I just shake my head again, still laughing quietly to myself as I turn to go. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I know,” she says, simple and certain.
And then I’m off, stepping into the hallway, the apartment door clicking shut behind me as I seal away my heart in that messy, beautiful space.
* * *
The awning for Grounded is still the same faded green.
I’m standing on the corner of Amsterdam and 83rd, and the smell of roasted beans and exhaust is so familiar it feels like a muscle memory. We picked this place because it was sandwiched between the used bookshop Rebecca loved—the one with the cranky cat that slept in the philosophy section—and the stationery store where she’d buy expensive pens she never used. It was neutral territory. Not quite campus, not quite home. I’d sometimes run into a grad student cramming at the back table, and we’d do that awkward chin-lift of recognition.
I haven’t set foot in here in eight months. I’ve lived my life in a five-block radius designed specifically to bypass this intersection, even though I’ve spent many Mondays mourning the loss of their chocolate scones and the triple-shot mocha.
Standing here now, the memories of us at one of those tiny, warped wooden tables feel…tainted. It’s like looking through a window covered in thick, grey fog—you can see the shapes of who you used to be, but the details are blurred, the warmth is gone, and if you touch it, your hand just comes away cold and damp.
I push the door open, and the bell jingles the same tinny jingle.
It still looks the same. The same scuffed hardwood floors, same mismatched armchairs leaking stuffing. The bulletin board is a chaos of flyers for band gigs, yoga classes, and sublets. There’s a new kid behind the counter—a girl who can’t be older than twenty, with a silver ring through her eyebrow and hair the color of black cherries. She’s intently wiping down the espresso machine with a rag.
I do a quick scan around the cafe. No Rebecca. My eyes find the clock over the pastry case: 9:58. Of course. I’m two minutes early, which in my world, is late. Rebecca was never on time. She was late to dinner with my parents, late for deadlines for her job, late to her own prenatal checkups. I used to think it was some sort of power move, but now I think it’s just who she is—someone who operates on her own timeline. Some things, apparently, never change.
The girl with the eyebrow ring glances up. “Can I help you?”
I wasn’t going to eat. My stomach is currently a tangled ball of nervousness, but the smell of the chocolate scones is everywhere, and the idea of just sitting empty-handed in a booth feels pathetic.
Annie would tell me to eat the damn scone. She’d say I deserve the chocolate.
“Can I get a large black coffee and a chocolate scone, please?”
“For here?”
“For here, thanks.”
The girl nods, rings it up without a word, and I take the chipped mug and the plate holding the scone, its top glistening under the lights. I walk past the line of armchairs to the back. Our booth—the booth—is free. The red vinyl is cracked in the same place, a long split mended with silver duct tape.
I slide in, my back to the wall, and take a sip of the coffee. It’s still good, strong and slightly bitter. I break off a piece of the scone. It’s still perfect—dense, not too sweet, with dark chocolate chunks that melt on your tongue.
It tastes exactly the same. But I am not the same. This booth is not the same. Everything is different, and the sameness of the scone feels like a quiet, delicious betrayal.
I should’ve brought a journal article to mark up, or at least a pen to click. Something to do with my hands, something to give my brain a track to run on other than this grim, looping thought:She’s late. She’s always late.
Instead, I think about what’s happening back at the apartment right now. It’s nearing ten. Emma’s probably deep into some elaborate scenario Annie’s concocted—they’re explorers charting the living room rug, or pirates defending the couch from a siege of stuffed animals. The image is clear: Annie, probably wearing my socks, talking in a silly accent; Emma, with that fierce, whole-hearted concentration she gets. The thought makes the corner of my mouth twitch. It’s a tiny anchor. I hold onto it.
At 10:15, the bell jingles. My breath catches, shaky on the inhale.
Rebecca.
She looks…exactly like Rebecca. Her blonde hair is cut in smooth, silky layers that always looks freshly blown-out. She’s wearing a cream-colored turtleneck and tailored olive-green trousers, a slim leather bag slung over her shoulder. Put-together. Neat. Like she has her life together.
She greets the edgy girl at the register with a bright, easy smile, and the girl actually cracks a grin back. I see Emma in that moment. It’s an effortless, magnetic social grace—the ability to walk into a room and make a stranger feel like an old friend. Emma inherited that charm from her mother.
Rebecca grabs her coffee, and I hate that I still know the order before she even speaks. A vanilla latte, extra foam, no lid. When do you start to forget the useless map of a person you used to love? Their favorite B-side on a cassette? The way they take their eggs? Their favorite Fleetwood Mac song or the direction they stir their tea? Or do these details just stay imprinted on you forever, like a stain on a favorite shirt that you can’t quite wash out?
She turns with her coffee in hand, steam rising, and her eyes flick straight to this booth, as if on autopilot. Her face softens for a split second—surprise mixed with something wistful, brows knitting just a touch—before she smooths it out, that polite mask slipping back on. She walks over, heels clicking softly on the worn tile, and slides into the seat across from me, setting her coffee down with a gentle clink.
“Hi, Leo,” she says, her voice a little breathless. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The 1-train was…I don’t know, it just sat at 59th Street forever. Everything felt stuck today.”
I just nod curtly. I don’t want to talk about the MTA. “How’s Boston?”
