18. Kate
“Would you like that hot or iced?” the young cashier, Chad, asks in a monotone voice, eyes glazed over with boredom. Like me, he is probably less than overjoyed to be at a coffee shop before 7 a.m. But lucky for him, he’s getting paid to be here. I am not.
“Iced,” I say, my response equally monotone. It’s almost 90 degrees outside, and the sun is barely up. Of course I want it iced, Chad. I blink away my cynicism and force a smile, leaving him a five-dollar bill in his tip jar. My generosity is met with an eye roll and a crumpled-up receipt. I mouth, “Thank you,” and quickly turn to find a seat.
The coffee shop is housed in a tiny cottage a block from the beach. It’s quiet, with a few early risers reading the paper, scrolling their phones, or sitting in silence. The place is filled to the brim with old-fashioned black-and-white photos, vintage knickknacks, and retro-styled posters. Nostalgia oozes from the walls, slightly calming the pinball nerves that are bouncing in my gut.
I check my watch a tenth time in a matter of thirty seconds. It’s only 6:43. Eric said we could meet around seven, and because I am a chronically punctual person, I got here the moment the open sign was faced out. The ever-so-lively Chad calls out my order, making it sound even more boring than it already is.
Coffee with a splash of oat milk.
I collect my mug and scoot back into my seat. The farthest corner in the back seems like an appropriate choice for an early morning coffee date with my ex-boyfriend. I check the time again—only 6:47.
I try to make myself busy, but scrolling my phone is boring, checking my email is useless since I checked it before bed last night, and checking my text messages just bums me out.
Malcolm:Sleeping on the couch tonight. You hogged the covers last night ;)
No I did not! And please don’t, you’ll ruin your back! I can take the couch.
Malcolm was already sound asleep on the couch by the time I got back up to the room last night. And he was long gone when I woke up this morning. I texted, asking if he had an early morning workout, and the only response I got was yep. Those same pinball nerves migrate up into my throat at the thought of him being mad at me. There’s no question how he feels about Eric and me, and I don’t blame him. If I were to see someone break his heart, I would probably develop a full-proof kidnapping plan, leaving them stranded in the desert with only a pint of water to hold them over. And I’d feel only a fraction of remorse for my decisions.
With Malcolm’s background, I’m sure his plans for revenge would be much more elaborate and covert, probably borderline torture if it wasn’t illegal—or as he puts it, “strongly frowned upon.”
My thumb hovers over our text thread for a moment before chickening out. I could easily ask if he’s upset, but I already know that answer. But I don’t know the other answers—to the questions I’m refusing to ask myself.
What am I doing here?
Why did I agree to this date?
It’s not a date—is this a date?
My head throbs as I question every life decision that has led me to this point. When this happens, I tend to let everyone in on the questioning, sabotaging myself.
I sip my coffee then send a regretful text. I know it will not be received well, and I don’t even know if what’s about to happen is something worth sharing yet, let alone getting people in a tizzy over. Common sense and logical thinking don’t start operating in my brain until after 7 a.m.
I’m getting coffee with Eric…
Text bubbles pop up immediately, and I wince at the influx of responses.
Ellie: WHY?!
Benny: Good luck
Ellie: DON’T LISTEN TO HIM. NO GOOD LUCK!
Emma: ??
Ellie:Is he there yet?? Did he at least buy your coffee??
Benny: Knowing Kate, she’s there early and already finished her first cup
Ellie: Ugh!! I don’t like this!
Lola: did malcolm go with you…
Emma: We will support you no matter what ??
Ellie: As a therapist, I must advise against this
Lola:i am a grown woman… I don’t do what emma says…
I bite my lip and hold back a laugh, their responses momentarily calming me. The squeaky coffee shop door opens, and I look up from my phone to see Eric walk in, wearing a slim-cut black polo, light-brown board shorts, and a backward baseball hat. The view is enough to send a woman into cardiac arrest. He really is a sight to behold. Dark, creamy skin shimmers under the rising sun, and his crisp white smile sparkles like he’s a toothpaste spokesperson. His big arms threaten to rip the sleeves of his shirt to shreds as he lifts a hand to wave at me. Eric has always been the pretty boy, and when he showed interest in me, I was starstruck. Growing up, I was never the one to date the popular guy or thought to be worth the time for that crowd. I wasn’t worth most people’s time. So, when the pretty, popular guy at work asked me to dinner, I said yes. Nowadays, the pretty, popular guys are less appealing, especially when one of them shatters your heart.
My phone buzzes about ten more times on the table as my family continues to blow up our thread. I shove it under my thigh when Eric reaches the table.
“Good morning,” he says, leaning over to give me an awkward side hug. His wristwatch gets caught in my hair, and his chest presses into the side of my face, nearly smothering me.
“Hi.” I hug him back then untangle my hair from his watch, completely ignoring the lingering of his hand on my shoulder as he sits down. Nope. Nothing to overthink. Nothing to drive me into the pit of spiraling thoughts. “How is your morning?” I ask, wrapping my hands around my mug.
“Good, preparing for our scrimmage tomorrow. It’s nice to have a late morning for once.” I choke on my coffee at that statement, blinking the tired out of my eyes as the clock on the wall strikes 7:03 a.m. He waves the two cashiers down at the counter. Luckily, the girl who seems much more vibrant than Chad practically bounces over to our table. Her breath hitches as she approaches the table, eyeing Eric with thirsty eyes as he takes up a rather large portion of the table with his broad shoulders and thick arms.
“Wha— what can I get you?” she stutters and fumbles with her notepad, her eyes locked on Eric’s arms. They really are distracting. I’m pretty sure his muscles have muscles. I avert my eyes from the slopes of his arms and focus on the lopsided wind chime that dangles on the deck of the shop outside. It jingles a mesmerizing tune in the breeze.
“Kate?”
I blink out of the hypnotic clutch the chime has on me and turn back to Eric. He looks at me expectantly. “Yes?” I ask.
“How have you been?”
“Good, good. Camp has been great.” I nod erratically and take another sip of coffee.
“It has, huh?”
I nod, unsure how to carry this conversation forward. The big question of, Why are we here? weighs on my chest. His coffee appears on the table, and he takes a sip, awkward silence filling the space. I tap the rim of my mug, willing the universe to bless me with the gift of gab, like my lola, but I come up short. By how skittery Eric’s eyes are, I can tell he’s struggling too.
Another moment of silence passes. “So…” we say in unison.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and the sight warms my chest. It’s almost enough to dissipate the heavy weight settling there—unsure if it’s the awkward tension or a little bit of indigestion from the heavy taste of whole milk swirling within my coffee. Oat milk, Chad. I asked for oat milk. I force another gulp down my throat, wincing at the ache it leaves behind.
“What’s been new with you?” Eric asks, draining his iced latte and slurping the empty cup aggressively. The noise is loud and obnoxious, drawing attention to our table. A few patrons, including the waitress, glance at us as annoyance fills their eyes. Eric then proceeds to shake his cup full of ice at the waitress, mouthing the word, “Refill.” The scene plays in slow motion, a rerun I’ve seen one too many times. It sends a chill of discomfort down my spine. His table manners were always maddening, making me wish I could morph into a turtle and retract into my shell, or a chameleon so I can blend into my surroundings.
Instead, I just cover half of my face and look out the window, waiting for the exchange of glasses to happen without internally combusting from embarrassment.
“Thanks,” Eric says as the waitress drops off his drink, topped with extra whipped topping. Clearly, she is too infatuated with his charm to be offended by table manners. An elderly couple at the table in front of us, however, is not, as they stare daggers at him above their crossword puzzles. “So, what’s new?” he asks me again as he shifts his weight onto the two back legs of his chair.
I try not to gawk at him as the chair legs scrape the floor, reminding myself that I am no longer tied to this behemoth caveman. “Not much.” I try to clear the remains of my coffee from the inside of my throat. “We placed second at state last year. The kids have done great with their standardized tests since we changed our format. Emma stepped in to coach cheer when Maddie left, and Benny is currently interviewing to fill the vacant history position.”
“Sounds about the same.” He gives a courtesy kind of smile. “What about Malcolm?”
Malcolm.
I hesitate to respond, unsure of where to begin in regard to my friend and current room buddy. My phone buzzes a one, two, three pattern underneath my thigh—the pattern designated for Malcolm. And then another one.
Either he has me bugged and is currently listening in on this conversation, or the universe is playing me right now.
I shimmy my leg over and pull my phone out casually. “Oh, you know, Malcolm is Malcolm.” I wave my words away, as if it will be enough for me to not drift off into thinking about him in the middle of this coffee date.
Eric chuckles but says nothing, just watches me as he slurps his latte, letting the painful silence drag on.
“What are we doing here, Eric?” I finally ask on an exhale.
He takes another slow sip before responding, almost to the end of his second drink. I can’t endure another slurping debacle, so I rush the conversation along. “Look, if there isn’t a purpose to this meeting, I should really be getting back.”
I go to stand from the table, and he stops me with his big hand wrapping around my elbow. “Wait, I just…” He looks around, embarrassment pinking his cheeks, and whispers, “I wanted to catch up. I’ve missed you.” Releasing my elbow, he watches me, his dark eyes misty and weighted. Something about his admission draws me in, not because I want him to have been missing me—although it feels nice to be missed by someone—but because I know Eric. We had a life together, and that history doesn’t just go away. In some ways, I’ve missed him too. I sit back down and gesture for him to continue.
“Life has been crazy, Kate. Dawson is running me ragged. We’ve lost three scholarship donors, and my replacement backed out for next season. I haven’t been home to see my family in almost a year.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath.
His sweet family—the family I thought I would call my own one day. They live less than an hour from me, and the desire to run up to see them has always been in the back of my mind since we broke up. Tricia, his mom, was always so loving and supportive, filling the void my own mother left. I can remember the first time meeting her. Her curly hair was pinned back, and she was wearing a light-blue polka-dot dress with a linen apron hanging around her shoulders, untied in the back. It was covered in chocolate frosting. Vegan frosting. From the chocolate cake she made for me. Before even meeting me, she was baking for me. I can’t tell you the last time my own mother did anything remotely generous like that for me.
“Poor Trish, I bet she misses you terribly.”
“She does. And she likes to remind me every day how long it’s been since I’ve seen her,” he groans, pulling out his phone and opening up the text thread between them. The last text she sent reads, ‘286 days since I’ve seen my son.’”
I choke out a laugh. “She was never one for subtlety.”
We both laugh, sharing a fondness for his mom. “I was just…” He pauses, exhaling a slow breath. “I was just so pumped when Dawson said I could come to camp. I knew you’d be here. I’ve wanted to reach out, see how you were. I figured you hated me, so I haven’t, and I thought this was the perfect opportunity to bump into you.” His words flow out of him at record speed, like he’s been holding them back for days. He leans back in his chair and looks out the coffee shop window. I follow his gaze. People are starting to venture out to the shops or toward the beach to start their morning. The coffee shop sits at the top of a hill that overlooks the beach, and a walking path sits on the edge of their small parking lot. A bright, crisp blue coats the sky now with streaks of orange scattered along the lower edge that meets the shore, the sun in the midst of rising above the ocean.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Eric asks, his eyes softening as he watches the sun.
“Do you get many views like this in Michigan?” I ask, watching a family of five pile out of their minivan and race each other down the walking path.
“I think we have better ones.” He winks at me, his competitive nature glazing his eyes as he downs the rest of his drink. To my pleasant surprise, he refrains from his aggressive slurpage and slides the cup to the edge of the table. Eric was always ruthless on the field and in every aspect of life, so I’m not surprised that he’s mentally cataloging and comparing sunsets. Something universally beautiful is still fair game in his mind.
“Always the competitive one.” I smile, leaning back in my chair to face him.
“Doesn’t beat an Oklahoma one, though.”
“Oh?” I look at him, surprised.
“Yeah, just something about the sunrise over our field before class started…can’t beat it.” He lets out another sigh, this one sounding more defeated than the last.
“Eric…” I pause as his daydream eyes refocus on me. “Have you talked to Dawson about this? About feeling stretched thin? Maybe you need to mention that you need to go home every once in a while.”
He rakes his hand down his face and over his chest, rubbing a circle in the center of his sternum—his tell when he’s uncomfortable. “I know. I’m just afraid to piss him off. I don’t want to ruffle feathers by being upfront about what I want.”
“That’s never stopped you before.” I grin at him. He returns it and checks his watch.
“Listen, I gotta run. Do you want to have dinner tonight? There’s this really nice Italian place a block from the hotel.” He sounds so hopeful and sincere, and my heart breaks at the thought of turning him down.
And then the thought of telling Malcolm hits me, making my stomach churn, threatening to send my coffee traveling up my esophagus and onto this table. No matter how many times he denies it or simply avoids the question when I ask if he’s okay with this, his sleeping on the couch last night was answer enough. Malcolm is not okay with me seeing Eric.
But I know Eric. He was all I ever knew for three years, and I can tell he needs someone right now. What exactly I have to offer him, I don’t know. But I’ve had more than enough time to heal from our breakup, so surely a simple dinner, chatting about our jobs and our families, will be harmless enough.
“Dinner sounds great.”