We put out the ad for a live band, thought it would be good for business, and Harry stopped by. Said they’d prefer to do heavier stuff—they’d been doing acoustic indie stuff up until that point—but didn’t have a drummer.”

I smiled a little at that. “Insert Vincent Castello.”

“I was the missing link,” he agreed. “We started playing back in the middle of November, so not that long.”

Behind me on the stage, the microphone screamed out feedback, making me wince. Vincent, though, didn’t flinch.

“Nice start,” I told him. “How did you get into music? How long have you been playing the drums?”

“That was more than one question.”

“Can’t you multi-task?”

Vincent looked at his hands, as if he was trying to dig deep in his memory. “I guess I’ve been playing on and off for a few years. Since I was thirteen, maybe? Dad got me a drumkit for Christmas. When Harry was looking for a drummer, I volunteered to audition.”

I tried to picture a thirteen-year-old Vincent sitting down at a set of drums for the first time. It made me want to smile, but instead, I wrote it down and referenced the interview sheet Mr. Walker had given us today. “Let’s see… What’s your favorite memory?”

Vincent’s gaze was level on me, but his response never came. The doors to Crushed Beanz chimed as someone walked in, and since I was close enough to the door, I felt the cool air that came with them. I watched as Vincent pulled on his professional face. He didn’t smile—Vincent wasn’t a smiler, I was learning—but it was close.

He went through the motions of helping the customer while I scanned the next few questions, listening to the whir of the coffee machine cut into the poem being crooned through the microphone. This person was more confident than the rest, and I turned in my seat to watch.

The boy held no paper in front of him; he’d committed the poem to memory. A part of me wondered if he was making it up as he went along. Everyone in the shop was rapt, including me.

“Is that something you’d do?”

When I faced back to the counter, I found Vincent putting a sleeve on a coffee cup and handing it over to a customer. “What?”

“Public speak,” Vincent clarified, nodding at the stage. “You strike me as a public speaker.”

“I’m really not,” I said with a chuckle, running my hands over my planner. All of a sudden, I felt shy, nervous as the attention turned to me. “I feel sick to my stomach whenever I have to stand in front of an audience. I couldn’t imagine sharing something personal like a poem.”

“Or singing a song.”

Just the thought was mortifying. “Never. Ever. Did I mention never ever?”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Jonathan said, coming up beside Vincent. “He keeps his head down whenever he’s performing.”

Vincent rolled his eyes. “I play the drums. I have to look down.”

The barstool creaked as I leaned back, kicking my heels against the base. “You skipped my earlier question.”

“Do you want a coffee?” Vincent said, once again deliberately ignoring what I’d said. “We have a good peppermint mocha. Perfect for the season.”

Though I wanted to push the issue, I decided to relent. I’d double back on it later. “Sure. Do you have almond milk?”

He snapped his fingers, pushing away from the countertop. His ring clinked against the surface of a teal ceramic mug as he pulled it out.

“I wouldn’t be good at this,” I said, watching his mechanical movements. He walked over to the collection of syrups and pumped two shots of something into the mug, and then pumped one of another syrup. “I feel like I’d get confused on which syrups to use for which drinks.”

“After working for so long, it becomes second nature,” Vincent told me, scooping cocoa into the cup and then dispensing a bit of hot water from the machine. “It’s not that complicated.”

Looks pretty complicated to me, I thought as he grabbed a scoop-looking thing and poured espresso into it. Then he stamped the grounds flat. “How long have you been working here?”

“About three years now. As soon as I turned fifteen, I got a work permit.”

I thought about what I’d been doing at fifteen. I definitely hadn’t been wanting to get a job—quite the opposite, actually. I’d probably gone shopping almost every weekend, not a care in the world. We’d never been pinched for money—one of the perks of having an investment banker for a father. A weight settled on my chest, thinking about how I’d never needed money, but here Vincent was, working through high school.

Once Vincent finished off the mocha with steamed milk, he sat it front of me. He came close enough that I was once again struck by the vibrancy of his eyes. “Tell me what you think.”

He’d filled the cup nearly to the brim, so I carefully lifted it. Part of me was sad to ruin the flower art he’d created with the foam, but I brought it to my lips, fully aware of his gaze on me.

As soon as I took a sip of the mocha, I smiled, the collection of flavors hitting my tongue at once. The almond milk, the cocoa, the peppermint, and… “What else did you put into this?”

“One pump of white chocolate syrup. Does it make it overly sweet with the almond milk? I didn’t think of that.”

“No, not at all.” I took a longer sip to emphasize that fact, the drink immediately warming me up from the inside. I licked my lips. “It’s really good.”

Vincent looked away, nodding his head ever so slightly. “It’s on the house.”

Once again, our conversation was cut short by a customer, but it wasn’t just one. A steady stream of people started coming through the Crushed Beanz doors, and it seemed like the line never budged. As soon as one was served, another customer would take their place. I didn’t mind just sitting and sipping on the mocha—it was tasty, with just the right amount of peppermint. I held the mug between my hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms.

While Vincent filled orders, I pulled out my phone, checking to see if I had any texts. Nothing. The blank screen was one I’d gotten used to over this past month, but I still found myself wishing Vesta or Mollie had sent me an emoji or something. Bryce had said he’d text me, but that conversation was nothing but crickets, too.

Even though I didn’t want to explain why I was here, my fingers were itching to tell them, the girls and Bryce. To tell them something. Loneliness was keeping me company, and not the good kind.

With that in mind, I set my mug on the countertop, angling it so the Crushed Beanz logo faced away from me, and snapped a quick picture. Upon inspecting the photo, I attached it to a text to Vesta, Mollie, and Bryce separately. This peppermint mocha is to die for.

I shouldn’t have texted them, but it was almost like I couldn’t stop myself.

I wasn’t sure who’d text back first—if any of them would—but I laid my phone face up on the counter, just so I could see any notifications come in.

Mollie was the first to type back. Where’s that at? Looks delish.

Me: Hallow. So cute.

“So, Adeline,” Jonathan said as he slid open the glass pastry case. “Why are you and Vincent playing twenty questions?”

“We have an assignment in psychology where we have to interview each other.”

He made a tsking sound, pulling out a croissant with a pair of tongs. “Ah, high school. Definitely don’t miss it.”

The rest of the night continued that way, with quick, stolen moments before another customer came up to order or requested a refill. I waited patiently throughout, scribbling down notes when I could. After a while, I found myself melting into the atmosphere. The industrial vibes, the quiet stream of poetry speakers, and even the noise of the coffee machine—it was like all of those sounds stimulated my mind just enough to keep me present. It was better than spending my time driving around the county, and definitely better than trying to keep my mind occupied at home.

It was nearly impossible to keep my mind occupied at home.

I reread the list I’d compiled about Vincent. Serious. Drummer in a band. Coffee artist. Great barista. That coffee was amazing; I’d savored it as long as I could, but there was no stopping the disappointment when I drank my last drop.

However, my list was meager and Vincent’s list was nonexistent, which only meant one thing: we’d have to meet again.

I waited for the worry to course through me, but it didn’t. Maybe it was because this hadn’t been as bad as I’d made it up in my mind.

“I’m going to head out,” Vincent declared after he served the last customer in line, just a few minutes after eight. He reached for the straps of his apron before turning to Jonathan. “Do you need anything else?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. I think things are starting to quiet down.”

The poetry readers had mostly filtered off; it’d been a while since anyone had stepped up to the microphone. The tables and booths were pretty sparse too, with just a few stragglers left with their laptops open or books spread wide.

I shoved my bullet journal into my backpack and swiped up my coat. “It was nice meeting you, Jonathan.”

“Hey, you too, Adeline.” His smile was genuine, and wide enough to expose teeth.

It was infectious. “You can call me Addy,” I told him, just barely stopping myself from saying that I’d prefer it if he did.

By that point, Vincent was already hanging up his apron, shrugging on his coat. “We definitely didn’t get all of the questions,” he said as I got closer, flipping the Sherpa collar up against his neck.

“No, we did not. I don’t think I got any on the list, even.” That made me squint at him. “Do you not have a favorite memory? Is that it?”

A frown twisted Vincent’s features, and he shoved through the doors that led to the kitchen, with me following quickly behind. “It’s not that I don’t,” he said, not turning. “It just—I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

I felt both of my eyebrows shoot up, my good mood cracking a bit. “Wow. No offense taken or anything.”

“It’s personal.” His voice was hard as he opened the back door, exposing the cold, dark night. “So I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Uh, hate to break it to you, but being personal is a part of the assignment. I mean, it was on Mr. Walker’s list.” And quite honestly, a favorite memory was one of the least invasive of them, in my opinion. “Biggest fear” and “deepest desire” were so much more personal. “Would it help if I shared mine first? My favorite memory was when my mom, my grandma, and I went on a girls’ trip to Hawaii for my tenth birthday. We drank out of coconuts and everything.”

Vincent looked at me over his shoulder, and if possible, his frown had deepened. “You went to Hawaii?”

I huddled deeper in my coat, letting out a silvery puff of breath. “Yeah.”

Our footsteps crunched on the snow as we made our way to his truck in silence, awkwardness clinging heavily to the air. You shouldn’t have pressed him, I scolded myself, angry that I’d thrown away a decent afternoon. You should’ve just waited. For whatever reason, Vincent didn’t want to share his favorite memory. I thought it would’ve been a good memory, but maybe it wasn’t—maybe it was his favorite for some weird reason. Maybe it was something he didn’t want on some high school report. Whatever the case, I should’ve dropped it.

I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk about certain things.

So instead, as I shut the door behind me and settled against the cold seat, I asked, “How’d you start working here?”

Vincent coaxed the truck to life, fiddling with the heat dials. Cold air pumped out first, but hopefully it’d heat up soon. His voice still hadn’t lost its rough edge. “My dad owns it.”

“Wait, what?” My heart jumped inside my chest, my shivering stopping at once. “He…owns it.”

“Yeah.”

All afternoon, I’d been sitting in the café that Carlo Castello owned—that he’d brought to life. He’d carefully constructed that peaceful atmosphere, he’d organized the theme nights. Mr. Castello had decided to have a live band. It felt like I sat there for several moments, the knowledge and realization sinking in deeper.

Suddenly, my outlook on the afternoon changed, like a steering wheel pulled sharply to the side.

“Dad worked it from the ground up,” Vincent went on, not putting the truck into gear. Instead, he looked at the backside of the café. “It used to be his favorite place.”

My brain felt disconnected from my body, like I could hear what he was saying but couldn’t process it. “Used to be?”

“He—well, he hasn’t been here since the accident.” Vincent wasn’t looking at me as he spoke, voice flat. “He can barely leave the house now.”

Every muscle in my body locked up, and I could hear my brain screaming breathe, breathe but the air was too cold to draw in. I’d begun shivering again, fingers trembling as I gripped them in my lap.

When I spoke, I didn’t recognize my voice. It sounded too flat, too monotone. It sounded a lot like how Vincent spoke. “Can we make a rule?” Vincent didn’t respond, so I went on. “We’re not allowed to talk about the accident.”

Breathe in. Hold it for five seconds. Breathe out. Do it again. And again. Don’t think. Don’t think.

“Fine by me,” Vincent said finally, and looked away.

He put the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking space. Neither one of us spoke the entire way back to Greenville.