“Did you enjoy class?” Her tone is carefully neutral, professional therapist voice engaged.
I nod, then grunt like some caveman. “It was amazing. You’re still the best teacher.”
Her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t look flattered. If anything, she looks wary. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and heavy.
“I, uh...” I rub the back of my neck. “After we broke up, I listened to your videos to fall asleep. They’re—your voice is really soothing.”
“You did?” She looks at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.
“Yeah.” I shrug, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
“Huh.”
That’s it. Just ‘huh.’
“Hey, um, if you’re not doing anything now, would you like to get coffee?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I hold my breath, bracing for rejection.
“Sure,” she says, and I nearly choke.
“Really?”
“I heard you like Rye Again.”
“How do you know that?”
She grins, and it’s like sunrise. “Word travels fast on Pine Island.”
I sigh heavily, though I can’t stop smiling. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I wanted when I moved here. Zero privacy.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she laughs. “Eventually you’ll realize it’s kind of nice, people caring enough to notice things about you.”
We head out in separate cars, and I’m grinning like an idiot the whole drive over the bridge into Portsmouth. I keep checking my rearview mirror, making sure her car is still behind me, that she hasn’t changed her mind.
She’s waiting at the front door of Rye Again when I finally find parking, wrapped in a burgundy coat that makes her skin glow. Walking up to her feels awkward—too much distance to cover. Going inside is worse, the warm air hitting us along with the smell of coffee and freshly baked something. Ordering feels like a performance I’m failing. We settle on separate checks, which feels wrong but necessary. Even finding a table becomesa production until we finally land at a small table by the window.
The whole thing feels stilted, like we’re actors who’ve forgotten our lines.
“You haven’t changed your coffee order.” Devin nods at my glass. Triple shot iced almond latte with caramel and two ice cubes
“Oh. Yeah.” I duck my head. “This might sound stupid, but when everything in life can change—career, city, relationships—it’s nice knowing that what I drink in the mornings doesn’t have to.”
“It’s not stupid,” she says, completely serious. “Constants are important. They’re anchor points.”
A pregnant woman emerges from the back. She and Devin exchange waves.
“That’s my friend Alexis. Her boyfriend owns Rye Again.”
“Cool. Is that how you met?”
“No, we’re um—we both go to this group called Chronic Pain Crafters. It’s for people with chronic conditions to get together and knit and just hang out. Share the things only we understand.”
“That’s amazing.”
Her eyebrow arches, skeptical. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
Her face softens, tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Yeah, it really is. It’s only five of us, but they’re my best friends. My chosen family, really. I can’t imagine life without them.”
