I worry that my voice sounds like I’m accusing him of something or that I’m nervous, and that’s the last thing I want. I need to be cool and make it clear that he doesn’t have the power to get to me, not anymore. But still, I wonder—how does he do that, really? He was always so good at silence, at moving around undetected. Another skill honed in the Army, I guess.
I gesture for him to sit down. He slides into the chair, and that’s when I realize he has a full beard. Sharp, precise lines graze his cheekbones, and his jawline is covered in dark hair. This is new. Of course it is: he always had to keep up with Army regulations. Hair must be short and well groomed. Moustaches are allowed, but only if they’re neatly trimmed and don’t grow over the upper lip. He told me once that he was thinking of growing a moustache, but I talked him out of it.
He grabs the coffee menu from the table. Cappuccino. Macchiato. Latte. Flat white. Long black. When did everything get so complicated?
“You like coffee now?” I don’t try to hide my surprise.
He shakes his head. “No. You like hot coffee now?” he questions.
I look down at the mug between my hands and shake my head. “No.”
I hate that he remembers small things about me. I wish I could erase them all from his memory. And from mine.
A half-smile crosses his stoic face, reminding me of one of the million reasons I fell in love with him. A moment ago, it was easy to look away. Now it’s impossible.
“Not coffee,” he assures me. “Tea.”
He isn’t wearing a jacket, of course, and the sleeves of his denim shirt are rolled up above his elbows. The tattoo on his forearm is fully visible and I know if I touch his skin right now, it will be burning up. I’m sure as hell not going to do that, so I look up and over his shoulder. Away from the tattoo. Away from the thought. It’s safer that way. For both of us. I try to focus on the noises in the coffee shop so I can settle into his silence. I forgot how unnerving his presence can be.
That’s a lie. I didn’t forget. I wanted to but couldn’t. Just like sometimes I wanted to forgive him, but I never could.
I can hear the server approaching, her sneakers squeaking on the concrete floor. She has a mousy little voice and when she tells him that he should “so totally” try the new peppermint mocha, I laugh to myself, knowing that he hates all minty things, even toothpaste. I think about the way he’d leave those red globs of cinnamon gunk in the sink at my house and how many times we bickered over it. If only I had ignored those petty grievances. If only I had paid more attention to what was really happening, everything might have been different.
Maybe. Maybe not.
I don’t want to know.
Another lie.
Kael tells the girl he would like a plain black tea, and this time I try not to laugh. He’s so predictable.
“What’s so funny?” he asks when the waitress leaves.
“Nothing.” I change the subject. “So, how are you?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like we’re strangers.”
I tuck my lips together and look away before I reply. “Aren’t we, though?”
He sighs and his eyes roam around the room before they land back on me. “Should I go?” he asks directly.
“I don’t know, should you?”
He moves his chair out slightly and I reconsider. I don’t really want him to go, but there are so many reasons to be mad at him and I’m afraid that being around him will soften me. I can’t have that happen.
“Okay. Okay. Just sit. I’ll be nice,” I promise him, with a small smile that’s about as convincing as my attitude.
I don’t know what bullshit we’re going to fill this coffee date with, but since we’re going to see each other tomorrow, it seemed like a good idea to get the first awkward encounter out of the way without an audience. A funeral is no place for that. And I had to be in the city today anyway.
“So, Kael, how are you?” I retry this whole being-nice thing.
“Good. Given the circumstances.” He clears his throat.
“Yeah.” I sigh, trying not to think too much about tomorrow. I’ve always been good at pretending the world isn’t burning around me. Okay, I’ve been slipping these past few months, but for years denial was second nature, a permanent habit I mastered between my parents’ divorce and my high school graduation. Sometimes it feels like my family is disappearing. We keep getting smaller and smaller. Sometimes I feel like I’m disappearing, too.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice even lower than it was before.
It sounded the same as it did those damp nights when we fell asleep with the windows open—the whole room would be dewy the next morning, our bodies wet and sticky. I used to love the way his hot skin felt when my fingertips danced across the smooth contours of his jaw. Even his lips were warm, feverish at times. The southern Georgia air was so thick you could taste it, and Kael’s temperature always ran so hot. Another thing I pretended to forget.
He clears his throat and asks again if I’m okay. I snap out of it.
I know what he’s thinking. He can tell that I’ve left earth with my thoughts and he’s trying to bring me back. I can read his face as clearly as the neon But First, Coffee sign hanging on the wall behind him. I hate that those memories are the ones my brain associates with him. It doesn’t make this any easier.
“Kare.” His voice is soft as he reaches across the table to touch my hand. I jerk it away so fast you’d think it was on fire. It’s strange to remember the way we were, the way I never knew where he ended and I began. We were so in tune . . . so different than the way things are now. There was a time when he’d say my name, and just like that, I’d give him anything he wanted. I consider this for a moment. How I’d give that man anything he wanted.
I thought I was further along in my recovery from us, that whole getting over him thing. At least far enough along that I wouldn’t be thinking about the way his voice sounded when I had to wake him up early for physical training, or the way he used to scream in the night. My head is starting to spin and if I don’t shut my mind off now, the memories will split me apart, on this chair, in this little coffee shop, right in front of him.
I force myself to nod and pick up my latte to buy some time, just a moment so I can find my voice. “Yeah. I’m all right. I mean, funerals are kind of my thing.”
“Tell me about it.”
I don’t dare look at his face. I don’t want to see his grief or share my own, so I try to diffuse the intensity of what we’re both feeling with some dark humor.
“We’re running out of fingers to count the funerals we’ve been to in the last two years alone and—”
“There’s nothing you could have done, regardless. Don’t tell me you’re thinking you could’ve—” He pauses and I stare harder at the small chip in my mug. I run my finger over the cracked ceramic.
“Karina. Look at me.”
I shake my head, not even close to jumping down this rabbit hole with him. I don’t have it in me. “I’m fine. Seriously.” I pause and take in the expression on his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m okay.”