I’m not sure how many pots of coffee I’ve brewed. Thousands, certainly. On most days, I do it without thinking. Unless we’re up against a truly powerful ghost, I don’t need to pay attention to the particular blend (although Kona works best to eradicate ghosts) or how precisely I measure the water.
This morning? My hands tremble—just a bit. I’m in Malcolm’s tuxedo shirt. The tails skim my knees. Even with the cuffs rolled, the sleeves knock against things with a sweep of my arms. When I sprinkle coffee grounds all over the counter, I set down the scoop, close my eyes, and try not to cry.
“Hey.” Malcolm’s voice is gentle in my ear. He moves behind me, wraps his arms around mine, and then cradles me against his chest. “Don’t worry. I think it’s impossible for you to make a bad cup of coffee
