“Is it? ‘Talk’ is the most terrifying word in the English language. It’s what people say before they fire you, break up with you, or explain why they can’t return your feelings.”
Michelle studies me for a moment. “For what it’s worth, I’ve known Jessica since high school. She doesn’t show up to conversations she doesn’t want to have. If she’s coming, it’s because she wants to be here.”
I want to believe that so badly I can taste it, right alongside the espresso and the panic that’s been my constant companion since I hit send on that email.
I take my coffee to the corner booth and try not to watch the door like a man awaiting a verdict.
I fail immediately.
The morning crowd flows around me—tourists ordering complicated iced drinks, a harried mom with kids demanding hot chocolate despite the heat, an elderly couple sharing a newspaper with the easy intimacy of decades together.
The door opens.
Jessica pauses in the doorway, scanning the room until she finds me. She’s wearing a green sundress that matches her eyes, her red hair pulled back in a messy twist, and she looks exactly like someone who also didn’t sleep last night but is determined to have this conversation anyway.
She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I raise my hand in a wave that’s probably too eager, nearly knocking over my coffee in the process. Smooth. Very smooth. This is the man who wrote her a love story—a graceless disaster who can’t even manage a simple greeting.
She walks over, and I can’t read her expression. It’s not angry. It’s not cold. But it’s not the soft openness I saw at Vera’s cottage either. It’s careful. Guarded.
Fair enough. I’ve earned her caution.
“You made it,” I say, then immediately want to take it back. Of course she made it. She said she’d be here.
We stand there for a moment, neither of us sitting, the morning light slanting through the windows and catching the copper in her hair.
“Can I get you something?” I ask. “Michelle makes this iced lavender thing you like. The one with the?—”
“You know my coffee order?”
I pause. “I know a lot of things about you, Jessica. That’s sort of the problem. Or the point. I’m not sure which anymore.”
She exhales slowly, then slides into the booth across from me. I sit back down, careful not to assault any more furniture.
Michelle appears with an iced lavender latte without being asked. She sets it down in front of Jessica, gives me a meaningful look I can’t quite interpret, and disappears back behind the counter.
“She’s not subtle,” Jessica observes.
“No one in this town is subtle. I’ve accepted this about my life.”
Jessica wraps her hands around the cold cup but doesn’t drink. She’s looking at me with that expression I’ve come to recognize—the one where she’s thinking something through, deciding whether to say it out loud.
I wait. I’ve gotten good at waiting for her.
“I reread your letters last night,” she finally says.
My stomach drops. “Which ones?”
“The one where you talked about being jealous of the ‘infuriating man.’” She meets my eyes. “You were jealous of yourself.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half something more painful. “Yeah. I was.”
“You wrote about wanting to be in the same room with me. Wanting to see my face when I argued about things I caredabout. And the whole time, you were already there. Arguing with me about committee budgets.”
“In my defense, I was very confused about my feelings.”
She doesn’t smile. “Scott.”
