I used to believe that every decision worth making could be made in the time it takes to brew a pot of coffee. Somewhere between the hiss of the kettle and the first aromatic bloom, clarity would arrive—uninvited but unmistakable—carrying my next move on a silver platter. That faith buckled the moment I stepped into Café Ambrosia with a stomach full of dread and a half-baked resolve to survive whatever conversation Ethan Lawson thought we needed to have.
It was eight-thirty on the dot, but the café was already thrumming with the eager caffeine addicts of Oak Hollow: retirees buried behind hard-copy newspapers, remote workers clacking at keyboards, and a yoga-clad trio debating oat versus almond milk as though global peace hinged on their choice. Golden light slanted through cracked-open casement windows, catching on motes of cinnamon that hung in midair like patient, sugared ghosts. The place smelled of croissants, citrus candles, and fresh-ground espresso—ordinary magic that tried its best to charm me out of a panic attack.
I picked a two-top tucked beside the front window, my back safely against the wall so no one could sneak up. Beau wasn’t allowed inside, but Claudia—the server whose sarcasm could wrench a smile out of a granite gargoyle—had promised to keep an eye on him while I navigated emotional minefields. Through the glass, I could see him in the shade of a maple tree, harness clipped to the bike rack, snout lifted contemplatively as if judging the morning traffic.
While I waited, I nursed a plain dark roast—no syrup, no cream, no illusions—and tried to replay last night’s conversation with Marcy like a courtroom testimony.
You don’t owe him your time, she’d said, cordless phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder while folding a week’s worth of soccer uniforms. But you owe yourself a chance to hear the man out.
That was Marcy’s specialty: turning my defensiveness into a duty owed to self-respect. I’d hung up, paced until Beau whined, and finally texted Ethan the one word that felt safest—coffee?—only to fling my phone across the duvet like it was radioactive. His answer, Name the place, had appeared before it even left my hand.
Now, mug halfway empty and palms sweating, I checked the time. Eight-thirty-four. Maybe he’d bail. Maybe he’d appear contrite enough that I’d forgive him before remembering all the reasons I wasn’t ready to forgive anyone.
The bell above the door chimed, and there he was: six-two in a pale blue button-down, the cuffs rolled to his forearms as if he’d rushed out mid-project. His eyes scanned until they landed on me, surprise softening into an almost shy smile.
He crossed the room in six strides, stopping beside the table but not sitting. “You’re early,” he said.
“You’re earlier.” I gestured to the chair opposite. “Since we both lack punctuality deficits, feel free.”
He pulled out the chair, the scrape of wood against tile painfully loud, then took a seat, body angled forward like a man bracing for impact. In the hush that followed I counted nine separate heartbeats—mine slamming against bone; the espresso machine’s percolating rhythm; Ethan’s, pulsing at his throat like a visible apology.
Claudia swooped in, ponytail swinging. “Let me guess, Ethan—Guatemalan pour-over, splash of milk?” She didn’t bother writing it down.
“Make it two,” he said, eyes flicking to me. “If that’s okay?”
“I’ll risk it.” I managed a not-quite smile, more an upward twitch than anything people would print on a Hallmark card. Claudia smirked like she smelled drama, then disappeared with our order.
Ethan settled his hands around his empty cup as though it held a confession. “First, thank you for meeting me. I know you didn’t have to.”
“I suppose my curiosity overrode my self-preservation.”
He winced. “I deserve that.”
“Possibly.”
He exhaled, a sound full of gravel and regret. “I messed up at the meeting. I can explain why, but none of the reasons change the fact that I hurt you.”
“The why matters,” I said, surprising myself. “Otherwise, you’re just another cautionary tale my therapist will use to justify higher premiums.”
One corner of his mouth tilted. “Okay.” He paused as Claudia returned, balancing two steaming mugs and a plate with a croissant bleeding apricot jam. She winked at me before gliding away, clearly invested in the live soap opera at table four.
He stirred his coffee once, twice, then abandoned the spoon. “I joined the board because Greg begged me. He’s never asked for much, but last year after…after everything, he thought it would help. Karen approached me two days before the meeting. She said you’d skipped protocol, that the door was a deliberate challenge to the community aesthetic. She showed me a binder of color swatches, none of which matched Atlantic Teal.”
“I emailed her the official sample,” I said, voice low. “She wrote back Looks great. Proceed. It’s still in my sent mail, Ethan.”
“I know. Sandra forwarded it to me Friday night. The second I saw it, I realized Karen had manipulated the narrative—and me.”
“Yet you still raised your hand to second.”
His throat bobbed. “Because I thought remaining neutral would diffuse tension. I’ve spent the last two years trying to keep the peace—in my house, at work, everywhere. It’s reflex, but a terrible one.”
“That reflex nearly cost me two grand.”
“I know,” he said again, softer. “Which is why I’d like to make amends.”
Across the room, a barista clanged milk pitchers. Outside, a delivery truck honked. The world kept spinning, indifferent to my precarious empathy. I reached for my latte, sipped caramel-infused silence, then set it down with surgical precision.
“Amends are a big ask,” I murmured.
“I’ll start small.” He nudged the plate across the table. “Croissant?”
Despite everything, a laugh slipped out—small, but genuine.
“I’m not easily bribed by pastries.”
“Good. I prefer difficult negotiations.”
“What exactly are you offering, Counselor?”
“Anything you need.” He said it with such sober sincerity that my breath snagged. “Proofreading your appeal, spreadsheets, dog-walking—name it.”
The intensity in his eyes forced me to look away, to the front display where cinnamon buns glistened under glass like edible halos. “I don’t like owing favors.”
“You wouldn’t.” He tipped his head, dark blond hair falling into his brow. “This isn’t transactional. It’s…corrective.”
Our gazes caught, held, tangled in unsaid things that felt too dangerous to name. Before I could sort through the tangle, a gust of air whooshed through the room. The doorbell jangled again, and something colder than iced espresso threaded my veins.
Karen Whitfield stood in the entrance.
Her lipstick—an aggressive cherry red—framed a smile that belonged on a predatory flower. She wore a cream suit, high collar hugging her throat, and stilettos that clicked a warning to every living thing between threshold and counter. Her eyes pinned us like butterflies in a middle-school science project.
“Well,” she trilled, too loudly, “isn’t this cozy?”
Ethan stiffened. I felt it across the table, like an electrical field. “Karen,” he said in greeting so clipped it barely passed as polite.
I offered nothing.
She glided closer, each step measured to draw maximum attention from the room. I counted four heads swivel our direction. Beside the pastry case, Claudia froze mid-swipe of a countertop. Karen stopped at the empty table neighboring ours and set her purse—designer, snakeskin, probably cost more than my mortgage—on the chair, a territorial marker.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, voice lacquered.
«Just practicing your eavesdropping skills?» I wanted to ask, but my lawyer brain vetoed it. Provoking her in public could backfire. Instead, I folded my hands primly. “We’re finishing up,” I said.
She arched one perfect eyebrow. “Delightful. I was headed here anyway. The scones are divine.” She pronounced scones like someone auditioning for Masterpiece Theatre.
Ethan shot me an apologetic look. “Julia, maybe we—”
“No need to rush,” Karen cut in, slipping into her chair. She gestured broadly at the barista. “Skinny vanilla latte, extra hot.”
Outside, Beau barked, sensing my pulse spike.
I pasted on a smile so brittle I could have sliced lemon with it. “Actually, I do need to rush. Contractor appointment.”
Ethan rose automatically when I did, the gentleman reflex at odds with the tension roiling in his shoulders. Karen’s gaze slid to our mugs, then to our faces—taking inventory like a tax assessor.
“Lovely seeing you both,” she said, though her tone dripped implication. “Ethan, don’t forget tomorrow’s budget sub-committee meeting.”
He hesitated. “I may not make that.”
Her smile stayed, but the corners hardened. “It’s mandatory, dear.”
He offered no reply, only a curt nod before following me toward the door. I felt Karen’s stare burn between my shoulder blades until the bell chimed behind us.
The Georgia sun greeted us like a wall of molten brass. Cicadas throbbed in oak branches. A delivery van blocked half the sidewalk, forcing us to step into the gutter. Behind us, the café’s windows flashed glare like interrogation lights.
“Julia—wait.” Ethan caught my elbow, guiding me into the sliver of shade cast by a lamppost. “I’m sorry. That was—”
“Predictable,” I finished, tugging my arm free. “Karen doesn’t do coincidence. She knew we’d be here.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t tell her.”
“I believe you. But she has sources. Oak Hollow practically runs on surveillance capitalism.”
Across the street, a construction crew hammered, the staccato echoing the skip-beat of my heart. Beau yipped impatiently, leash tangling around the bike rack. I crouched to untwist him, grateful for the cover it provided while I wrestled my composure.
When I straightened, Ethan’s expression was a cocktail of remorse and fury—no ice.
“I’ll fix this,” he said.
“You keep saying that. But she’s already spinning new rumors.” I opened my car door, Beau scrambling across the passenger floor mat. “Next week someone will claim I seduced you to overthrow the HOA.”
Color rose in his cheeks. “Let them. We’ll sue for defamation.”
“And become even bigger headlines? No, thanks. I’m one scandal away from being a Nextdoor cautionary meme.”
He exhaled sharply, stepping back as if conceding round one. “Then what do you want?”
The vulnerability in his voice startled me. I searched his face—creased brow, clenched jaw, eyes storm-gray with sincerity—and felt something tremor inside. I wanted justice. I wanted peace. I wanted to slam every door Karen tried to pry open. And, disturbingly, I wanted to believe Ethan Lawson was exactly who he seemed in this blistering moment: flawed, earnest, and on my side.
“I want the rumors to stop,” I said. “I want my house to stop being courtroom exhibit A for neighborhood drama. And I want a chance to decide how I feel about you before Karen writes that narrative for me.”
Something softened behind his eyes. He nodded once, solemn as an oath. “Then give me time. And space. I’ll handle Karen.”
Beau barked approvingly, obviously a fan of space as long as it contained snacks. I climbed into the driver’s seat, fingers trembling so violently I nearly fumbled the key.
“Julia,” Ethan said, leaning down so we were eye level through the open car door. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want anyone writing that narrative except us.”
I swallowed, the words catching like burrs in my throat. “We’ll see.”
He stepped back. I started the engine. As I pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Ethan still stood there, hands on his hips, sunlight painting him in hot white. Behind him, Café Ambrosia glittered like a stage set, Karen’s silhouette now visible in the window, a director pleased with her day’s scene.
Home was only a seven-minute drive, but traffic lights conspired, stretching it to fifteen. By the time I rolled into the driveway, Beau had drooled a small lake on the console and my nerves had rewired themselves into a trip-wire maze.
The teal door greeted me, bright and brazen. I paused to press my palm against the wood, as though absorbing courage through the grain. Then I marched inside, locked the door, and flipped on the playlist labeled Professional Fury—all interior-designated drum solos and soaring female vocals.
I needed to work—deadlines slouched in my inbox like neglected houseplants—but concentration proved elusive. My mind replayed the café’s highlight reel on loop: Ethan’s earnest apology, Karen’s theatrical entrance, the promise I’d extracted from Ethan without meaning to.
The promise I half-wanted him to break, so I could hate him without complication.
The front door rattled—just the mail slot snapping open—but my pulse spiked. Envelopes scattered across the hardwood, one red-stamped FINAL NOTICE on my ex’s long-ignored medical bill, and another thick packet bearing Oak Hollow’s crest. Gritting my teeth, I ripped the HOA envelope open.
It wasn’t a new fine. Not yet. Instead, a glossy newsletter titled Community Aesthetics Quarterly slid out, featuring a full-color spread of “Approved Door Colors for Timeless Curb Appeal.” None even flirted with teal. The back page advertised an upcoming “Emergency Policy Review.” My name didn’t appear, but I could read between the serif lines.
I crumpled the newsletter. Rage sizzled under my skin, igniting every nerve the latte had failed to calm.
Without thinking, I headed for the garage, Beau trotting behind. My paint supplies were still stacked in a plastic bin—the roller, the tray, the Atlantic Teal labeled can. I hauled the bottomless bitterness and a stepstool onto the porch and pried the can open. The color inside gleamed like ocean glass under mid-morning sun.
“I won’t let them erase you,” I muttered.
Beau whined, pawing at my ankle as though cautioning restraint. I dipped the brush anyway, retouching the doorframe where sun and humidity had conspired a thin crack since yesterday. Each stroke steadied my breathing—until the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel jolted me.
I spun, dripping paint onto the brick walkway.
A navy sedan idled at the curb. Its driver, an older woman I recognized vaguely from last month’s block potluck, stepped out clutching a stack of lemon bars wrapped in cellophane.
“Julia,” she called, waving. “Just wanted to drop these off. We loved your speech last night!”
Speech? All I’d done was quote bylaws and not pass out.
I forced a smile. “Thank you. That’s kind.”
She came closer, eyes landing on the paintbrush. “Touch-ups?”
“Just maintenance,” I replied.
“Well, it’s a lovely color.” She offered the lemon bars. “If they make you change it, the block will riot. Just saying.”
Heat prickled my eyes. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to torches and pitchforks.”
She laughed. “Keep the pitchfork handy.”
After she left, I stood in the silence, sticky lemon aroma mingling with paint fumes, and felt something shift—subtle but seismic. Maybe Karen’s smear campaign wouldn’t succeed if the neighbors were on my side. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as shame had insisted.
Inside, I placed the lemon bars on the counter and pulled out my laptop, determination crystallizing around each vertebra. If Karen intended to weaponize rumor, I would pre-empt her. I drafted an open letter:
Dear Neighbors,
You deserve transparency from every resident, including board members. Here are the facts of my door color approval…
Three pages later, I saved the document, inhaled, and hit print. The inkjet’s whirring sounded like a miniature war drum.
Before the last sheet landed in the tray, my phone pinged. Unknown Number: Check your porch.
I froze. Through the sidelight, a shadow darted away. Heart pounding, I opened the door. No visitor—just a single sheet of paper weighted by a smooth river stone painted…teal.
The message read:
Atlantis looked great until it sank.
Care to repaint before you drown?
No signature, but the snide handwriting reeked of Karen or her sycophants.
Beau barked furiously, as if cursing bullies in dog Latin. I scooped him up, stone and note clutched in my other hand, and retreated to the kitchen. My first instinct was to rage-text Marcy. My second was to call Ethan.
I did neither.
Instead, I photographed the note, forwarded it to my attorney friend in Atlanta—Liz Cho, queen of cease-and-desist letters—and titled the email Potential harassment. Step one in documenting a pattern.
When the adrenaline receded, exhaustion flooded in. I stumbled to the fridge for water, but my phone buzzed again. This time it was a known contact: Ethan.
Ethan: Hope you got home safe. Let me know if Karen tries anything. –E
I stared at the message, thumb hovering. Admitting she’d already tried something felt like descending another rung on the helplessness ladder. But refusing help for the sake of pride felt worse.
Me: She hasn’t, yet. But thanks.
The lie sat bitter on my tongue. Before I could backspace, a second bubble appeared:
Ethan is typing…
Then the bubble vanished. Reappeared.
Ethan: Good. Let’s keep it that way.
Keep it that way. As if Karen were a leak you could just tighten a valve on. My reply, one can hope, felt both petulant and tragic.
I tossed the phone onto the couch, rubbed my temples, and tried for a deep breath. Fortunately, the universe dispatched Marcy at that very moment, pounding the door with all the subtlety of a repo crew. She breezed in—high-waisted jeans, cat-eye sunglasses, and a canvas tote bursting with legal pads.
“Got your open letter,” she announced, waving the draft I’d emailed five minutes ago. “Needs punchier conclusion.”
“How did you print it that fast?”
“I’m magic.” She nudged me toward the couch. “Sit. Tell me everything.”
I handed her the harassment note. She read it, lips compressing. “Cheap intimidation. I’ll draft a response about hostile environment if you want. But first, we sharpen your letter.”
For the next hour, we combed through nouns and verbs while Beau dozed between us, tail thumping whenever the word walk slipped into conversation. By the time Marcy left, I felt less like a target and more like a strategist waging information warfare.
I taped one printed copy of the letter to my front window, a second to the community notice board by the mail kiosk, and scheduled an email blast to every neighbor whose address I’d gleaned from past potlucks. If Karen wanted a rumor war, I’d fight her with receipts and neighborly pastry swaps.
The afternoon faded into a blur of contract edits for a shipping-logistics textbook and an unreasonable number of lemon-bar crumbs. But just before dusk, the doorbell rang again.
I opened it to find Ethan, holding a reusable grocery bag and looking sheepish.
“Back so soon?” I asked, leaning on the frame.
He held up the bag. “Peace offering, level two.”
Inside were two quarts of paint—Atlantic Teal. My brand.
“I bought every can the hardware store had, just in case.”
My throat tightened. “A girl could interpret that as faith.”
“I’m all in on faith.” He shifted, uncertainty flickering. “Also, Greg heard Karen’s planning an ‘education campaign’ about color compliance. Thought you might want ammunition.”
I accepted the bag, metal cool against my fingers. “Thank you.”
He lingered on the step. “Did Karen contact you after the café?”
Heat crawled up my neck—guilt for lying earlier. “Someone left an anonymous note,” I admitted. “Probably one of her disciples.”
His jaw clenched. “May I see it?”
I fetched the photo from my phone. He scanned it, eyes darkening. “I won’t let this stand.”
“Nobody gets to let or not let,” I sighed. “I’ll handle it legally.”
He looked torn, like a man offered only impossible options. Finally he exhaled. “Tomorrow there’s a board work session. Not mandatory, but I’m going anyway. I intend to raise some questions.”
“Won’t that paint a target on your back?”
He smiled grimly. “Targets are more useful when visible.”
I stepped back, wedging the paint bag against the doorframe. “Be careful.”
“Always am.” He started to turn, then paused. “Julia?”
“Yes?”
“If you need anything—anything at all—call me.”
The words weren’t flirtation; they were ballast, meant to steady. I nodded. “Good night, Ethan.”
He left, long strides fading into shadows.
I closed the door, heart thumping in sync with Beau’s curious tail thwacks. The house was warm, quiet, and smelled faintly of lemon and paint. I placed the new quarts beside my existing supplies, a tiny teal army ready to defend fortress Julia.
Upstairs, I tried to read before bed, but words swam. I lay awake listening to crickets chirr in the magnolias, mind mapping contingencies: cease-and-desist letters, social-media rebuttals, neighborhood alliances. Somewhere in the tangle, Ethan’s vow glowed like a faint lantern, dangerous but welcome.
At three seventeen a.m., adrenaline finally ebbed. Sleep found me mid-thought—maybe tomorrow will be quieter—and wrapped a tentative tranquility around my aching psyche.
It lasted twenty-seven minutes.
A crash snapped me upright, heart ricocheting. Beau barked downstairs, a ragged warning. I grabbed my phone, stumbling to the window. Outside, moonlight revealed a group of teenagers sprinting toward a dented hatchback. The driver revved, tires screeching as it tore off, taillights vanishing down Wisteria Loop.
I dashed to the front door, flicked the porch light. My breath choked.
The teal door was untouched. But the driveway? A splatter of paint—vile, neon orange—formed a dripping X across the garage. On the sidewalk, the same color spelled two words:
REPAINT NOW.
Beau’s paw pads clicked frantic circles on the hardwood, his bark raw with outrage. I sank onto the porch step, phone clutched to my chest, fighting a surge of tears and fury so fierce it tasted metallic.
My thoughts narrowed to one hot point: Tomorrow, Karen would deny knowing anything. But this wasn’t vandalism. It was declaration.
And I was done letting fear dictate my palette.
Hands trembling, I opened messages, scrolled to Ethan’s name. For once, I didn’t second-guess the impulse.
They came to my house. I sent a photo of the paint. I’m calling the police. –J.
Almost instantly: On my way.
Sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer, and with them came the realization that my life had officially crossed from petty HOA squabbles into something uglier. But beneath the fear, a strange steadiness surfaced—an iron note humming in my spine.
I stood, squared shoulders, Beau pressed protectively against my calf, and watched the blue lights crest the corner. Come what may, I wouldn’t let intimidation chip away at the color I’d fought to claim. Not from Karen, not from anonymous vandals, not even from the part of me that still believed safety meant invisibility.
Inside, the house smelled of drying paint and possibility.
Outside, orange drips glowed under police headlights, proof that intimidation had failed its final test.
A cruiser door slammed. Ethan’s truck pulled up behind it seconds later. And as he jogged toward me, worry etched across his face, I felt the future pivot—uncertain, perilous, but undeniably, vibrantly mine.
Keep an eye out on your inbox…
Chapter 3 will be emailed to you tomorrow <33