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That never happened when we were young.

At sixteen, I knew exactly how to be with Sean.

I reached for him.

Leaned against him.

Took his hand whenever it was close enough.

I don’t know how to be with him now.

So I turn toward the coffeemaker.

“Do you want coffee?”

“I’ve had three cups.”

“That explains why you look so relaxed.”

His mouth almost curves.

Almost.

I take a mug from the cabinet.

“Do you drink coffee now?”

I glance at him.

“Yes.”

“You hated it.”

“I was sixteen.”

“You said it tasted like burned dirt.”

“It did.”

“What changed?”

“Working overnight shifts.”

“Where?”

“A hotel at first. Then a hospital.”

Sean leans one hip against the island.

“What did you do at the hospital?”

“Billing.”

He waits.

I pour the coffee.

“I eventually became the manager of the department.”