Chapter seven
Jake
The wind off Lake Superior had teeth. I'd walked into it for forty-three minutes without a proper coat because storming out of my apartment required sacrificing cold-weather survival instincts.
My sneakers squelched against the sidewalk—still damp with milk and wounded pride—as the chill seeped through the canvas like lake water through a leaky hull. Thunder Bay in October didn't mess around. It bit first and asked questions later.
The Common Thread coffee shop sat wedged between a used bookstore and a shop that sold crystals to people who believed in the healing power of overpriced rocks. It featured a rainbow flag, chalkboard menu propped against the glass, and warm yellow light that made you want to press your face against the window like a feral cat.
I pushed through the door and stepped into other people's lives.
The café smelled like espresso, cardamom, and something sweet baking in the back. Indie folk played low from speakers Icouldn't see—a woman's voice like honey and heartbreak singing about cities that forgot your name.
Students hunched over laptops, nursing drinks that had gone cold an hour ago. A couple by the window shared a muffin and whispered the sweet nothings of a great first date. An older woman in a hand-knitted sweater sat reading a paperback with a cover that was ninety percent shirtless abs.
Nobody looked up. Nobody cared that a hockey player fleeing his overly organized roommate had entered the shop.
I couldn't decide whether that was disappointing or a relief.
After I placed my order, the barista slid a latte across the counter. “Welcome to Thunder Gay.”
“Thunder Bay,” I corrected automatically.
She grinned. “Sure, if that helps you sleep at night.”
"Jake fucking Riley." A familiar voice cut through the ambient café noise. I turned to find Juno Park sitting alone at a corner table, with her laptop open and a mug of something suspiciously green clutched in both hands.
She grinned at me over the rim, blue hair catching the light from the vintage Edison bulbs strung above her table. "You look like someone who had a fight with gravity and lost."
"Gravity's a bastard. Always has been. It yanked Evan's vintage bowl right out of my hand, Rice Krispies and all."
"And I meant your hair." Juno smirked and gestured for me to sit. I slumped into the empty chair at her small round table, reaching up to self-consciously smooth my hair. The green drink turned out to be some kind of matcha situation. I suspected it could cure cancer, summon ancient forest spirits, or both.
"So, the cereal killer strikes again. Should I be taking notes for the inevitable Netflix documentary about your reign of breakfast terror?"
I snorted. "That's good. Better than Milkfoot Menace, which is what I've been calling myself for the last hour."
"Oh, please. You've probably got a whole brand strategy worked out. Milkfoot Menace merch, sponsored cereal deals, maybe a TikTok dance." She leaned back, studying me with those sharp eyes. "Though honestly, your brand management could use work."
"Hey, breakfast disasters are authentic. Very relatable. I'm connecting with my audience through shared suffering."
"Right. And how's that working out for your relationship with your at-home audience of one? You know, the guy whose dishware you murdered?"
I tried for the lopsided grin that usually got me out of unwanted conversations. "It's not like it was a major catastrophe. Only a small kitchen incident involving physics, poor motor control, and a chipped bowl."
"Mm-hmm. Physics." Juno sipped her green drink. "And I suppose this physics lesson happened while you were… demonstrating the principles of gravity to your roommate?"
"Yeah. Very educational. I'm like Bill Nye, but with worse timing and better hair."
"And his reaction to this impromptu science class?"
"Oh, you know. Academic appreciation. Deep respect for the learning process." I gestured vaguely. "He's very into... educational opportunities."
Juno set down her mug with a deliberate clunk. "Jake."
"Yeah?"
"You realize I make a living getting people to tell me the truth, right? That's in my job description."
