I follow his eyes to the sun-streaked greenery and back to the sparkling water.This pocket of perfect tranquility is undeniably beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Too peaceful.
A sanctuary I don’t belong in.And soon, I’ll have no sanctuary at all.
The thought sparks, unbidden, lodging itself behind my attempt at appreciating the moment.
A strangled little laugh, half-humor, half-despair, rises in my throat.“I could honestly pitch a tent right under those trees in the back,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the dense pines.“And live there forever.”I drop my eyes to my coffee, cheeks heating.“You wouldn’t even know I was here.”I turn back to him, forcing a shaky, slightly too-bright smile, hoping it masks the desperation clinging to my words.
Matthew doesn’t smile back.He just watches me, steady, assessing.The earlier neutrality in his expression softens into something deeper.
“You’re welcome to hide out here any time,” he says, his expression serious but kind.
God, if only.
He takes another slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine over the rim of his mug.When he sets it back on the table, a small smile touches his lips.
His quiet offer lands like a soft blanket over my raw nerves.Part of me wants to cling to it, burrow into this unexpected safety, but reality snaps back into focus.
“Tempting.But haven’t you heard?”I ask, the words laced with a weary irony.“They’re waiting for me on the battlefield the minute I leave here.”
“Well, luckily battlefields are closed on weekends,” he counters, his lips curving slightly though the concern doesn’t leave his eyes.
“Not my café.”A fresh sense of responsibility settles over me, and I shake my head in resignation.“Helen’s probably already wondering where I am.”
“No, not today,” Matthew says, holding my stare.
The slight curve on his lips fades, replaced by that quiet seriousness I saw earlier.
I blink, thrown off by his simple, firm negation.“Of course, today.We’re open—”
“No,” he cuts me off gently.“You need a break.”
“I just need to pop in real quick to check on Helen,” I reason, the words tumbling out.“We make fresh croissants on the weekends.We can grab some for breakfast.”
He shakes his head.“You can call her.No Maddy’s Place today, Amy.”
His words bounce around my tired mind.
You need a break.
Four simple words, but they collide with a lifetime of voices screaming the exact opposite.
James’s voice, clipped with annoyance over the phone last winter, the words like shards of ice.My exhaustion was never a valid reason, only an obstacle to his ambition.
“I don’t have time for you to be overwhelmed, Amy.The investors’ gala is next week.Just handle it.”
The memory dissolves, replaced by another, older and colder…
The mint green wallpaper of my childhood bedroom.My mother’s face, tight with resentment, looming over me after I’d collapsed with the flu.
“Tired?You don’t know what tired is.If you weren’t always such a disappointment, maybe your father would’ve stayed.Crying doesn’t pay the bills.Get up.”
The two voices—a chorus of dismissal and blame that has scored the soundtrack of my life— suddenly go silent.
Hushed.
