Bernard’s face contorted. “You’re defending him? After everything?”
“There's nothing to defend. You’re making a scene over something that ended weeks ago.” Elijah released his wrist but didn’t step back. “Walk away, Bernard. Now.”
My heart was racing like crazy. Adrenaline made my hands shake. I’d never seen Elijah like this. Never heard that edge in his voice.
“Maybe you should go,” Michael said, standing. His tone was calm, but his size made the suggestion feel less like advice and more like a warning.
Bernard whirled on him. “Mind your own business.”
“You’re making it everyone’s business,” Fraser pointed out.
Bernard wrenched his arm free, stumbling back. His face twisted in rage and humiliation and something wounded underneath.
“You’re all pathetic,” he spat. “All of you. Sitting here pretending like this is normal. Like he’s not—”
The owner, a stocky woman named Ruth who'd been running this place for twenty years, appeared at Bernard’s elbow. “I’m going to need you to leave. Now. Or I’m calling the police.”
For a moment, Bernard looked like he might argue. Then something in Ruth’s expression made him think better of it.
He stormed out, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the windows. Cold air rushed in again, then settled. Silence hung heavy over the coffee shop.
“Sammy.” Elijah turned to me, concern replacing the anger in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” The word came out steadier than I felt. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“We’ll talk later. At home.”
Later. At home. I nodded.
My hands were trembling. I shoved them under my thighs and hoped no one noticed.
When we settled back into our chairs, Elijah’s ended up closer to mine. Close enough that our knees touched. He didn’t move away.
Neither did I.
“So,” Fraser said after a long pause. “The breakup. Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Elijah picked up his coffee, took a long sip. Subject closed.
Michael nodded. “Fair enough. Anyone want a refill?”
Conversation limped back to life, stilted at first, then gradually warming. But my mind kept circling back to the same questions. When had they broken up? Why hadn’t Elijah told me? And what did Bernard mean about Elijah being in love with me?
Processing the information felt like trying to run a program on a computer from 1995. Too much data, not enough RAM.
An hour later, we headed out. Hugs were exchanged, promises to text, the usual ritual of departure. Then it was just Elijah and me, walking the three blocks home through the still-falling snow and complete silence.
* * * *
Elijah hadn’t explained a damn thing when we’d gotten home, and I hadn’t ask. For five days we performed this little dance where we left the room when the other one entered. Why? Because the confrontation had apparently rattled him and I was matching his vibe, which made our home strained. Finally, I couldn’t take the tension. I grabbed my coat and scarf, still unable to find my earmuffs.
“Where’re you going?” Elijah stepped halfway out of the kitchen. What did he have, sonic hearing? I hadn’t made a sound.
“Out for a drink.” Or ten. I shrugged my fashionable coat on, ready to catch pneumonia in style.
“The snow’s coming down pretty hard. The roads’ll be too hazardous to drive.” His look of concern made me glance at my boots. At least something on me was sensible for this weather.
“I just need…fresh air.” Even though I’d had plenty since it was a workday.
