Every Four Years

Grace

One year before Haven opened

It’s almost closing time. The café is quiet except for the hum of the espresso machine and the rain tapping against the windows. The lights are low, warm — the kind that make the place feel smaller, safer.

Alley is still here. She always is. Same corner table, same mug she never lets me refill until it’s gone cold. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she didn’t have anywhere else to go.

She’d spent most of the day talking about her plans — the charity she wants to start, the building she’s putting a deposit on tonight. She can’t be any older than twenty, but she talks like someone twice her age. Brave. Certain. Unshakeable.

I could never do what she’s doing. I can barely make it through a shift without checking the time, dreading the moment I have to go home. Mickey hates my job, says it makes him look bad that his wife serves coffee to strangers. But someone has to pay the bills.

Alley’s voice pulls me back.

“Hey — I’m not keeping you, am I?”

Her tone is soft, polite.

“No, not at all,” I say, forcing a smile. “You know I’d keep this place open just for you if I could.”

She smiles, the kind that lights up her whole face. “I was actually going to ask if you’re doing anything later. I’m going to see the building I want to buy — well, hopefully buy — and I thought maybe you’d come with me. We could grab dinner after. My treat.”

I hesitate. “Oh… I—”

She waves a hand. “I know, it’s probably boring, but I could use the company. It’s a little lonely doing all this by myself. But no pressure. We can celebrate another time if you’re busy.”

“I’d love to,” I blurt, too quickly. “It’s just… I need to get home. My husband’s waiting.”

The word husband sticks in my throat.

Her brows lift slightly. “I didn’t know you were married. He’s welcome to come too, if he wants.”

I shake my head quickly. “That’s kind, but it’s not really his thing. Meeting new people.” My voice trails off. It sounds weak even to me. I’ve spent years perfecting excuses for Mickey — they still sound pathetic.

“Alright,” Alley says gently. “Another time, then.”

I can hear the disappointment, and it stings. She’s been nothing but kind since she first walked in — polite, curious, quietly confident. She’s the sort of person you imagine had a good life. Safe. Happy.

She stands, finishing her coffee. “I better get going so you can close up. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Good luck with the sale.”

She gives me that smile again and heads out into the rain. For a second, I imagine what it would be like to be her — independent, fearless, free.

Then the doorbell jingles again.

I turn, laughing softly. “Back so soon? Did you forget—”

“What the f**k are you talking about, woman?”

The sound freezes me. Mickey.

He’s standing in the doorway, soaked from the rain, eyes sharp and wild.

“Mickey? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been waiting for dinner for an hour,” he snarls, striding toward me. “Why are you still in this dump instead of home where you belong?”

He grabs my arm and yanks me forward, dragging me out from behind the counter.

“Mickey, please—”

“Answer me, damn it!”

Before I can speak, his hand cracks across my face. Pain flashes white. He twists my hair until I drop to my knees.

“This is where you belong!” he shouts, spittle hitting my cheek. “On your knees, serving me. You got that?”

His hand clamps around my throat. I claw at his wrist.

“I—can’t—breathe,” I gasp.

Then suddenly, his grip vanishes. I hit the floor, gasping, vision swimming.

When I blink my eyes open, Alley is kneeling in front of me. But she’s not the same woman I know. Her blue eyes are pitch black, her face carved from stone.

“What—?” I whisper.

Behind her, Mickey is sprawled on the floor a few feet away, groaning. It looks like he’s been thrown across the room.

I look around for someone else — anyone else — but the café is empty. Just us.

Alley’s gaze doesn’t move from me, but somehow she knows Mickey’s getting up. She rises in one smooth motion, placing herself between us.

“Stop smiling, you psycho b***h!” Mickey spits.

Smiling? I’m not—

Then I see her face. That smile. Wide. Calm. Wrong.

Mickey hesitates, confused — maybe scared.

“I’ll kill you both!” he shouts, lunging forward.

Alley moves faster than I can track. She ducks under his swing, lands a kick square to his head, and in a blink he’s on the ground again. She plants a boot against the side of his face, pins his arm, and twists until I hear a crack.

Her voice, when she speaks, is low and deadly calm.

“Listen carefully. I’m taking your wife out of here tonight. You’re going to sign the divorce papers that arrive next week. And you’re never going to touch another man, woman, or child again. Do you understand?”

“F–fuck you,” Mickey wheezes, the words breaking into a whimper.

Alley twists harder. Another crack. He screams.

“I said,” she repeats, “do you understand?”

“Yes! Yes! Whatever you say, just—just let go!”

She releases him. He collapses, clutching his arm.

Alley turns back to me, expression unreadable. Then she crouches, helps me to my feet, and guides me outside.

My throat burns; I can barely speak. “How? What…?”

She doesn’t answer. She just opens the car door, settles me inside, and starts to drive. Her face is blank, the mask of a soldier. The hum of the engine lulls me into unconsciousness.

When I wake, I’m in a bed softer than any I’ve slept in. My face doesn’t ache the way it usually does after one of Mickey’s beatings. I touch my cheek and feel something slick.

“It’s arnica oil,” Alley says quietly. “Helps with bruising.”

I startle — I hadn’t realized she was sitting in the corner. The cold mask is gone. Her voice is gentle again.

“Where—?” I croak.

She hands me a mug that smells of honey and lemon. “You’re at my apartment. Drink. It’ll help your throat.”

I look around. It’s bright, simple, modern — nothing like the dingy flat I share with Mickey.

“You don’t have to stay,” she adds quickly. “I just didn’t want you to go back before you could breathe properly.”

I swallow hard. “How did you… how did you know?”

She shrugs. “I’m good at reading people. Mickey passed me on the street earlier. I could tell he was going to start trouble. I didn’t know who he was, but I followed him. When he walked into the café, I knew.”

I want to ask how she fought like that, how she could take down a man twice her weight without breaking a sweat, but she holds up a hand.

“That’s a longer story,” she says. “I’ll tell you one day — if you still trust me.”

Trust her? After tonight, she’s the only person I can trust.

Then panic hits. “Your building — the sale—”

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “There’ll be others.”

My throat tightens. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them.

And then she’s there — steady arms wrapping around me, quiet and sure.

For the first time in years, I feel safe.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I trust you.”