I open the entrance of the café and breathe in the familiar mix of espresso and pastry sugar. The air is warm and comforting. Being back here alone feels strange. This booth, which sits against the wall and has coffee rings and comments scratched into the varnish, used to be ours. Mine and Rowan's. Now it's only mine.
I take off my coat, hang it on the back of the vinyl seat, and slide in. The sun comes in through the high windows in the morning, and dust motes float around like memories. Tessa, the barista with the disheveled bun and silver eyebrow band, sees me and gives me a short smile.
"Isla," she says with a smile. "Is it the same?"
I nod. "Coffee with no milk. "Extra shot."
She puts her order into the register and then goes behind the counter. I take out the crumpled note that Rowan put in my pocket yesterday: Let's meet where we kissed for the first time. It's midnight. I smooth it out on the table, following the loops of his writing. The wood grain underneath it vibrates with the sounds of our past. My chest tightens. I fold the note in half, then in half again, and put it in my journal.
I look at the door every few seconds, hoping to see him appear, as if the call of midnight still has strength in the light of day. But the bell rings when the café door opens, and it's not Rowan. A little child, no older than seven, is pulling on his mother's scarf-tangled hand. He sees me and tilts his head.
"Mama," he pulls on the scarf again. "Isn't that the woman from the lake?"
I smile and shrug. The mother looks where he is looking, nods in embarrassment, and leads him to another table. I'm used to getting attention—it's just low-level chatter. But it hurts.
The smell of warm croissants fills the air. I put my hair behind one ear and hold my journal. No more spirits. No more feeling bad. Today, I take this space back for myself.
Tessa puts down the coffee. It's dark, bitter, and alive. She winks and says, "On the house." "Bad night?"
I think twice. Then give a nod. "Thanks."
She goes to a pair at a table in the corner. I lift the cup and the steam warms my hands. I close my eyes and drink. Fire growing in my chest.
The door opens again, this time for a man in a charcoal suit. My breath stops and starts. I stretch my neck. It's not Rowan; he wouldn't wear a suit at 10 in the morning. But they look so much alike: black hair, big shoulders, and the same exact walk.
He orders at the counter, looks at me, and gives me a courteous nod. My heart races. I put my cup down, my hands shaking. Is it possible that it's him? But no, the shape of his jaw is different. He's just another stranger who makes me think of the one I can't forget.
I make myself quiet and go back to my journal. I open to a blank page and write, "Echoes of a coffee shop." This is where I take back my story. I write down a list:
1. Finish the pages for the morning.
2. Look at new apartments.
3. Get rid of Rowan's number.
I stop at the last line. My thumb is over his contact. I can get rid of it. I need to get rid of it. But I haven't.
Someone is coming. There is a shadow on the table. I look up and stop.
Rowan is standing there with his coat unbuttoned and his tie loose. His eyes search mine, and I can see he has a lot of questions before he ever says anything.
"Isla."
His voice is quiet, as if he's astonished or unsure. I swallow.
I say "Morning" with a flat voice.
He slides into the seat across from me without asking. The smell of sandalwood and rain-soaked hair makes me catch my breath. Tessa fills his cup again and gives me a smile of sympathy before leaving.
He looks at the note that is hidden in my journal. His face shows guilt. "You got my note?"
I put the journal away. "I did."
He massages his head. "I'm sorry for bringing you here yesterday."
I say gently, "That wasn't a message." "It was a confession."
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. "I had to see you." To tell you—
"To say you're sorry?" I interrupted. "Your letter said you don't want an answer."
He turns his head. "I wrote because I felt bad."
"So did I," I say in a low voice.
He looks me in the eye, which is darker than the coffee between us. "I know."
A tense hush falls. I hold on to the edge of the table with my knuckles white. The café buzz goes on: cups clinking, people talking quietly, and the espresso machine hissing. But in this booth, it's just us. The gap between us is measured in years, inches, and silences.
At last, I nod. "Why are you here?"
He breathes out. "I thought... we might be able to converse. For real.
I say, "Really?" "You got married to Clarissa two days after I departed. "Why talk now?"
His jaw gets tight. He looks at the door for a second. "I had to keep my word."
I look back, half expecting Clarissa to come through the door and discover us here. But she never shows up.
He looks back at me. "I wish I hadn't done anything."
I lean back and squint my eyes. "Regret is not an apology."
His cheeks turn red. "I know." But I want you to know.
I look at him. He appears weak, with stripes of sunlight on his skin and the weight of his own guilt on his mind. For a split second, I see the boy I thought I loved. Then, almost as swiftly, the man who married someone else comes to mind.
I stand. "I have things to do." My voice is stronger than I feel. I get my things together. He tries to touch me, but I jerk away.
I stop at the edge of the booth. "I can't—" I swallow. "I can't be your second choice."
He gets up too. "I never wanted you to feel that way."
I turn around and head to the cashier. My heart is beating so hard that I'm afraid everyone will hear it. Tessa watches me with worry in her eyes.
"Can I get more?" I ask, my voice shaking.
"Of course." Without a doubt, she fills my cup again. I pay and then leave.
Rowan comes up with me as I leave. He walks onto the sidewalk. The city is buzzing with traffic. He glances at me, confused.
"Isla, wait."
I turned on him. "Let me go."
He swallows. "Please."
I look down at my boots, which are stained with coffee. The note in my pocket is heavier than any anchor. I take a deep breath.
"I need some space," I say.
He nods, as if he finally understands what I said. "I get it."
I hold on to my journal. As I leave, the bell above the door rings. I don't look back.
I walk around the block without a plan till I reach the river's edge. The water moves around in the morning sun, shining and restless. I lean on the railing and my coffee gets cold.
When my phone buzzes, I get a jolt since it's an unknown number. I open it up:
Look up.
Rowan is standing across the street, coat collar up, and looking at me. His expression was calm, yet it was hard to read.
I type back, "I said I need space."
No answer. I put the phone in my pocket. My chest feels tight.
A barge goes by slowly. The slow pulse of the stream makes my heart race. I follow the line of the horizon with my eyes, thinking of all the things I need to do: get a new apartment, file the papers, and rebuild.
My phone buzzes again. This is the last item I need to show you.
A picture is included. I can't breathe. I pull it up.
It's a picture of my journal, with the page open to where I wrote "Delete Rowan's number." But the words underneath it—new pencil writing—were not there this morning. They said, "Don't delete." Not yet.
Rowan's loops and slants make it clear who wrote it.
My heart races. I don't know if I should run back or break the phone. The line between being nice and being intrusive is getting harder to see.
I put the phone back in my pocket and write down what I want to say in my journal. My pen is above the page. I can get rid of it. I can.
But I don't.
I put the journal away and put it under my arm. The river blows cold and suddenly around me. I draw my coat tighter and walk back to the café.
I need to know. I need to move on. I need to know why he stays in my life like a hurricane that won't go away.
I almost hit Clarissa Hart as I turn the corner. She looks exquisite in a trench coat with a phone at her ear.
She stops, sees me, and drops her phone. Her eyes flare with disbelief, then pain.
"Isla?" she asks, her voice tight.
My heart skips a beat. I've been keeping her safe by staying away from her. But here we are, face to face.
I swallow. "Clarissa."
She folds her arms. "He's not worth this, you know."
I bite my lip. "What are you doing here?"
She answers her phone. "I live here."
My hands are sweaty. The café is behind me, and its windows are dark for our talk.
Clarissa moves closer. "I know about the letter." She looks at the pocket of my coat. "I found it on the porch."
I can't breathe. She knows. She knows I come back. She knows that Rowan is guilty.
She looks at me, her eyes softening. "Isla, he's a good man." Hurt flashes. "But he was wrong."
I look at her, my heart racing. Once a stranger, now a reflection of my own pain. I swallow. "Me too."
She nods, and her eyes are wet. "Yes, we both did."
Silence lasts. In the distance, horns are honking. The river whispers beyond the block. We are on shaky ground—two women tied together by one man's regret.
Clarissa's phone rings. She turns it off and looks me in the eye. "He'll be at the café waiting for us."
My stomach hurts. Rowan, are you waiting for both of us? She moves back and says in a low voice, "He wants to fix this if we let him."
I swallow. Behind me, the door to the café swings open. Rowan comes onto the sidewalk with his jacket over his shoulder and looks around.
I gaze at Clarissa. Her eyes flash with pain, anger, and something I can't name. She straightens her shoulders. "After you."
I look at Rowan. He steps forth with hope.
I take a breath and close my eyes.
Then I do the first thing.