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I break the hold of his gaze and send the steaming water through the grind. And instead of looking at Robert, I set the metal pitcher under the spout and steam the milk.
The noise is loud. The hissing of the steam and the grinding of the machine interject into the heavy silence.
The bitter scent of the espresso and the warmed milk climbs up as I swirl the milk and froth into a mug.
Robert clears his throat, glancing behind him at the open doors. The sun is high overhead, white and hot. It’s nearly noon and the shadows have run away with the heat.
I push the mug toward him. It’s chipped. A generic white ceramic mug with gray scratches in the glaze. Robert ignores it.
Instead he stares at the curling of my blond hair around my ears and the perspiration lining my forehead. “I’m sorry about last night.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth tightens. “Becca.”
“Apology accepted.”
He frowns, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “Can I see you tonight?”
“No.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“No. Not ever.”
“You said that before. Then you came. Is this a game? Is that what this is?”
I clutch the edge of the counter. “I don’t play games.”
“You play plenty of games.”
I shake my head. “You should go.”
His jaw tightens and he scrubs a hand down his face. When he looks at me again, his eyes are tired and his expression worn. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. But you’re not doing McCormick any favors. It’s because he’s my friend I’m telling you this. Stop making him believe you care. Stop giving him hope. It’s cruel?—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw the way he looked at you. Fifteen years he’s been your husband. He’s been your friend. Don’t make him think it’s more. Because when we leave it’ll destroy him. If you make him love you and then we leave— That’s not what I signed up for.”
“He already loved me. He loved me when we married.”
“Not like this. Not like what I saw this morning.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying”—Robert leans forward, his expression earnest, anguished—“leave him be. He doesn’t need the hurt you’re aiming to pile on top of him.”
I stare at Robert, stunned at the vehemence in his voice. Suddenly I wonder if he’s a part of my subconscious warning me about Max.
Is this what I’m doing to him?
I chose to give him hope. To see if love can grow.
But I’ve been worried that in the end it will only hurt him. Is Robert telling me my fears are founded?
“You’re hurting him too,” I say, my voice a whisper above the waves.
Robert’s shoulders slump and he looks down at the counter, a bitter twist to his mouth. “I know. I wonder, am I doing it to punish him or myself? Or is this truly just love? I tell myself he’ll thank me someday.”
