Love, Emma

Chapter Eight:

Despite the shiver-worthy cold front we've been braving all week, its relatively warm for a Saturday morning in October. The sun is shining in the crisp, blue, cloudless sky, bearing down on us through gaps in the Toronto skyline. It's so nice out I even denied AJ's multiple offers to drive me. I think he's still worried about me, from last night. I was rather distant after the incident which-must-not-be-named that occurred in the bathroom of the Walker residence.

Hey, after a traumatizing experience like that, I need some alone time to prepare myself for the sure to be awkward, empty silence that awaits me at Belmonte's.

But it's sweater-weather. It's sweater-weather and I absolutely love it, so why not walk to work? Nothing is better than getting ready to leave the house, and pulling on your big, comfy, cozy sweater before heading out the door.

Sadly, my sweater-weather walk doesn't last nearly as long as I'd hoped it would, and I'm entering the door to the café before I can stop myself.

Everything seems the same- the walls, the kitchen, the furniture- nothing is different, just the awkward sense of dread I get in the pit of my stomach as I near the kitchen, where I can hear the faded sound of the radio playing and two voices talking.

They seem to be arguing, and although I try not to eavesdrop, it's hard not to when they're practically hissing at each other in the quiet, empty café.

"He feels awful; sweetie you know how he gets. Imagine how he feels right now." It sounds like Helen, trying to reason with Matteo, from the sound of the voice the replies, a harsh undertone to his words.

"I know, but he cannot hideout upstairs while she's down here. She's a great girl mom, and you know as much as I do that she deserves an apology, accident or not."

I rush into the kitchen, fumbling to tie my apron as I go. Matteo and Helen give me stunned looks, obviously not expecting to see me, at least not so early.

"Morning, how are you guys?" I throw my air up in a messy bun, moving to start the coffee for the morning rush.

"U-um, fine?" He replies, making his answer sound more like a question. They seem surprised by my attitude, which is understandable.

I should be dying of embarrassment right now, trying to hide my face and avoid eye-contact. but I'm not like that.

I give myself a limit to how long I can dwell on things or sulk away. One day is way too long- if anything I went overboard yesterday, I should have bounced back quicker, much quicker.

I pride myself on having a very optimistic personality, a good outlook on things, and I plan to keep it that way. It's such a better way to view my life, honestly.

"No Nathan today?" I ask, squinting my eyes as I do a double take of the kitchen. He's not here, which is odd, usually it's the boys and I opening up shop on Saturdays, not Helen.

Helen answers, rapidly, as if she's shocked by what she's seeing.

"He's uh, upstairs. Nathaniel's not feeling too good." She gives me an apologetic smile, obviously thinking of yesterday, but I just smile, waving it off.

"Oh, okay. So, what are our specials for today?" I ask, flitting to the other side of the room where the portable, hanging chalkboard waits to be written on.

We write all our specials, deals and new recipes on here, then hang it up beside the counter, next to the others. It's part of a daily routine here at Belmonte, and I personally love doing it-hanging up the chalkboard feels like the official start of the day. Like the world now has permission to wake up and come alive, because that chalkboard is hanging up in that one café, on that one street, in that one city, in that one country, in this world. And it's just perfect.