“I was scared. Of this.” She gestures between us. “Of what I’d find. Whether you’d even want to see me.”
“So you just... didn’t. For ten years.”
“I know.” Tears are building in her eyes, and I hate that part of me wants to reach across the table and wipe them away. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”
“It’s not about believing you.”
“Then what is it about?”
I start to speak. Stop. The words are there—all the things I’ve wanted to say for a decade—but I’ve never been good at this. Lucas could talk for hours about feelings. Theo could charm his way through anything. Me? I just... showed up. Did the work. Hoped she’d understand.
She didn’t. She left anyway.
I called her. A lot, at first. Wrote her a letter—mailed it, even, like some lovesick idiot. Never heard back. Wrote a second one that I couldn’t make myself send. Eventually I stopped trying. What was the point? She’d made her choice.
And now she’s back, and she wants me to talk about it, and I still can’t find a way to explain.
I can’t tell her any of that. Wouldn’t know where to start.
So I say nothing.
Milo appears with the coffee pot, refilling our mugs without asking. His eyes flick between us—my stone face, Cara’s tears she’s trying to blink away. Small town. Everyone knows everyone’s business. And Milo knows more than most.
“You two need anything else?”
“We’re fine,” I say.
“Yeah, you look fine.” His voice is dry. “Real picture of a great date happening over here.”
“Milo.”
He holds up one hand, backing off. “I’m just saying. Kitchen’s open if you want food. Or, you know, a conversation starter.”
I glare at him until he retreats to the bar. He doesn’t go far—just far enough to pretend he’s not watching.
The silence returns. Heavier now.
Cara wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. Her scent goes thin and desperate—honey souring with hurt—and every instinct I have screams at me to reach across the table. Pull her close. Fixit. My hands actually twitch toward her before I catch myself and flatten them against the table.
But I don’t move. Don’t speak.
Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her it’s not her fault. Tell her anything.
My mouth stays shut. The words stay trapped.
Comforting her would mean opening a door I can’t close again.
“I don’t know what you want me to do. I’ve apologized. I’ve explained. I’ve tried to?—”
“I know.”
“Then what? What else can I do?”
I stare at the table. At my hands wrapped around the coffee cup. At anything except her face.
“Nothing,” I say finally. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I don’t believe that.”
