“Would you like an adventure now, or would you like to have your tea first?” – Peter Pan
Lyric Masterson had a way with words. She was no great orator like her grandfather, and she didn’t have her cousin Maya’s knack for storytelling, but she was her namesake. She could pen a song. Her talent was undeniable. She brought a smile to broken hearts and energized the sluggish. She soothed the restless. She made even the toughest critic cry like a newborn just by sharing her songs. But with all the power of her gift, she had one problem. Whether she was in front of an expectant crowd or in the company of her supportive family, she could never sing the words how she felt them. She tried many times, but the words would get trapped in her throat or wouldn’t come at all.
So, instead, she filled notebook after notebook, pouring her songs out on paper, infusing those pages with the beautiful words she couldn’t voice herself. If she couldn’t sing the words, maybe she could capture the words and find others who could. Lyric would put on her headphones, crank up the tunes that inspired her most, and get to work, lost in her world of music from sunup to sundown. Sometimes even into the wee hours of the morning.
It was in those moments of unguarded musical joy that her family would catch the sweet whispers of her songs, though they didn’t mention it for fear that her nerves would bury her budding gift altogether. You see, it was those little random snatches of song that held their frayed family together. When arguments brewed and tempers flared, when melancholy loomed and bitterness tried to plant its ugly roots, her melodic voice would sing a note, bringing sunshine to their increasingly rainy days.
Lost in her musical world, she didn’t realize her family was falling apart. At least, not until it was almost too late …
Grandpa Selah wasn’t well. The spry septuagenarian, who didn’t look a day over 40, suddenly looked very much his 74 years, if not older. Always chatty and full of stories about the good old days, he barely said a word to his neighbors, if he was even to be seen beyond looking through the blinds of his bedroom window. He didn’t leave the house anymore. He didn’t answer the phone or respond to friendly visits. He barely bothered with the groceries and the cooked meals they left on his porch. His concerned neighbors tried to look after his lawn and the neglected garden he loved so much. They knew something was very wrong. The man who had always been a pillar in their community needed help now more than ever. He needed his family.
That summer, Lyric and her family packed their bags, leaving the hustle and bustle of Chicago for the quaint, somewhat dilapidated charm of Old Glory East, Ohio. It sat just outside the Greater Columbus downtown area, a small urban suburb, fighting and losing its battle against gentrification. The local small businesses were disappearing, but the residents refused to be moved from their homes, homes that had belonged to their families for several generations. They didn’t build homes like that anymore, houses carved in sturdy, brick layers and stone, with large porches held by thick Grecian-style columns, full of cozy rooms, grand fireplaces, and hidden nooks and crannies to explore.
Grandpa’s house was always a welcoming haven. Lyric and her siblings looked forward to visiting him during their breaks from school. His house held the aroma of spices and the promise of hearty meals from sizzling, hickory bacon, eggs fried hard, and buttery biscuits in the morning, to his famous meatloaf or slow-cooked pot roast for dinner. Their bellies were always full. But Lyric’s favorite part of her stay with Grandpa was his famous hot cocoa topped with Cool Whip and a touch of cinnamon powder.
They would nurse the comfort drink, curled up on his soft, sinking sofa while he sucked on Werther’s caramel candies and told them tall tales with the evening news droning in the backdrop. Grandpa’s house was warmth and joy wrapped into 2,500 square feet. His house was always home away from home. At least, it used to be.
Butler’s Bookstore & Café was Lyric’s third place now. It was a cozy joint at the edge of the historic Olde Glory East neighborhood that smelled like dusty pages, buttery pastries, and burnt coffee beans. It was an acquired scent for some, but for Lyric Masterson that smell was more familiar than anything else in her life lately.
Not even home felt like home anymore. New address. Different zip code. Different everything. Lyric’s throat tightened as she suppressed the tears. She turned up the volume of her crooning beats. She could drown out her worries with her headphones in and her music turned up until her ears ached more than her heart did.
The soft light in the bookstore café darkened, jolting Lyric from her even darker mood. She stared up at her sister, whose face was identical in most features but uniquely her own in style and attitude. Big bright brown eyes, even bigger smile, she drummed on the table, a beat Lyric could feel more than hear. She frowned, reluctant to leave the comfort of her music for whatever mischief Mel was dreaming up.
Mel wriggled her brows but waited for Lyric to remove her headphones before she spoke. “I knew you liked your new little dusty hideout, but now I see why.”
She cut her eyes to the café’s counter. Lyric, still yearning for music and solitude, struggled to follow her gaze. A short line had formed, and the barista was busy taking orders. He looked up when he saw her, a quick flash of his eyes, before returning his attention back to a gray-haired woman asking about the soup of the day. She frowned at her sister. “Why are you over here bugging me? What happened to that musician you were flirting with?”
Mel slapped a flyer on her table and tapped it with her manicured French tips. “It’s like fate! This is your chance to brush off your nerves and embrace the spotlight.”
Lyric rolled her eyes even as she tried to shove the mounting panic down. Mel could smell fear like sharks could smell blood in water. Once she caught a whiff of it, she’d make it her personal mission to help her sister get over it. Whatever it was.
Lyric sighed. “They’re hosting an open mic here tonight.”
“In an hour. Enough time for you to work up the nerve to talk to that cute barista, order us something from the café, and warm up that sultry voice,” Mel said with a shimmy.
Lyric balled up the flyer. “I’m not singing.”
Mel leaned into the table, her cinnamon-gum breath making Lyric’s nose tingle. “Nope. You’re just reading, reciting your beautiful lyrics like the poetry they are.”
Lyric rolled her eyes. Sometimes her sister could be so dramatic. She thrived in front of a crowd, as bright and warm as sunshine. Lyric wished she had her sister’s confidence, but where Mel was constant, Lyric wavered like the moon—going through cycles of highs and lows, doubt and belief, fear and something almost like boldness, but not quite.
“You have a beautiful voice, and you write amazing songs. There’s no reason to waste all that talent. For real, sis, trying to sell your music for other people to sing is like selling pieces of your soul. It’s just not right.”
Lyric sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “Not everyone is made for the spotlight,” she grumbled.
She knew her music was good, but she wasn’t sure she was good enough for her music. She’d worked up enough nerve to submit her songs to a few indies and even some of the mainstream artists she admired, but they’d all said the same thing.
It’s good. But not for me.
Mel dismissed her words with a wave of her hand. “If you aren’t ready to sing those lyrics, you can recite them. You gotta start somewhere, sis.”
Lyric groaned, and Mel flicked her forehead, a light censure for her sister to stop whining, before she continued, “Get me a latte with an extra shot of expresso. Something sweet. Not too nutty. And remember …”
“I’m a sunflower. Not a shrinking violet,” Lyric finished with a sigh.
Mel winked. “Selahs are made for the light. You’re going to be great.”
“What are you? My manager now?” She scoffed, but Mel had already walked away to flirt with the tatted, dreamy-eyed musician setting up his keyboard at the front of the café’s dining area.
“You’re a sunflower. Not a shrinking violet,” she whispered, repeating her sister’s mantra. But her hands were already sweating, and her throat felt like it was packed full of cotton.
Lyric surveyed the bookstore, finding some comfort in the small crowd of customers. Maybe she could do this …
Her sister’s talks and friendly, but assertive, nudges always left her feeling pleasantly anxious, somewhere between terror and excitement, like waiting in line for a rollercoaster.
She eyed the café’s register, her gaze connecting with the curious barista’s unapologetic stare. He offered her a quick, crooked smirk before bowing his head to focus on cleaning the counters.
There was no line, and with anxiety making her throat feel drier than a desert, she could use a comfort food to give her a boost. She cleared her throat as she approached the register, her body a ball of trembling nerves.
“What can I get you?” the boy said, his deep brown eyes rising to meet her gaze.
She liked his eyes, how he looked at her so directly, which was odd for her. She hated when people stared. Lyric averted her gaze before forcing herself to study the menu. The barista’s eyes stayed on her face. She could feel it just as sure as she felt the butterflies gathering in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll have a red velvet latte?”
He snorted. “No.”
“No?” she echoed.
“You don’t want that,” he said as their eyes connected again. “I think you’re more of a tea kind of girl.”
“I’ll take that latte and your soup of the day, with a quiche and water,” she said, this time more firmly. Just because she let Mel boss her around didn’t mean she was a pushover. She wasn’t going to let—her eyes found his name tag—Peter tell her what to do. If she wanted a red velvet latte (she didn’t), she’d have a red velvet latte.
Barista Peter raised his hands in half-hearted surrender. He offered her a flash of a smile, sporting an annoying boyish dimple in one cheek, before keying in her order. “If you like it, I love it,” he said.
She gave him a sour look as she paid, and despite her annoyance, her cheeks went hot when his fingers brushed hers as he dropped the change into her hand. She shoved the money in her pocket while Peter whipped up her order.
He served her latte with a large, droll smile. It seemed almost mischievous. Retreating to her seat, Lyric sipped her sister’s drink, tossing him a defiant, deliberate look of her own. But as soon as the warm liquid hit her tongue, she choked, resisting the urge to spit it back into her sister’s cup. Her tastebuds had never been so insulted. She nearly gagged, and despite herself, she turned to see Peter watching her, his eyes twinkling with laughter.
“What’s in this?” she muttered, prying open the lid to inspect what looked like a cup of warm blood. She shuddered. The red velvet latte definitely didn’t suit her taste, though she suspected her sister would love the syrupy flavor.
“Like I said, you strike me as more of a tea kind of girl,” came Peter’s voice. He gave her one of his dimpled smiles again, setting two hot cups down on her table.
“The latte’s for my sister,” she admitted.
His eyes flicked to her sister. “That makes more sense,” he said as her sister’s giggles traveled, filling the air with her levity. Even her laugh was beautiful.
“She signed me up for the open mic event,” she said, peering up at Peter and finding his eyes refocused on her. Most guys saw Mel and normally didn’t look in her direction again. Not that she minded. She liked being unbothered. She liked her peace, though now with Peter smiling at her, she thought his curious attention wasn’t so bad.
At least, not until he sat down across from her. Then her already nervous heart fluttered some more. But the aroma of baked goods and coffee beans became more apparent, soothing some of her initial jitters. Pete didn’t smell like a sporty cologne or like all the dreamy boys from her favorite books. He smelled like the bookstore. She inhaled the comforting scent with a sigh before she realized what she was doing.
Pete’s eyes widened and he sniffed at the air. “What?”
But she didn’t need to answer. His cheeks reddened when he smelled his shirt and he chuckled. “Snickerdoodles. I just took a batch out before I made your order. Want one?”
She gestured at the uneaten quiche, but he was already up, retrieving the freshly baked goods from behind the counter.
He returned with a handful of large cookies decorated with sugar flakes, and he offered her one before taking a giant bite out of the one he had snagged for himself. Then he took one of the cups from the table, nudging the other hot drink in her direction.
“I might not be good at much nowadays, but I do have impeccable skills when it comes to customer satisfaction.” he said, talking in between chews. “I have this uncanny ability to know what refreshments are just right for each person, just by looking at them.”
“So … Snickerdoodles. That’s what you think of when you see me,” she said.
He gulped his drink down and wiped his mouth. “Fresh out the oven, sweet, buttery and satisfying without doing too much. Who could resist?”
Lyric took a small bite of the treat, and then another, all too aware of Peter’s attentive gaze. She nodded. “It’s alright.”
There was no way she’d tell him he was right, that the sweet treat was just what she needed to soothe her nerves. Her sweaty hands and racing heart were gone, replaced by another kind of feeling, one that was just as uncomfortable but somehow much more pleasant.
“It’s my favorite,” he said with a smile, before biting another cookie.
Her face warmed, and the gentle heat spread to her chest, sinking deep into her heart. She was sorting out her words, trying to figure out a response, but the moment she couldn’t define was gone before she could form a syllable.
Peter pointed at her cup and winked. “A cup of tea before your moment in the spotlight.”
Then he was striding back behind the counter like a confident peacock.
Lyric had never felt so annoyed or so seen.