Cera #2
"So," he says. "What have you been up to?"
"Working, mostly. Still doing my yoga. Some habits are hard to break, as you said."
"You still dragging yourself across town for those kids?" He smiles when he says it, fond and dismissive at once, the way he always made it sound like a charming waste of my time. "Please tell me you finally got a real paycheck out of it."
I don't tell him I teach three evenings a week now. I won't give him the chance to call it a waste to my face again.
"I've got a new job, actually."
"Where?
"Stone Intermodal."
His eyebrows lift. "That is a big move. Congrats."
"Thanks."
We reach the café, and he pulls the door open for me. I step inside. The smell of espresso and baked goods replaces the dry cleaner's detergent. A few tables are occupied, but the space is mostly quiet. He gestures toward a booth near the window.
I slide in across from him and set the dry cleaning on the seat beside me.
What am I doing here?
A server appears with two menus and sets them on the table. Cas slides his to the side. "I'll have a black coffee, please."
"What about you, Hon?"
"Can I please have a matcha latte and a beignet?"
"Y'all got it."
When she walks off, Cas leans back in the booth and stretches his arms across the top of the seat. He looks relaxed, cool and comfortable. The same way he used to look when we came here on Sunday mornings and he would read the paper while I sketched on napkins.
So happy for him.
"Stone Intermodal, huh?"
I nod.
"Quite a change. What are you doing over there?"
"Managing all of the shipping that comes in from China."
He grins. The expression pulls at something in my chest, something that used to respond when he looked at me like that.
Stop it.
"Still got that whipsmart humor. I love it. Seriously, though, what are you doing? I'm guessing not medical billing?"
"Data visualization. I translate cyber reports for their board, mainly, but anything that requires visuals for data."
"Sounds intense."
"It can be. But it's been a nice change."
I think about Wells bending me over the desk and laugh a little to myself.
"What's got you tickled?"
"Oh," I say, waving my hand as I shake my head. "I was thinking about a report I forgot to fix. It's nothing."
The server returns with our drinks. I wrap my hands around the mug and let the warmth sink into my palms. Cas takes a sip, then sets his cup down and leans forward.
"I always knew you would end up somewhere impressive. I'm really happy for you, Cer."
Him using his nickname for me irks me and, in a weird way, is nice. I'm mad at myself for even sitting here with him, much less basking in his charm.
Somewhere impressive. Not you are impressive. Not I'm proud of you. Just the idea that I would eventually get to a place worth mentioning.
I take a drink and let the bitterness of the matcha sit on my tongue.
"Thanks."
The server drops off my beignet. I tear off a piece and eat it without tasting it.
We trade the small talk of two people who used to share a life. I couldn't care less what he's been doing, but there's something steadying about sitting across from someone who already knows me, and I hate that I needed it today.
"You seem good," he says. "Settled."
"I am," I lie. I'm damn sure not telling him I'm currently in my hot mess era. He sees a good job and a functional adult, so I'm letting him run with it.
"I'm glad. I worried about you after—"
He stops. The sentence hangs unfinished, and I know exactly where it was going.
After I left.
I set my mug down harder than I mean to.
"Were you worried?" I ask, and I don't keep the edge out of it. I know he didn't think twice. His whole goodbye had been a text, two words, lowercase. i'm sorry.
Dick.
"Yeah."
The concern on his face looks genuine. Maybe it is. Maybe he did worry while he packed his things and moved into a new apartment and started over without me because he didn't want to carry both of us financially until I found a job.
"That's thoughtful."
He winces. "I know how it sounded. I just meant—"
"It's fine. It's water under the bridge, Cas. Let's not drag all of that up. It was a long time coming."
He shifts in his seat. His hand moves across the table, not quite reaching for mine, but close enough that the intention is clear.
"I handled things badly. I should have stuck around longer. Helped more."
The thought burns through me, but I don't say it. Instead, I pull my hand back and reach for my matcha.
"I think it was for the best. Sometimes you just rip the band-aid off."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again, longer. A call, not a text.
I pull it out, and Wells's name sits on the screen.
Something in my chest lifts before I can talk myself out of it. Whatever thin warmth Cas pulled out of me a few minutes ago goes flat beside it.
"I have to take this," I say, already sliding out of the booth.
Cas's eyebrows go up. "Everything okay?"
"Work." I'm halfway to the door before I finish the word.
I step out onto the sidewalk and answer. "Hey."
"Hey." His voice is lower than it was in the office yesterday. The cold sanded off it. "How is your Saturday?"
"Hi. It's off to a good start."
"Are you busy tonight?"
No mention of the distance he put up yesterday, no explanation. Just him, asking, sounding like he actually wants the answer.
"I could be free," I say. "Depends on who's asking."
"Have dinner with me. A real one. I'll pick you up at six thirty."
Not the office. Not a working dinner with the Rotterdam file open between us. Not a contrived work trip and room service.
"Okay," I say, and I hear the smile in my own voice and don't bother hiding it.
"Good. I'm looking forward to it."
The line goes quiet. I stand on the sidewalk with the phone still warm against my ear and the sun in my eyes, and for the first time since the screen stayed black on Thursday, I don't feel like something everyone is walking away from.
Through the café window, Cas is watching me, that easy, familiar smile on his face, like he's already decided this was the start of something.
It's not.
I push the door open just far enough to grab my dry cleaning off the seat and toss out a ten. "I've got to run. This was fun, Cas. Take care of yourself."
I don't wait for his face. I'm already gone, the plastic crinkling against my chest, my mind three steps ahead of me, at six thirty, in whatever Wells Stone has planned.