After school I walk to The Night Owl. Most Fridays the girls come with me. Everything's on the house for us – the Night Owl, along with the restaurant upstairs, is owned and managed by my parents.

Ever since they met and fell in love at chef school in Seattle (pretty romantic I guess), they dreamed about starting a business together.

The only complication was that my dad wanted a haute cuisine restaurant and my mom wanted a cozy little coffeehouse.

So when my gran offered to put money down on a building, they decided on a compromise. Fine dining restaurant upstairs, coffeehouse downstairs.

When they first moved in eleven years ago, the building had been abandoned for ages. I was only five years old, so I don't remember much – but whenever I look at it now I can still see the blanket of moss and ivy growing all over the facade so thickly you could barely see the walls.

Today a small group of tourists in flannels and hiking gear are standing outside the shop peering in through the windows, probably trying to decide whether or not to go in.

From the looks of it they've just been for a long walk and want a bite on the way back.

I might as well pay my way and rustle up some business.

I walk up to them smiling, fighting back my shyness.

"You should go in," I tell them. "They have the best pecan nut pie in Portland."

A middle-aged woman with dark close-cropped hair turns to me and smiles.

"You think it's ok?" She asks. "We're gonna tramp mud all over the place. "

I look down at her muddy hiking boots. The rest of the group looks just as bedraggled.

"That's ok, there's a separate entrance for the courtyard," I tell them, pointing to a wrought iron gate around the side of the building. "I'll send someone out to take your order."

"You work here?" she asks as the group heads towards the courtyard.

"Not exactly," I answer.

Before walking through the door I stop on the step and look up at the sign above the doorway.

An old slab of wood hanging on iron chains. Two owls painted in bright green and brown sit side by side on a branch, their eyes huge and looped with crazy Celtic patterns. Swirling purple letters spell out "The Night Owl" against a dark blue backdrop, sprinkled with small golden stars. Even smaller letters in gold below say "Open 12 to 12". And below that, my gran's initials, so tiny you wouldn't notice them unless you looked really close.

The bell tinkles as I go through the door. Jade smiles at me from behind the counter.

"I'll be with you in a sec Ashling," he says as he switches on the coffee grinder.

I watch him take down two mugs shaped like owls hanging from hooks above the counter.

Jade's a trained barista and he makes a cup of coffee faster than anyone.

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I can see what it is that Jamie likes about him. Besides being handsome in an unkempt, tortured artist kind of way (a vague resemblance to Kurt Cobain with sandy blonde hair tied behind his head and sharp features), he's also a genuinely nice guy.

He dropped out of art school before he got his barista qualification and started working for my parents, but he still paints in his free time.

Today there's a smudge of bright blue paint on his left shoulder, just below a tattoo of a lotus flower encircled by two brilliant orange Koi fish. Most other people would assume the streak of blue is part of the design but I've had plenty of practice staring at Jade's beautifully toned arms, and he's usually got paint smudged somewhere on his person.

I watch quietly as he adds the finishing touches onto a pair of foamy cappuccinos. The new waitress comes over to pick up the order, shooting me a sideways glance as she places the mugs on a tray.

She has a totally impractical hipster haircut – shaved at the back and on the sides, with a long wavy fringe – that requires her to tuck back her hair every few minutes. To be honest I don't know how long she's going to last.

She's pretty efficient and hasn't dropped an order or spilled coffee all over a customer (not yet, anyway), but she has a weird attitude.

Especially towards me.

I could be a real cow and say something to my parents about her, but I'm not just about to get someone fired just because they don't like me.

"Table four," Jade tells her.

For the first time since she started, I actually see her smile. It's really just the hint of a smile but it's there. A bit of color comes to her cheeks and she flutters her eyelashes as Jade places two honey and oat cookies on either side of the coffee mugs.

"A group just arrived in the courtyard," I tell her, smiling as warmly as I can. "I told them you'd go take their order."

The smile immediately slips from her face, and she casts down her eyes, nodding before walking away.

"Sorry to keep you waiting Ashling," he says. "Where are your friends? They're not gonna watch you play tonight?"

For the past year, every Friday at five I sit on the stage – a raised wooden platform at the back of the shop – with my guitar and play a set for the after-work crowd.

My playing at the Night Owl was actually Jade's idea. He thought we should have live music on Fridays to give the place some atmosphere.

Usually on Fridays after school, my friends and I will get a table near the back and spend the afternoon drinking chai lattes, sometimes getting some homework done (almost never) while Jamie flirts with Jade at the counter. They stick around for my performance, and then we go to my house and watch Netflix.

Not tonight though. Right about now they're probably getting ready for the concert. Doing their hair, putting on nail polish, probably under the disapproving gaze of Grace's mom.

"They're going to the Fable concert tonight," I say. "Anyway, how are things going here?"

"Same as usual. All the regulars," he says.

I scan the room.

"Where's Mrs. Leyton?"

"Oh, yeah," he smiles. "She came in early today. With a guy."

Mrs. Leyton is an elderly widow who comes into the shop every single day at three thirty for afternoon tea, and usually sticks around until five. She hasn't missed it in years, as far as I know.

We always see her sitting at her table by the window, her makeup and hair immaculate, a brilliantly colored scarf wrapped around her neck, with her order of Earl Grey Tea and the cake of the day. She sits all alone and writes.

I think she's writing her memoirs, but Jamie says it's saucy Mills and Boon porn. It's really odd for her to not be here at this time, and it’s even weirder for her to bring someone else to the coffee shop.

"Did you recognize him? I mean, the guy she was with?" I ask, suddenly curious about this mystery man.

"Never seen him before," Jade answers. "They were holding hands across the table and everything. It was actually pretty romantic."

There's an awkward silence as I try to think of something to say. For some reason talking about this sort of stuff with a guy makes me feel nervous.

The thing is, I've never actually had a boyfriend, let alone kissed a boy. It might have happened with Evan, if things hadn't gone the way they had. As it is, I have zero experience.

I feel like even just talking about love, dating, whatever, will give that away, so I avoid it. I wish I didn't always over-think everything.

"I guess I'll be taking the back room keys," I say, turning my face to hide the blush creeping across my cheeks.

One of the many problems with being as pale as I am – anytime I blush, the whole world knows it.

"Sure," Jade says, reaching under the counter and passing them to me. "See you at five."