“The sweatshirt. My sweatshirt.”
“I—” She hesitates, the words dying on her lips as she blinks at me, shock written on her face.
“You were wearing it the day you toilet-papered my house,” I remind her, trying to sound casual when I feel anything but.
“Do you know how I got it?” she asks, voice low and soft, and my brows furrow, not understanding the question.
“How you got it?”
“Yeah. Do you…do you remember that?” Despite her clarifying the question, I still don’t understand what she’s asking.
Because,of course,I remember.
I remember stripping my sweatshirt off when I completely drenched her, because I couldn’t make her walk home in a tank top in that cold weather.
I remember talking with her for nearly an hour, feeling as if the world made sense, as if everything was finally falling into place for me, as if it was allworking out.
I remember her leaving before I could get her number, and I remember every moment after that proved to me that the universe had a very twisted sense of humor.
Of course, I remember. It’s a moment in my life that’s haunted me for years.
“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?” I say, setting down the coffee pot, and turning to face her, crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes follow the shift, pausing momentarily on where the cuffs of my tee hug my biceps. I fight back the surge of pride at that. She does it a lot, whether she realizes it or not, and with my walls all but decimated, I’d decided that occasionally flexing just to get a reaction is totally fine and not a violation of the boundaries I have to live by.
Further proof of just how far gone I am.
“It’s just….you…I…” I smirk at her flustered behavior, and she closes her eyes, taking in a deep breath. “You didn’t recognize me after I walked into the office that day. When did you realize it was me?” My head moves back, unsure of what she’s saying.
“You thought I didn’t recognize you?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Well…yeah. I walked into that room, and you looked right through me.”
“Will, honey. You don’t lookthatdifferent when you’re out of your shield.”
“Yes, I—” she starts to argue, but I shake my head, answering before she can finish.
“Not to someone who’s looking.” It’s the truth: with a hat and her signature hair tied up, makeup free, and without the blue contacts, shecouldbe passed off as not Willa, but I have never been confused about who I met that day, fake name and low-key look or not.
“And were you? Looking?” Her voice is soft and nervous, and it pangs in my chest.
“I’ve been looking at you and for you since that day in the coffee shop.” Her eyes widen, as do her lips, and I sigh, running a hand through my slowly drying hair and pushing a loose lock back.
What does it matter anymore? What do these secrets and the walls matter when she’s here?
“That day I met you in the coffee shop,” I start, unsure of what I’m doing. I know this is stupid. Something I should take to the grave if I want to salvage any bit of the professional relationship I’m clinging to with her, but that look in her eyes is the only thing I’m processing right now. “That day, you left, and I realized I hadn’t gotten your number. I stepped out of the coffee shop, tried to catch you once I realized, but you were gone, already out of sight. I went to the barista and asked if she knew you and if you came in regularly. She told me you came in on Mondays, and I made a plan to haunt that place every Monday until I bumped into you again.”
My mind travels to those moments after I watched her walk off, a cheery smile and an irritated look on her face, as if she were annoyed that her prior plans overlapped with our impromptu date.
“That woman,” I said, tipping my head towards the table I sat with her at for nearly an hour. “Does she come here often?” The barista looked to where we had been sitting, then to me, with an uncomfortable look on her face.
“I—”
“I swear I’m not trying to be a creep. I just had the best forty-five minutes of my life, and she had to leave before I got her number. I just want to know if she comes here often and if I have a shot of finding her again, or if I totally just fucked upand missed out on my chance.” The woman’s eyes softened, a tiny smile tilting her lips before she nodded.
“Normally comes Monday mornings around seven or eight like clockwork.” I grinned widely, thanking her and shoving a hundred into the tip jar before walking off, feeling like the world was finally working out for me. I had a career-changing meeting coming up, I’d met my dream woman, and I had a plan to find her again.
“But then I went to that meeting, and you walked in, and it all clicked into place. Who you were, what we were about to do, and what it meant.”
“What did it mean?” she asks, her voice shaky. There’s barely a foot between us, but it feels like an ocean, so I move, closing that gap until the space between us is closer, but we’re still not touching.
