Jeans. Sweater. Minimal effort, but not hiding.
While I get ready, I talk myself through it quietly.
“It’s just coffee. You’re being kind. You’re not leading him on. You’re allowed to make amends.”
It feels a little like lying, but only because the truth is complicated.
Brian deserves honesty in a way I can give it. Not romantic honesty, but human honesty. The kind that saysI see the effort you made, and I’m sorry I didn’t show up the way I meant to.
When I step back into the hallway, the house is still, soft morning light slipping across the hardwood. My bag waits by the door from last night. I grab it, toss in my wallet and keys, and take one long breath that doesn’t quite steady me.
If this were any other situation, I wouldn’t feel nervous.
But everything feels different now. Charged. Unsettled. Like one wrong move could tip my entire world off balance.
I lock the door behind me.
“Just coffee,” I whisper to myself as I walk to the car.
But even as I say it, I know better.
It’s also a step toward being the version of myself I actually want to be, someone who doesn’t run, doesn’t hide, or hurt people just because she’s hurting.
I start the engine, grip the steering wheel, and pull out of the driveway.
Whatever happens today… at least I’m trying.
At least I’m not pretending anymore.
And for now, that’s enough.
The Brew House is already buzzing when I walk in 5 minutes before I’m supposed to be there. Saturday crowds. Soft indie music. The smell of espresso and cinnamon syrup. It’s familiar and comforting… until I remember why I’m here.
I pick a small two-top near the window. Neutral. Friendly. Not remotely romantic. I set my bag down, smooth my sweater, and tell myself for the fifteenth time that this is fine.
It’s just coffee.
I’m doing the right thing.
Brian walks in two minutes later, warm smile already in place. He lifts a hand in a small wave when he spots me, and something inside me loosens a little.
“Hey,” he says, easy and genuine as he sits. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Thanks for letting me,” I say. “Really.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it kind of is. “We’ve all had off nights. No harm done.”
God, he’s nice.
We order. Sit. Talk. The conversation is light. He tells me a ridiculous story about his dog eating an entire oven mitt. I laugh, actually laugh, and it feels good, even if it’s faint around the edges.
I try to stay present. I really do.
But my mind keeps drifting away from the possibility of letting him in and having fun.
I don’t want to hurt him twice.
He’s mid-sentence about his older sister’s new baby when the door chimes behind me.
