Page 69 of Falling For My Ex's Older Brother

She's quiet for a moment.

"When did you find out?"

"This morning. We're meeting for coffee tomorrow."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." I think about it.

"I'm not nervous. I'm just — aware. That this is going to be a specific kind of conversation and I need to be ready for it."

"Ready how?"

"Ready to be honest." I lean my head back against the couch.

"I owe him that much. Not explanations — just honesty."

Maggie looks at me carefully.

"Well, considering how he ended things so abruptly, you don’t owe him anything..but I digress.” She pauses.

“Do you know what you're going to say?"

"Not word for word." I pull my coat off finally.

"But I know where I stand. That's enough."

She nods. She unmutes the television but she doesn't really watch it and neither do I. We sit there for an hour and she doesn't ask any more questions. I don't offer anything else either. That is exactly what I need from her tonight.

***

Sightglass Cafe is busy at 12 noon — the particular Tuesday afternoon energy of a San Franciscocoffee shop where half the room is on laptops and the other half is having conversations that matter. I arrive five minutes early and take a table near the window. I order a coffee and I watch the door.

Caleb walks in at 12:03.

He looks good. He always looks good — that's always been true of him, the ease with which he inhabits a room, the smile that arrives before anything else. He scans the space and finds me and crosses toward me and something moves across his face when our eyes meet. Not the smile exactly. Something underneath it.

"Hey." He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.

"You look great."

"Thanks." I hold his gaze steadily.

"How was the flight?"

"Fine. Short." He picks up the menu even though we're at a coffee shop and the menu is six items. He sets it back down.

"It's good to see you, Sutton."

"You too, Caleb."

A server comes. He orders a black coffee. We sit across from each other in the specific way of two people who know each other well enough to feel the weight of what isn't being said yet.

"So," he says. His voice is easy. His hands on the table are still.

"How's the city treating you?"

"Well," I say. "I like it here."