Page 6 of The Call of Azure (Unexpected Love #3)

Liam

I love my job. Dragging my ass out of bed at four thirty in the morning every day, not so much, but the eight years I spent as a Marine, in what feels almost like a past life, left me prepared for early mornings, even though I’m naturally a night owl.

Besides, even though things are better than they used to be, there are still a decent number of mornings I’m already up that early.

If I spend any part of my night lost in wind and sand and screaming, once I wake up and fight my way back to my comfortable bed, the idea of getting any more sleep is nothing more than a whisper and a prayer.

Early morning wake-up calls, combined with the inability to sleep through the night, aren’t exactly ideal, but aside from a couple of years in my late teens, I’ve spent my entire life sleeping with one eye open while managing to snag a few hours at most, so I make do.

Even though I’d love to fall into a near catatonic stupor for twelve hours once in a while, I’m not actually convinced my body would know what to do with that kind of uninterrupted relaxation.

I’ve learned to adapt by stealing stray moments here and there to rest or meditate.

I find stillness in other ways as well. In places the past can’t easily find me.

I let my mind focus on the hard beating of hot streams on my back while I watch the patterns swirling around the drain in the shower or drive the few blocks to the coastline to bury my toes in cold grey sand and get swept away by the sound and scent of salty grey waves.

The water is safe for me in a way sleep will never be.

The world is nearly silent as I walk the few blocks to the shop.

It’s quiet enough, even though Seattle is such a large city, that most folks might find it eerie.

After all, large cities sleep about as well as I do, and this one is no exception.

Clubs and bars are open until two or three a.m., and the sounds of slightly drunken laughter and tired arguments spill out onto the streets as the music stops, and the doors open to release the remnants of raucous groups of friends or coworkers and those who were unsuccessful in finding one-night hookups.

As early as five thirty or six, stockbrokers’ receptionists and lawyers’ assistants and chronically overworked middle managers are starting to wearily grab their overpriced and desperately needed morning coffees.

Between four and five, though, it’s almost as if a spell has been cast over the world, and for just a handful of moments, there is an enchanting sense of calm that settles over everything as it resets and prepares for a new day.

The birds are just starting to wake up and stretch their wings and their songs.

Aside from newsstands and coffee shops and twenty-four-hour convenience stores, there are no doors that open, no movement to be seen.

The large picture windows filled with handbags and shoes and books and sausage-and-cheese displays that line the sidewalks are still dark.

Only a few stray sets of headlights cut through the dim light of the pale rising dawn.

It’s like getting a glimpse backstage as the symphony warms up, and the actors or dancers who are going to engage in the play of everyday life are arriving to change into their makeup and costumes.

I love that I’m one of only a handful of people around to see the world during this magic hour.

There’s a unique energy about it that few humans ever experience, something both tranquil and buzzing with anticipation.

It’s subtle and mysterious, and I think most people don’t take the time to notice that sort of thing, even when right in front of them as they scurry from one place to another.

They never pause to recognize the charm of the mundane or the delight of the unusual.

They’re too busy to bother searching below the surface, but life has taught me just how important it is to appreciate small glimpses of beauty and wonder wherever I can.

Much of my life has been filled with moments so dark and overwhelming that there is no beauty to be found in them, but I can carry all the marvel and surprise and joy from my past with me to help light the way, and the promise of more in the future helps me endure the darkness and continue on.

There is a small apartment above my bakery, and technically, I could live there and let myself have ten more minutes of sleep every day, but I use it as a storage space instead.

The part of me that loves the smell of rising yeast and hates having to trudge through freezing grey slush on the few days a year we get snow around here would love to live in that small apartment.

The rest of me knows that it wouldn’t be good for my mental health, which is why I have a place a few blocks away.

Since I arrive at five every morning to start baking for the day, I usually take off around one in the afternoon, but the small café where folks can get pastries and coffee or pick up their custom orders is open to customers until six.

It only took a couple of months when I first opened the place to learn that working thirteen-hour days, seven days a week, is neither healthy nor sustainable, but it’s still hard enough forcing myself to stop working at a reasonable time every day as it is.

If all I did when I left was simply walk up a flight of stairs, it would be too tempting to pop back down and check in.

The bakery is also in an old brick building that’s been updated by different owners along the way, but still doesn’t have things like proper flooring insulation, and I don’t think I’d enjoy the constant intrusion of the sound of the dishwasher running and sharp bursts of laughter and the occasional breaking plate seeping into my home.

Living in an apartment where the only occasional neighbor noises are barking dogs and the thumps of furniture being shifted from time to time is far less invasive.

Besides, aside from the horrifying snow days, I’ve come to enjoy experiencing the world in the sleepy predawn light on my morning walks.

The sound of my key in the lock as I slip in through the back door is the loudest thing I’ve heard since I woke up.

The subtle buzzing sound as the overhead fluorescent lights fight to wake up is a close second.

Even though I only flick on half of them, they’re still too bright, and I’m still only half awake at best, but that’s okay.

I can do this part of my job as an only partially functional human.

I tip the tubs of dough I prepped yesterday onto the cold metal counter and settle in to shape them.

Cut a chunk, pull, rotate, scrape, shape, lift, flour, settle into a basket to rest.

Repeat.

It’s meditative, and the way the simple routine movements soothe my soul is the reason I’ve come to find the early mornings only slightly irritating rather than overwhelming and horrifying.

My silent bread hour passes quickly, as it always does, and the tinkle of the small bell that hangs over the front door draws me from my revelry as my shop manager, Lilith, joins me just as the sliver of sky that’s visible in the shop’s large front windows through the doorway to the kitchen begins to shift from indigo to cornflower.

The bitter scent of strong black coffee drifts into the back kitchen from the shop’s small café, cutting through the overwhelming sweetness of yeast and chocolate and sugar that hangs thick and heavy in the air now that I’ve shifted to brownie batters and cookie doughs while the bread loaves proof.

Lilith joins me once the coffee is ready, just as she always does, and settles a full mug on the corner of the steel work counter for me with a sleepy smile before stepping close and brushing the whisper of a kiss across my cheek.

“Good morning, Cherie.”

“Morning, Lil.”

I don’t usually enjoy being casually touched, but Lilith is an exception.

She was the first employee I hired four years ago, when I realized only a few weeks after opening that I couldn’t hide in the back and play with flour and sugar to avoid people while still managing to sell my confections.

She has curious, kind green eyes and a constantly present, playful half smile that makes her feel welcoming and approachable.

She’s the perfect front-of-house counterpart to my silence and desire to hide.

While I don’t have a mean or aggressive bone in my body, I’ve been told on more than a few occasions that my size and permanent resting scowl - which is just the result of shyness, anxiety, and avoidance rather than anything devious - doesn’t exactly leave me offering a friendly sort of first impression.

I also struggle to hold even basic conversations with strangers.

Lilith on the other hand, looks elegant and kind and interesting, and when she opens her mouth and the smallest hint of a lingering French accent comes out to play, she somehow becomes mysterious and irresistible to nearly everyone, even me at first, leaving people clamoring to hold her attention, something that makes selling a few dozen more cupcakes or settling an irritated customer easy for her.