Chapter 15: Alexis Noticed
Café Tropical on a Thursday afternoon was the closest Schitt's Creek got to a social hub.
The lunch crowd had thinned, leaving behind the lingerers—retirees with newspapers, self-employed people pretending to work, teenagers skipping whatever came after lunch at the local school. I'd claimed my usual booth near the window, nursing a coffee that had gone cold while I reviewed mental notes about the motel's next repair priorities.
The door opened. I clocked the arrival automatically—my brain's persistent cataloguing of entrances and exits—but this time the data demanded attention.
Alexis Rose swept into the café like she was walking a runway at Paris Fashion Week, if Paris Fashion Week had been relocated to a small-town diner with questionable health code compliance.
She scanned the room. Her eyes found me.
Before I could prepare, she was sliding into the booth across from me with the practiced grace of someone who had probably slid into many booths in many establishments, each time expecting the world to rearrange itself around her presence.
"You're the hot handyman, right?"
The flirtation was automatic—polished, calibrated, meaningless. The kind of social tool someone developed when they'd learned that charm opened doors faster than keys.
"I've been called worse."
"I've heard you've been fixing up the motel. Making yourself useful." She adjusted her hair, a gesture that was pure performance. "I find competence very attractive."
I took a sip of my cold coffee, buying time to consider my approach.
The obvious play was to flirt back. Alexis expected it—probably needed it, the validation of being desired, the confirmation that her old weapons still worked in this new environment. In the show, she'd dated Mutt. They'd been something casual, something forgettable, something that went nowhere because neither of them had been ready for anything real.
I wasn't going to play that game.
"What did you do before?" I asked.
The question landed differently than she'd expected. I watched her process the shift—confusion, then suspicion, then something closer to curiosity.
"Before what?"
"Before Schitt's Creek. What was your life like?"
She laughed, but the sound was defensive. "You know. The usual. Travel, events, connections. I once spent a summer on a yacht with a sultan's nephew. Very educational."
"Sounds exciting."
"It was. Very exciting. All of it." The words came faster, like she was trying to outrun something. "I've been to every continent except Antarctica, and that's only because the penguins didn't respond to my Instagram DMs."
I didn't laugh. Just watched her with the attention she probably rarely received—the kind that looked past the performance to the person underneath.
"What were you actually good at?"
The question stopped her cold.
"What do you mean?"
"All that travel, all those events. What did you do? Not who did you know or where did you go—what skills did you develop?"
Alexis opened her mouth, closed it, tried again.
"I... planned things. Parties, galas, social events. Logistics and guest lists and making sure the right people were in the right places at the right times." The words came slower now, less practiced. "I was good at reading rooms. Knowing what people wanted before they knew they wanted it. Making connections happen."
"That's event planning."
"I guess?"
"That's a real skill, Alexis. Not just a hobby—a professional capability."
She stared at me like I'd grown a second head. The flirtation had evaporated completely, replaced by something I hadn't expected: vulnerability.
"Nobody's ever... described it that way."
"How do they usually describe it?"
"Socialite stuff. Party girl activities. Nothing serious." She picked at the napkin dispenser, not meeting my eyes. "My parents never—I mean, David got the art gallery, and that was supposed to be his thing, but what was my thing? Knowing people? That's not a real career."
"It is if you apply it right."
"To what? There aren't exactly galas in Schitt's Creek."
I thought about the town, about its untapped potential, about all the things that could happen if someone knew how to make connections and create events.
"No galas," I agreed. "But there could be other things. Smaller scale, but real. Farmers markets. Community events. Things that bring people together."
Alexis laughed again, but this time it was different—not defensive, almost hopeful.
"You think I could plan a farmers market?"
"I think you could plan anything, if you decided it was worth your time."
She was quiet for a long moment. The performance had dropped entirely now, leaving behind someone younger and less certain than the confident exterior suggested.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
"Am I being nice?"
"You're not hitting on me. That's unusual."
"Would you prefer if I hit on you?"
"No." The answer came quickly, surprising us both. "I mean—it's just strange. Most guys who look like you don't ask about my skills. They ask about my schedule."
"Maybe I'm not most guys."
Twyla appeared with a coffee pot, refilling my cup with a smile that suggested she'd been listening from behind the counter.
"Alexis, can I get you anything?"
"Oh. Um." Alexis seemed to remember where she was. "Just water, I guess. Thanks."
Twyla retreated, but not before catching my eye with an expression I filed away for later analysis.
"I should go," Alexis said, standing too quickly. "I have... things. To do."
"Sure."
"But maybe—" She hesitated. "Maybe we could talk about the event planning thing sometime? If you're serious about it?"
"I'm serious."
"Okay." She nodded, once, decisively. "Okay. I'll... think about that."
She left without the runway walk, without the practiced charm, without any of the armor she'd worn when she arrived. Just a young woman trying to figure out who she was in a place that had stripped away everything she'd used to define herself.
I watched her go, thinking about the show, about the Alexis who eventually found her own path through PR and genuine growth. Maybe I'd just planted a seed. Maybe I'd changed nothing at all.
Either way, the conversation had mattered.
Twyla refilled my water glass without being asked.
"That was kind," she said quietly. "What you did there."
"What do you mean?"
"She came in looking for validation. You gave her something better." Twyla's smile had depths I was only beginning to appreciate. "She needed someone to see past the act."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice most things." She set down the coffee pot. "People assume I don't, which is useful. But I see who comes in here, what they're really looking for. Usually it's not what they order."
I thought about Twyla's lottery money, about the secrets she carried beneath her cheerful surface, about the perceptiveness that most people dismissed as ditziness.
"You're good at that," I said. "Seeing people."
"Years of practice." She started back toward the counter, then paused. "Your reputation is building, you know. As someone who pays attention."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Depends on who you ask." She smiled again, warmer this time. "I think it's good. This town needs more people who actually look."
She left me with my coffee and my thoughts, processing the afternoon's layers of meaning.
Alexis. Twyla. The slowly shifting network of relationships I was building without fully understanding why.
Help without controlling, I reminded myself. Support without manipulating.
Outside, the sun was beginning its long slide toward evening. The town I'd learned to call home moved through its rhythms—people walking, cars passing, the small motions of ordinary life in an ordinary place.
But nothing felt ordinary anymore. Every interaction carried weight. Every conversation planted seeds I might not see bloom for months or years.
Patience, I thought. That's the game now. Patience and attention and the long work of earning trust.
I finished my coffee, left money on the table, and walked out into a town that was starting to see me differently—not as Mutt the drifter, but as someone who might actually matter.
The motel sign was visible from the café parking lot, still flickering despite all my repairs. Some things took longer to fix than others.
I started walking toward it anyway.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.