Page 135 of Wells

"You want a Citrus Cure, or another of that green sludge you had last time?"

"Great memory. I think I'm going for a Citrus Cure this time. I'm thinking it must be magic, or something."

He remembered. Over seven months and everything that came after, and he remembered.

I wrap my hands around the cold cup and look at the table, not at him.

"I owe you a better answer than the one I gave you." It comes out before I decide to let it. "The text last month after the opening."

He goes still across from me.

"It wasn't that I didn't want to get together." I make myself keep going. "It was that I did, and it scared the hell out of me."

I turn the glass a quarter circle on the table. "I'm not telling you that so it means more than it does. I'm not looking to fall into anything. I just couldn't keep pretending I don't want you in my life."

He takes a breath like he's setting each word down with care. "That's fair. A juice every once in a while works for me."

The tension in my shoulders gives a little.

"I've probably got to go to make my appointment, but wondering if I could cash in on a rain check on that coffee?"

"Unlimited rain checks," he says as he takes a sip.

"Okay. I'll text you."

We walk out together, and without asking, he walks me back to my place. It isn't awkward, and I don't wish he wouldn't.

I've sat with this for nine days.

I've drafted a text four different ways and deleted all four.

How about that coffee?

Done. Sent. There's no going back now.

I get to Rosie's first and take the table in the back by the window. He walks in a few minutes later. There it is again, that settled quiet he carries now. He used to fold himself into the smallest corner of every room and choose the dark. Now he strolls in easily, like he knows he belongs here.

He's wearing a fitted dark gray T-shirt and black joggers that hang perfectly on his hips. Pushing his thick, damp hair back with one hand, he walks up to the counter and talks to the barista, laughing at something she says. He's glowing.

He orders, sits, and the espresso machine hisses behind us while the rain starts up soft against the glass.

I came here to do the thing I've wanted to do since his text lit up my apartment floor a month ago, and now that I'm across from him, the words crowd up the same as they did that night.

"How are you?"

"I'm good," I answer.

"I'm coming from yoga, forgive the sweaty shirt. I started taking classes at Holy Cow on Perrier Street. Have you ever been there?"

I want to thank you for the sweaty shirt, actually.

"I haven't. Do you like it?"

"It's interesting to see how different studios do things. I like it. The instructor isn't as cute, but that's probably best for my concentration, anyway."

I look down at my cup before my face can do anything stupid.

“You left Om.”