5. Britta

Chapter five

Britta

Stella keeps me busy all day Saturday. After exploring the Farmer's Market at the Grove, the surprise she has planned is a live music screening of La La Land in the LA Historic Park. I'm not sure what any of that means until we get to an enormous park in the middle of LA. A giant movie screen is set up in a grassy area and an orchestra is warming up next to it.

"How did you find out about this?" I ask as Stella spreads a blanket for us to sit on, along with at least a thousand other people laying down their own blankets.

"I've done my research." She lifts a shoulder and closes her eyes like she's waiting for me to throw flowers at her feet.

For the record, I don't, even though we've watched La La Land together roughly one million times and can sing every song. So, the fact we're here, about to sing along with the composer who wrote all the music leading a live orchestra, is pretty epic. Definitely not something we could do in Paradise.

Stella is four years younger than I am, but we grew up surrounded by her brother and all three of mine. We banded together out of necessity, but as we grew older, we became genuine friends. Especially over the past year, after she came back to Paradise to work as Georgia's social media manager. Stella is the one person I've talked to about Mom.

Which, I guess, is why the following day, she thinks she needs to fill our entire Sunday, too. She, more than anyone, knows how broken I am.

So, we check out the stars on the Walk of Fame, eat delicious Mexican food in Koreatown, and go to a Dodgers game. It's not hockey, but it's fun, and while I'll never stop thinking of Mom, I almost don't have time to think about the fact Archie hasn't texted me any details about Dex's tournament.

Tournament?

No, he called it a competition.

When Monday morning comes, I wake after the sun, which is something I haven't done in years. I sit with my back against the headboard and scan the still-unfamiliar room. Thin lines of daylight poke through the vinyl blinds opposite my bed. Everything is quiet except for a low hum coming from the ceiling fan. I close my eyes and breathe in the silence, bracing for the morning's first sense of urgency to pummel me.

Then I remember: I have nothing to do today. Nothing . Nada.

The stillness that should be peaceful is disconcerting. The usual urgency I feel every morning is replaced with anxiety. A few days without obligations or responsibilities is a vacation. But a few weeks? How am I supposed to fill entire weeks with no coffee or ebelskiver to make? No dad or brothers to help. No mom to take care of.

I haven't unpacked my bags yet, despite Georgia's empty dresser and closet. I haven't had time, but suddenly, I'm not sure how long I can stay.

I wanted to be here. Living in LA was a dream of mine in college—a dream I gave up when Mom got sick. But when Georgia offered me the opportunity to visit LA for six weeks, it sounded like a chance to at least get a taste of something I'll never fully experience. Like a magic pill offered to someone who's lactose intolerant that allows her to have one scoop of the best ice cream in the world before going back to her boring, dairy-free life.

Now that I'm here, though?

Six weeks feels like a lifetime. My skin itches when I think about whether Dad is lonely and wonder if the construction at Britta's is going okay. I can't get over the nagging feeling that I should be back home with Dad and Britta's .

Then I remember, Britta's isn't mine.

We chose not to read Mom's will until after the summer season. The grief was too much, and we all needed to focus on our businesses. When we finally read it last week, I learned she'd left Britta's to my whole family, not just me.

I was so angry at Mom; I couldn't stand to look at all the places that held memories of her. She might call my expectation that Britta's would be mine a sense of entitlement. I call it what I'd earned by working there, with her, for most of my life.

That's what finally pushed me to accept Georgia's offer to take advantage of her empty apartment. I thought LA would be an escape from my anger and hurt—a way to work through it. But two days in, I can't stand not to see Mom everywhere I look.

Maybe that's the reason I haven't unpacked. Stella and I have no plans today, so it'd be easy enough to get out of bed and empty my suitcases. Tuck them away with my hurt until it's time to go home. Hopefully, by then, I can leave the hurt smoldering here in the closet and go back to Paradise healed and happy.

But I don't get out of bed. I can't. The more I think about the empty day ahead, the more my heart picks up speed. So does my breath. I see my chest move up and down, but I don't feel air reaching my lungs.

I hear a knocking sound, and Stella pokes her head in the door. "Hey! What should we do today?"

Her voice sounds far away as I turn to her bright, smiling face with every intention of returning her cheerful greeting. But I can't. Nothing comes out but a cry.

"Are you okay?" Stella rushes to me, climbing onto the bed to wrap me in her arms.

I can't hug her back. My arms are numb. My whole body is. I think I might be crying. Someone is making a whimpering sound, and I don't think it's Stella.

Stella shushes me, rubbing my back while also rocking me back and forth. "You can let it out. You've held it in too long," she whispers gently.

I hate those words and that she's saying them to me. She's not the first person to tell me it's okay to cry and that I need to grieve, but she is the first to see me break down. I guess I'd rather it be her than my dad or brothers, but I'd prefer not to lose control at all. That's not who I am.

I inhale and force the breath to reach my lungs. Then I do it again and again until my eyes are dry and I can pull away from Stella.

"I'm fine." I mutter before sliding out of bed to dig through my suitcase for something to wear. "We can do whatever you want. We've got the whole day and lots to explore!"

I'm relieved when my words come out sounding normal and not like I've taken her hostage on my crying jag. But I don't trust myself to look at her yet. I stare at the empty closet, wishing my clothes would magically hang themselves up or, at least, tell me what I should put on. Every decision feels heavy.

Stella stays quiet for too long, forcing me to look over my shoulder at her. She's studying me like a math problem. As though there's a formula to solve what's wrong with me. I tense, waiting for her to tell me what I should do to stop being sad. To feel like myself again.

Her dad died when she was a baby. She never knew him. I had a lifetime with my mom compared to what Stella had with her dad. I shouldn't be sad. I should be grateful for the amazing years I had.

"Let's find some good coffee," Stella says with a soft smile instead of the advice I expected. "That's the only assignment for the day. We wander and try whatever coffee house or café we find. After that, maybe we go to the beach or unpack a little more…"

I send her a worried look, and she quickly adds, "Clothes. Not emotions." She glances at my mess, then back at me. "Or we keep living out of a suitcase. We can do whatever you feel like."

The knot behind my ribs slowly unravels. "Coffee sounds great. Let's start there."

"Good plan. Let me throw on some clothes." Stella scrambles off my bed and hop-skips to the door, making me smile.

"Thanks, Stel," I say quietly before she goes through the door.

Without turning around, she waves off my gratitude. "Love you, cuz. We'll get through this!"

Stella is an eternal optimist, which makes me want to believe her. I'm not there yet, but right now, I'm more grateful than she knows to have her here with me. And grateful to Georgia, not just for this apartment but also for letting Stella work remote while we're here. I didn't think I'd need my younger, bouncier cousin, but she's already proven I do.

I sort through my suitcase until I find a pair of linen shorts and a t-shirt. While the weather is getting cooler in Paradise, it's still hot here. I guess I'm grateful for that, too. I'm dreading the cold months ahead when business will slow to a crawl, and I won't have Mom to fill my empty hours.

Fifteen minutes pass and Stella still hasn't told me she's ready to go when I decide to search for her. I find her in her bedroom, still in pajamas, staring at her already-organized closet.

"What are you doing?" I stand next to her and stare at the same spot, but I don't see what she's trying to see.

"Finding something to wear. Sundress? Or workout clothes?" Her closet is full of the first, and I'm sure her dresser drawers are full of the second.

I look down at my cut-offs and the signed, but old and coffee-stained, Post Malone tee I've had for at least five years. "We're just going for coffee."

"We're in LA. There's no such thing as just ‘going for coffee.' Famous people live here. I need something casual but chic." Stella pulls a short, white, spaghetti strap dress from her closet and examines it.

"And I need coffee." I open one of her drawers and find a pair of Lulu shorts and a tank top, and hand them both to her. "Let's go please."

She rolls her eyes, but with a grin, she takes the clothes from me. "Fine."

I walk away to let her get dressed, but before I get to the door, Stella says, "My goal is to get you to relax before we leave here. We're not on any kind of schedule." Her voice raises as I shut the door. "You're allowed to slow down and enjoy yourself!"

She's loud enough I can hear her through the door, but I don't need to. I've heard it a million times from my dad, too. If I wanted to slow down, I would. Slow isn't enjoyable. It's only long moments filled with too many thoughts. That's why I never thought about taking a vacation until Georgia talked me into it.

"Two minutes. Then I'm leaving without you."

I go back to the sofa in the front room and scroll through TikTok. We both know she'll be longer than two minutes, and I'm not going anywhere without her, so I might as well enjoy some Coffee Tok. I'm laughing at a barista I follow, sharing her Most Ridiculous Drink of the Day when a message appears on my screen.

This is Archie. Event is on. Be there by 7 am tomorrow if you're coming. No obligation. Just let me know.

I read the text a second time, scoffing at his no obligation. Will getting up early to drive a couple hours to watch people surf all day be the most fun I've ever had? Doubtful. But there's no way I'm not going. If Archie's no obligation is his passive-aggressive way to tell me not to come, I am officially obligated to show him his passive-aggressiveness won't work on me. I've played more than one hockey game where I was the only girl on the ice and up against guys twice my size. I don't back down.

Stella comes down the hallway wearing the outfit I picked out, her hair in a made-to-look-messy ponytail, and her face done up to look like she doesn't need to wear make-up, when clearly, she is. Basically, she looks California native, while I look…basic.

I grab my wallet from the kitchen table and stuff it in my back pocket while she slings a designer purse Georgia gave her across her shoulder. I could take a lesson from her, but I've never worried too much about fitting in here or anywhere else. I won't be here long enough for it to matter.

"Okay, listen to this," I say to Stella as we walk outside, then read her Archie's text. "Is there subtext there? Or am I reading too much into it? I get the sense he still doesn't want us to go, even though Dex does."

We stop at the bottom of the stairs, deciding which direction to go before Stella slides her arm through mine and turns me right. "I think the only question you should be asking is how early we'd have to leave to get there by seven am."

"True." I speech-text the question to Archie as we wait at the crosswalk for the light to change.

It's nine in the morning, but cars are already backed up as far as I can see. Our apartment is a block from the beach in one direction and a block from Pacific Coast Highway in the other. Even with summer coming to a close, Georgia and Cassie warned us traffic would be bad on sunny days, especially when waves are good. I haven't looked at the ocean yet, but the sun is out and the traffic is bad, so the waves must be good.

Shops, restaurants, nail salons, and bars are packed tight on both sides of Pacific Coast Highway, and a million distinct smells waft from open doorways as we stroll past. Stella and I haven't done a lot of exploring around the neighborhood yet, but my pulse is pounding in a much different way than it did an hour ago.

I'm energized by everything there is to look at. Within walking distance of our apartment, there are restaurants that serve a dozen different foods: Japanese, Mexican, Vegan, Columbian. Every one is different, and I want to try them all, especially the New Zealand ice cream. What even is that?

Then there are the people.

Paradise was settled by Danish immigrants back in the day, and it's still full of a lot of blond-haired, blue-eyed people whose names end in -sen—including mine and my family's. There's some diversity—Latino families, the Native Americans who were the original settlers, and one Asian family. But not compared to this. In the twenty feet we walk, I hear at least three different languages, and I can't identify any of them.

The people who pass me on the sidewalk and the street have every shade of hair and skin color. I've never seen so many different people in one place. Some walk toward the beach, surfboards tucked under their arms. Others are on big-handled bikes blasting music from handheld speakers. A BMW with its top down pulls up to the light and the dad driving blasts some old eighties song while the teenagers in the backseat look close to dying of embarrassment.

The whole scene excites me in the same way Memorial Day weekend does in Paradise when the summer tourists show up. Some of them have been coming long enough that I know them now. Others are new, and I get to intersect with their lives for a brief moment. I may never see them again; we likely won't remember each other, but because our paths crossed, we're part of each other's lives forever. I love that thought. When Paradise feels too small, I remember that I'm connected to something much bigger, even if it's only by a gossamer thread.

"I think that's the main square. There will be coffee there." Stella points right toward the beach and the wide street perpendicular to it. It's closed to cars and parking, paved with bricks, and lined on both sides by restaurants with outdoor seating and stores providing every beach accessory possible. People mill around, lingering to pet dogs or window shop.

The atmosphere reminds me of Paradise's town square during the summer, especially the week of Huckleberry Days when there's a farmer's market and craft fair. I'm about to follow Stella to the square when I look the opposite direction and see people walking down the hill, carrying to-go coffee cups.

I wave Stella back. A man with shaggy hair and no shirt who looks like he just rolled out of bed walks past me and pulls the lid off his coffee cup. As he does, I get a whiff of something nutty, almost spicy, and slightly chocolatey that can only come from a good medium roast coffee bean.

"Excuse me." I tap his shoulder and he turns, holding the same to-go cup I've seen other people carrying. "Where did you get that?"

He glues his gaze to my chest, then nods and smiles. But just before I'm sure I've made a huge mistake and will never speak to a stranger in LA again, he says, "Post Malone. Cool, man."

I look down and remember what I'm wearing, then return his smile. "Yeah, I ran into him once in Utah while I was wearing this shirt, so he signed it for me."

"Very cool." He's still nodding, but he drags his eyes and points up the street. " Annie's . Best coffee in LA, and I've tried them all."

"Thanks!"

He wanders away, and I grin at Stella. "Bingo!"

"That could have gone very bad, you know."

"What?" I'm already following my nose in the direction my fellow Post Malone fan pointed.

Stella scurries to keep up with me as the light changes and I cross the street. "Talking to a complete stranger in the middle of LA. He could have been a creeper or a kidnapper or…worse."

"Would have been worth it. You heard him. Best coffee in LA." My phone pings, and I pull it from my pocket to see a message from Archie answering my question about what time to leave in the morning.

Pretty early. No later than 5 am. It's okay if you can't make it.

I show Stella my screen. "There's nothing passive about that. He's being aggressively aggressive."

Her eyes go big. "Five am? That is aggressive. I don't want us to go either," she says firmly.

"It's not that early." I head up the steeply rising street, looking over my shoulder to make sure Stella is following. "And like you said, we can do whatever I feel like, right? And tomorrow I feel like slowing down and relaxing on the beach while watching a surf contest."

Stella drops her head more dramatically than her four-year-old niece when she has to go to bed early. "Fine."

I grin and pick up my pace. The air hangs heavy with a briny, ocean smell, but under it I can smell an amazing brew. I can tell we're getting closer to our destination by the people streaming by, coffee cups in hand, smiles spread across their faces.

One block later and a left turn on a side street, we find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Annie's is the cutest coffee shop I've ever seen—aside from mine, obviously. Painted blue on the outside, it's an old beach cottage that's been transformed into a bakery and coffee shop. A line of people winds out of a weather-worn wooden door that looks original to the house. Flowers peep out of window boxes, also adorned with pinwheels that spin slowly in the gentle breeze.

I take it all in, but the thing that holds my attention the longest is a chalkboard sign under a white-shuttered window that says Help wanted to train staff. Experience necessary. Taped to the board is a flyer, and I step closer to read it. Annie hires people who are experiencing homelessness. She trains them here, then helps them get jobs at other coffee shops and works with housing agencies to find them shelter .

"Don't even think about applying for a job here," Stella warns as we get in line.

"What? I'm not thinking about anything." The fact I'm still staring at the sign gives me away before I finish my sentence, but I can't stop myself. The word help calls to me as much as the story of what Annie is doing.

Stella snaps her fingers in front of my face, breaking the sign's hold on me. "Hello? Come back to me, Britta."

"Sorry." I shake my head to clear it, but that doesn't keep my eyes from sneaking back to the sign.

"Britta…" Stella warns.

"Stella…" I mimic her tone exactly. She rolls her eyes, which I answer with an eye roll of mine before letting out a sigh. "Look, I've spent nearly five years not only helping Mom with her illness, but also all the people I love most with their businesses. I can't take a vacation from being a helper. It's part of who I am, and this sign feels like a sign. I could train people to make coffee while I'm here. That's something I could do instead of spending the next six weeks stewing over Britta's ."

"Let me explain how vacations work." Stella takes me by the elbow and moves us both forward with the line.

I pull my arm back and shoot her a bored look, which she ignores.

"People— normal people—go on vacation to not work. That is the foundation of every vacation—the very core, even— not working." Stella wags her finger every time she emphasizes not. "Now, granted, sometimes people have to do work on vacation—like I'm doing for Georgia with her social media accounts."

"Have you got a point, Stella?" I tap my foot and stare her down.

"Yes. I'm so glad you asked, because this next point is the most important element of a vacation." She hinges forward, rising to her toes to meet my eye. "Getting a new job, while on vacation, doing the same thing you do at your regular job, not only defeats the whole purpose of a vacation, but actually—in a cosmic, butterfly-effect kind of way—undoes vacations happening across the world."

"I'm not thinking about getting a job." With my arms still crossed, I face the shop, away from her.

Stella scoffs. "You're not not thinking about getting a job either."

"Only because I could learn some things about how another shop is run while teaching them some things, too. It seems like they could really use the help, too. This line is barely moving," I say loud enough for the woman in front of us to glance over her shoulder.

"We passed other coffee places. Let's just go to one of those." Stella turns, but I don't move.

"It's worth the wait. I promise," the woman says. As if in response, the line inches forward. "It's not usually this slow, but Annie's daughter, who works here, was in a serious accident recently." She slides her sunglasses to the top of her head and hooks her thumb around her bag's straps.

"Oh, no." I glance at Stella, who gives me a stern headshake that I pretend not to see. "How hurt is her daughter?"

"Pretty bad. She was hit by a car, and the last I heard, she may be paralyzed," the woman sighs. "Annie should really be with her, but if she closes it for more than a few days, her employees who need the paycheck she provides are at risk of being unhoused again."

"Why are there so many homele—" at her raised eyebrow, I correct myself. "Unhoused people in LA? That sounds na?ve to ask. I hope it's not offensive. Is it because it's warm here?

I asked the same question yesterday when Stella and I drove around downtown LA, through entire blocks with tents and pieced-together shelters set up on both sides of the street. Neither of us had an answer other than California doesn't get very cold, so it's easier to be outside most of the time, but that seems too simplistic.

"I'm Britta, by the way." I hold out my hand, which she shakes. "This is Stella."

"Karen." She returns Stella's wave, then faces me. "Warm weather makes it less dangerous for people to sleep outside, but very few people choose to be unhoused here because the weather is nice. There are dozens of reasons LA has a problem keeping people housed that have nothing to do with the weather. High-priced rent and low wages, addiction, lack of mental health care, other states offloading their own unhoused people on California, just to name a few. There's no one solution that will solve the problem."

We move forward with the line, and I ask a few more questions. It turns out Karen does free legal work for unhoused mothers in her spare time. As we enter the air-conditioned shop, she adds, "Annie is doing good work. It's a drop in the bucket, but every drop makes a difference."

Karen nods to a black woman behind the counter who has spiral braids peppered with gray. She's wearing a brightly patterned caftan that reminds me of a sunset.

"Hi, Karen! You got company with you?" The woman—who I have to assume is Annie—asks with a wide smile that doesn't hide the worry in her eyes.

Karen introduces Stella and me as out-of-towners. At the same time, people walk out the exit calling out, "Thanks, Annie!"

She says goodbye to them by name, which really makes me miss Britta's. I miss knowing people's names, making small talk as I get their orders ready. I miss meeting new people who may just be passing through. I miss comping someone a good cup of coffee and some ebelskiver because I can tell they need it. Mom taught me that was the most important thing about running Britta's. It's not just about the coffee.

We don't have a homeless population in Paradise, but we have people with mental illness and other problems that, anywhere else, might leave them unhoused.

Like Lynette, who wears a tinfoil hat to protect herself from aliens and has squirrels for friends. I give her free ebelskiver and coffee almost every day even though she has money, but she doesn't always have the wherewithal to take care of herself. I take care of her in my small way, as do other people in town. But she's one person.

I'm a little embarrassed at how distant this problem is from me in my safe little town. And how very present it is here.

My family doesn't do vacations very often, but after my conversation with Karen, the fact they've arranged for me to not work for six weeks hits different. I'll still have food and shelter when I go back to Paradise. A couple of missed paychecks won't put me out on the streets, living in a tent, washing in public restrooms.

I wonder how many people Annie is training. Behind the counter with her are two employees who look a little lost, and not just because they're staring at the order screen with wide eyes. Both are missing a few teeth, and uncertainty drips off them like water from a leaky faucet.

"I'm ordering for the office today," Karen says and hands a sheet of lined paper to the pierced and tattooed barista, whose eyes go even wider.

But then Annie says in a soothing voice, "that's a big order. I'll get it while, Diva, you take this order out to those gentlemen, Joe and Paul." She points to two men sitting at a table in the corner. "Don't let them give you a hard time," she jokes. "Mitzi, you come take the next order."

"Really nice meeting both of you," Annie says to Stella and me. "Sorry about the wait. I hope you'll stop by again while you're here."

"I can help you!" I blurt as Annie is about to turn toward the espresso machines.

She blinks a few times. "With what?"

"Britta!" Stella hisses, but I step in front of her and lean over the glass covered display of pastries.

"I saw your sign." I point toward the chalkboard, even though it's out of sight. "I own a coffee shop in Idaho. I can make that cappuccino for you. Or take the drinks to the customers. Whatever you need."

With a serious expression, Annie studies me before finally saying, "Why? I thought you were on vacation."

"Because you have a help wanted sign up, and I'm good at helping. But mostly because you're doing a good thing.

Annie turns to Karen. "What does my lawyer say?"

"Your lawyer wants her coffee, so she says yes. As long as it's ‘volunteer' and not paid work. That saves you both a lot of forms to fill out." Karen glances at me, then back at Annie.

"Totally volunteer." I can't stop the excited grin spreading across my face.

Annie reaches under the counter, then hands me an apron. "You can start by taking orders out." There's hesitation in her voice, but she adds, "And thank you."

I slip the apron over my head, then meet Stella's annoyed gaze.

"Really?" she says.

I slowly lift my shoulders in a shrug. I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into either, but in the middle of my sternum, there's an inkling of the purpose I used to feel before Mom died.

"Only for a few hours." It's not a question, but the words come out sounding like I'm asking for permission, and Stella's face softens.

"Get me an iced mocha. I saw a bookstore next door. I'll find something to read and hang out while you work on vacation."

"Thank you!" I squeeze her close, but she keeps her arms by her side.

I let go and hurry to pick up an order before Stella can change her mind.

From that point on, I'm so busy, I barely notice when she leaves or when she comes back into Annie's. For two hours, the line of customers never shrinks. As soon as one person leaves, another two or three fresh faces show up to replace them, and Annie seems to know them all. The energy is familiar and invigorating but lacks the bittersweet aftertaste I get being at Britta's without Mom. I'm doing what I love without missing someone I love, and it's exactly what I need.

Sometimes work is rest.

Things slow down around one, and Annie hands me an iced chai tea latte. "Time for a break. Your friend needs some attention." She points to Stella sitting at a table in the back, looking bored with whatever book she's trying to read.

I take the seat next to her. I'm about to apologize when I notice a wall of photos behind her. There are a dozen of them, all different-sized, framed and signed by the people in them. But my eye is drawn to the one in the middle of four people on the beach holding surfboards with the title Surf City High scrawled across the top.

I vaguely remember an old TV show with that name. A teen-drama kind of thing that I never watched. That's not what's got my attention, though. It's the guy standing on the left side of the group.

"Is that…" I squint and step closer. "Dex?"