Chapter 14 Cass Ford

CHAPTER 14 CASS FORD

2000

Plattsburgh

The guy who managed the coffee shop was named Brett. Early one morning I was standing behind him as he struggled to unlock the door because of the cold. His hands had lost their dexterity.

“If you wanted, I could get started on everything before you got here,” I said.

He didn’t turn around, kept working the lock as he said, “Um, yeah, no, I don’t know anything about you.”

“I show up on time and work hard, what more do you need to know?” We were inside the back door now and I was hurriedly pulling it closed behind me.

“Literally anything,” he said, flipping on the lights.

“I’m from Albany”—kind of a lie, although all of upstate New York could be considered Albany. “I’m just up here trying to do something different,” I added.

Cass had become a fascinating character to play. She was me, but more of a loner; she liked to hang back and observe, looking for the next door opened by the universe. I wondered what Amanda would think of her—if she would like the tweaks I’d made. I kept telling myself that soon I would drive back and tell her everything. How I’d created this alternate version of myself and tested her out in the world. A play, of sorts, but with a limited run.

Amanda. I wished she was next to me right at that moment, talking to Brett. She knew how to say all the right things—she knew how to speak boy .

“There’s never anybody here before, like, six thirty,” I said, trailing behind Brett, uprighting chairs. “If you give me the key, I could be here by five forty-five, get everything done. You wouldn’t have to get here until six fifteen, six thirty, whatever.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. Now only half-skeptical. I’d finally offered him something he wanted: more sleep. More sleep also happened to be my motive. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say so simple man, c’mon , then stole a glance at the tattered leather couch along the far wall that I imagined sleeping on for the next however long if I could pry those keys from Brett.

“Why though? Why would you want to do that?” He was behind the bar now, filling the green plastic watering can at the sink. He handed it to me, and I carried it to the tallest plant, near the front window, giving myself an extra minute to think.

“I’m a terrible sleeper,” I said, which had become true since I’d abandoned my best friend, run away, and started sleeping in a car. “And I’m always standing out back in the freezing cold waiting for you to get here.”

Back home in my cozy twin bed, I could sleep and sleep and sleep. I needed that. If I slept well, then I could think better, and good sleep and strong thinking would no doubt lead to better decisions than the ones I had lately been making.

When the first customers arrived, I glanced at the clock—6:44—and looked over at Brett to reinforce my earlier point. His response: a not-unfriendly eye roll. It gave me a glimmer of hope. He turned his attention to the customers, two men, offered them his grumpy hey .

They ordered and found a seat in the back corner near the cream and sugar station. The night before, Brett had asked me to prune the flyers along the wall. I walked over and began removing past-date events.

“The thing about writing—” I heard one guy say, and my ears perked. I paused, my fingers on a thumbtack, and tuned fully into their conversation. “—is that it’s unlike other creative endeavors. It’s not about you, it’s only about the story and the words. To be an actor or musician, you must perform—you’re trading on yourself—but not the writer. Most readers don’t even consider the author. I I love that about writing.”

Hello, universe . This felt like a door flinging open. The flyer at my fingertips slipped from beneath the thumbtack, falling down the wall and lodging into the baseboard with a surprisingly noisy thud. The man paused midsentence, glanced over.

“My bad,” I said, bending to collect the flyer. Prying it from the wall took a few seconds and I hoped the older man would continue talking, but right then Brett called my name from behind the bar.

For the next few minutes I stood behind the counter, staring into space, unspooling my new future. It made so much sense. All the books and plays I’d read. I knew what made a good story. Plus, I’d spent years imagining Amanda’s inner thoughts based on her words and actions. Maybe writing, not acting, was my destiny. Maybe that’s what would have happened in Hollywood: First we would have starred in movies, but then I would have started to write, too. Maybe I would have become the first—

“Earth to Cass!”

Two fingers were snapping in front of me, and I landed back behind the bar, Brett holding up a jug of milk and shaking it to show me how empty it was.

“Oh, got it,” I said, and started moving toward the back, noticing that the two men were standing, putting on their coats. I scooted around the bar and half jogged to get the milk, thinking about what to ask the writer before he left.

I squatted in front of the back fridge and moved the tubs of cream cheese until I found a gallon of whole milk. I hustled back out and caught sight of the front door closing behind the men. Brett was impatient for my delivery, and I handed him the jug as I passed, jogging out into the freezing-cold morning in my T-shirt and coffee apron.

“Excuse me,” I half yelled. My skin pricked as a gust of wind hit me. The guy who had said the thing about writing was parked in front of the café, keys in hand. He looked up, a flash of concern moving across his face. Desperate is how I must have seemed. But my superpower was, and had always been, an irrational belief in my own manifest destiny.

“Do you teach writing?” I asked, which must have piqued his interest because he pocketed the keys. “I do,” he said. “Over at Plattsburgh,” and he said this slowly, letting the question of why do you ask? smuggle itself inside.

“I want to be a writer,” I said, wondering if maybe this had always been true. The cold was becoming unbearable in my short sleeves, but I could tell it was an asset in motivating him to make a snap decision. I cupped my hands together, blew into them.

A minute later I was walking back into the café holding the professor’s business card, my teeth chattering. Brett looked at me curiously.

“What was that?” he asked as I joined him behind the counter.

“Just making dreams come true,” I said.

At the end of the day Brett called my name as I was leaving. I was slow to respond, assuming he had another chore for me. He was wiping down the espresso machine as he said, “They’re on the counter there,” then shifted his eyes a few feet away, to where we put drinks for customers. Sitting there was a set of keys. Glorious, those keys—that heavy bundle of metal that I eagerly grabbed and held in my hands, tossing them once into the air. I snuck a glance at the leather couch, where I would sleep that night.

“Thank you, Brett,” I said, my words slow and sincere. And as I said his name, I realized that maybe I’d never said it before—that he might even think I didn’t know it.

“You’re welcome, Cass.”

I . Note from Cate: You know what, ironically, makes readers care about who has written the book? A pseudonym.