Chapter 5 #7
It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make Daniel’s betrayal less painful or the divorce less complicated or the future less uncertain.
But as I sit in the quiet living room with the ghost of my friends still warm in the air, something in my chest changes with the knowledge that whatever happens next, I will be facing it with the best people that I know standing with me.
Seven
I unlock the back door of Page I could see a bad day looming in the set of his shoulders.
It was a language more efficient than words, and twice as entertaining.
The café fills in its usual morning rhythm.
First the commuters, treating coffee like a medical intervention.
Then the parents, operating in the brief window before the next emotional reset.
Finally, the freelancers and students, staking claim to tables for the price of a single latte.
I know all their orders, the small rituals that make up their mornings and, in turn, make up mine.
I cannot, however, tell you what I had for breakfast. Or if I had breakfast at all. My brain has apparently decided that the coffee preferences of strangers are more worthy of storage space than my own basic nutritional needs.
A man in his sixties, balding with glasses, a beard that suggests he’s given up on certain social conventions but still cares deeply about others, orders his usual (medium black, no sugar) and then notices Milo, who’s making unhappy noises from his position on the play mat.
Without interrupting his conversation with Luca about the weather, the man starts making faces, exaggerated expressions involving his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth, that are clearly aimed at my son.
He is not looking around to see if anyone’s watching.
Just automatically responding to a baby’s distress in the way that warms me from the inside out at the general consideration.
Milo stops fussing, transfixed by this unexpected development, and the man nods once, satisfied, before turning back to the counter to collect his coffee.
This is our small part of the world. This is what it feels like to be in a community.
Not the careful show that is currently my marriage, not the hollow space where trust used to be. Just this, the piece of space where I am who I am, where my children are welcome just as they are, where the morning unfolds in the comfortable rhythm of a place that feels like home.
It won’t last. Nothing does. In forty-five minutes, I’ll check my phone and see a text from Daniel about dinner, and the hollow feeling will return.
In two hours, I’ll remember that Clara wants the bank statements by Friday, and my chest will tighten with anxiety of being reminded of another aspect of his betrayal.
In eight hours, I’ll go home to a house that feels like a set and a husband who doesn’t know he’s already a stranger.
But for now, for these few perfect minutes, I am where I’m supposed to be.
The morning rush is just winding down when the bell above the door chimes and a handsome man walks in.
He’s alone, no phone in hand, just a paperback he keeps face-down on the table between sips.
He crosses directly to the window seat to place down the paperback, the same one he’s chosen twice already this week, with the confidence of someone who knows what he wants and has absolutely no interest in making a show out of getting it.
I watch him from behind the counter, my hands moving automatically through the motions of wiping down the espresso machine.
He’s wearing a grey jumper over a blue button-down, both of which look like they were bought at least five years ago and then deliberately broken in through actual use rather than expensive distressing.
His hair is slightly too long and has a small cowlick at the crown that he’s made no apparent effort to tame.
I try to avoid staring as he turns back towards the counter.
“Flat white and a slice of banana bread, please,” he says when he reaches the counter, his voice measured and quiet.
Not the softness some men use when ordering, like they’re asking for something personal rather than just coffee.
Just the tone of someone who uses manners regularly and doesn’t expect anything else.
“Coming right up, name for the order” I say, and he answers politely “Noah,” before returning to the window seat.
Luca clocks him immediately. I’m not even halfway through pulling his shot when my best friend appears beside me, his eyes fixed on the window seat like he has just spotted a particularly juicy piece of gossip.
“Window guy has been here three times this week,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial as he loads portafilters. “Three times, Els. Always alone. Always reading. Always in that same seat.”
“Lots of people like to read,” I say, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve noticed the same pattern. Or that he seems as interested in staring at me as I have been at him.
“I don’t trust emotionally stable-looking men,” Luca continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “It feels highly suspect”