Todd shows up at 7:43 in the morning with a gasket.

I know it's 7:43 because I've just unlocked the door and I haven't even turned Betsy on yet, which means I'm standing there in yesterday's apron holding my keys like a woman who was not expecting to see anyone for at least another twelve minutes.

"Gasket," he says, holding up a small rubber ring like it explains everything.

"I didn't order a gasket."

"It was on sale." He sets it on the counter. "Betsy might need it eventually."

And then he leaves.

Just—leaves. Bell on the door. Gone. I'm standing there holding my keys, looking at a gasket I didn't ask for, trying to figure out what just happened.

Betsy's current gasket is fine. I checked it last week. Todd checked it two weeks before that, pronounced it "good for another six months, probably," and charged me nothing because he never charges me anything anymore, which is its own problem I haven't figured out how to address.[^1]

I put the gasket in the drawer with the other spare parts—the drawer that's slowly filling with things Todd has brought me "just in case"—and I start my morning routine. Betsy on. Grinder loaded. The Guatemalan today, medium roast, dependable.

But I keep looking at the drawer.

By ten, I've convinced myself it was nothing. Todd is practical. Todd thinks about equipment failure rates. Todd probably saw the gasket on sale and his brain did the math and here we are. This is not weird. This is just Todd being Todd.

By eleven, I've made fourteen drinks and only messed up two of them, which is actually a good ratio for a morning when my brain keeps wandering back to a rubber ring in a drawer.

By noon, Milly's meatloaf arrives.

Not Milly. One of her staff—a teenager named something I should remember but don't—holding a to-go container and looking vaguely apologetic.

"Todd dropped this off for you. Said you forget to eat."

"I don't—" I start, but she's already gone, and I'm standing behind my counter holding a container of meatloaf I didn't order from a diner I didn't call, delivered by a man who was here four hours ago with a gasket and has apparently been thinking about my eating habits ever since.

I open the container. It's still warm. There's a note tucked under the lid, written in Milly's handwriting: He paid for a week. You're covered through Friday.

A week.

He paid for a week of lunches.

I close the container. Open it again. Close it. The meatloaf is definitely real. This is definitely happening. Todd has apparently decided that I need both emergency gaskets and regular meals, and I don't know what to do with either of those pieces of information.

I eat the meatloaf standing up in the back room, sitting on the floor in front of the deep freeze, trying to figure out what's wrong.

Because something must be wrong. Right? People don't just show up with gaskets and prepaid lunches unless something is wrong. Unless they're softening a blow. Unless they're about to tell you something difficult and they want you to have a full stomach when they do it.

His mom. Something happened to his mom. Or his dad. Or the nephew—God, not the nephew, the one who falls asleep in my lap at Christmas and calls me "Miss Rena" like I'm someone worth calling something—

I spiral for eleven minutes. I know it's eleven minutes because I watch the clock on my phone, unable to move, running through every possible catastrophe that would explain why Todd is being aggressively thoughtful.

Then a customer comes in and I have to go back to being a person who runs a coffee shop, and I wipe my hands on my apron and paste on a smile and make a cortado for someone who isn't Todd.

The afternoon is long.

I watch the door. I wipe the counter. I watch the door again. Walter comes in at 2:47 for his drip coffee and draws his smiley face in the residue, and I almost cry because at least Walter makes sense. Walter is consistent. Walter doesn't show up with mysterious gaskets and feelings.

Patricia comes in at 3:15 and orders her complicated thing—half-caf, oat milk, extra hot, light foam—and I make it perfectly and she says "adequate" and I want to hug her because adequate is all I can handle right now.

By five, I've wiped the same spot on the counter so many times I'm surprised there's any finish left.

By six, he's back.

Todd takes the stool second from the right. Not the one near Betsy, where he sits when he's here to work. Not the one closest to the register, where he sits when he has something specific to say. Second from the right. The social one. The one that means he's just... here.

I make his cortado without asking. Set it in front of him. He wraps his hands around it like he's cold, even though he's not, and I realize I'm holding my breath.

"Is someone dead?"

He looks up. "What?"

"Your mom. Your dad. The nephew. Is someone—" I can't finish the sentence. My voice is doing something embarrassing.

"No." He's looking at me like I've grown a second head. "Everyone's fine. Why would you—"

"The gasket." I'm talking too fast now, the way I do when I'm nervous. "And the meatloaf. And you're here, and it's the third time today, and you're sitting in the social stool, and I've been trying to figure out what's wrong since seven forty-three this morning and I can't—"

"Rena."

I stop.

"Nothing's wrong."

"But—"

"Nothing's wrong." He takes a sip of his cortado. Sets it down carefully. "I just wanted to be here."

The words hang there.

I don't have a framework for this. I don't have a category. People show up when they need something—coffee, equipment repair, a place to fall apart. People don't just show up because they want to. Because they've chosen a space for no reason other than wanting to be in it.

"I don't understand," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

Todd's quiet for a long moment. Then: "You know how you make my cortado without asking now?"

"Yes."

"When did you start doing that?"

I think about it. "I don't know. A few weeks ago. Maybe a month."

"You didn't ask if I wanted it. You just knew."

"I—yes."

He looks at his cup. Then at me. That quiet almost-smile that makes my stomach do something inconvenient.

"That's why I wanted to be here."

He stays until closing.

We don't talk much. He drinks his cortado. I wipe the counter—the same spot, over and over, because I don't know what else to do with my hands. He notices. I know he notices. He doesn't say anything.

At eight, he stands. Puts money on the counter even though I've never charged him for coffee and we both know I'm not going to start now.

"See you tomorrow," he says.

And then he's gone. Bell on the door. Cold air where he used to be.

I stand there for a long time.

Someone chose to be here. Not because Betsy broke. Not because I needed saving. Just because this is where they wanted to be.

I don't know what to do with that.

But I'm learning that some things don't need to be understood right away. Some things just need to be held. Sat with. Given room to become whatever they're becoming.

I touch my grandmother's necklace. Lock the door. Turn off the lights.

Tomorrow, he'll be back.

And I'll make his cortado without asking.

That's enough.

For now, that's enough.[^2]

[^1]: The "Todd charges me nothing" problem is a subset of the larger "what exactly is happening with Todd" problem, which I have filed under "things I think about at 2 AM instead of sleeping."

[^2]: This is not a resolution. This is a continuation. I'm learning to tell the difference.