“That’s going to be all over town in an hour,” she says.
“Your reputation will be ruined. Seen having coffee with the enemy.”
“Maybe you’re not the enemy.”
“No?”
“Maybe you’re just...complicated.”
“That’s generous.”
“I’m feeling generous.” She sets down her coffee cup. “Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting. With you. With myself. With—everything.”
“Jessica—”
“I’m trying to be brave,” she says suddenly. “I’m trying to take my own advice. About walls and windows. About choosing connection over protection.”
“What advice?”
“Something I—something someone told me. About how safe is suffocating. About how you have to jump even when you’re scared.”
She’s quoting her own letter.
She’s telling me to jump while not knowing she’s the person I want to jump toward.
The irony is killing me.
“What if you jump, and there’s nothing there?” I ask.
“Then at least you tried. At least you know.” She looks at me. “What if you jump, and someone catches you?”
We’re moving closer without deciding to. Pulled by gravity or fate or just desperate longing.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say.
“Probably.”
“You’re my tenant. This is inappropriate on multiple levels.”
“You’re right.”
“I should go.”
“You should.”
Neither of us moves.
Austen meows loudly, breaking the spell.
Jessica laughs, steps back, puts safe distance between us. “It’s late.”
“Right.”
“Thanks for coming by.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
We’re being absurdly polite after almost—whatever we were about to do.
