Chapter 27
The Threshold
Robyn
The bell over the door at Loam & Latte jingles as I shoulder my way outside. My coffee is hot through the cardboard sleeve—hazelnut with oat milk, exactly right—and the lid clicks faintly when I adjust my grip.
Late spring in Bend feels like a collective hold of breath, everyone waiting for it to stick. The sun is bright enough to make the storefront windows on Main Street shimmer, and even downtown carries the scent of pine and damp earth left behind by soft rain.
“Robyn?”
I stop in my tracks, knowing I’ll find Zac to my side when I turn. He stands a few feet away, hands in the pockets of a light-denim jacket, dark blond waves unruly. He looks … less tense than I’ve ever seen him.
“Hey. I thought you came to Loam so much to stalk me.”
His cheeks pinken. “Robyn, you know I was a little,” he admits, falling into step beside me as I head toward the corner. “You never seemed to appreciate me getting you coffee.”
I lower my gaze for just a second. “I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s just—”
He raises his arms, palms stretched out. “It’s okay. Too many memories. I get that.”
We walk shoulder to shoulder, not touching. The sidewalk slopes gently downhill, past storefronts with their doors propped open, wind chimes clinking softly somewhere overhead.
“Did you watch the next season?” he asks.
“Of that show?”
“Yeah.”
I tilt my cup to my lips, blowing once. “I did. Did you?”
He nods. “Of course!” He groans. “Right? Talk about a twist.”
I slap his bicep and nod excitedly. The rhythm between us is smoother than the few times we introduced benefits into the friendship, and infinitely better than the last few times we met up—both of us haunted by exes of springs past and present.
We reach my car at the corner of the block, and I fish my keys from my bag.
Zac clears his throat. “Hey,” he says, with a hitch to it, “I know I kind of left you hanging. Said I wanted more and then just … disappeared on you.”
The street hums around us—tires on wet asphalt, a cyclist gliding past, laughter drifting from a patio down the block.
I glance at him, then back at my keys. “Don’t even mention it. I think we were both forcing it.”
He drags his chin down until it hits his chest. “Maybe.” Then his lips twitch a little at the corner. “I needed to at least grow a little. You know?”
I unlock the car, the familiar chirp cutting through the moment. “Glad I could be of service.”
He winces. “Come on. You know I don’t mean it like that.”
“I know, I know,” I say, opening the driver’s door. “It’s good, Zac.”
He hesitates, one hand on the top of the door, tapping the frame and keeping me from getting in.
“Things okay with your ex?” I ask.
His expression dims—not dramatic, and he shakes his head once.
“Not even close.” The sun catches the edge of his face, highlighting the tension on his corded neck, then he swallows.
“Do you think people can regret doing something that absolutely tears you apart? Like so profoundly it changes who you are?”
I search for the right words before answering, twisting the coffee in my hand, the heat fading through the paper slip. “Probably, but I don’t think regret is all that important.”
His brow knits in a deep crease. “No?”
He has that need for answers written on his features, in the deep line forming at the corner of his mouth and the way his shoulders bunch up.
That’s the part I can’t quite shake yet—the way the ground I thought was so solid shifted under my feet. How something that had always felt safe suddenly didn’t. I was able to focus on my job, my next career move was up in the air, but my relationship was deeply rooted in a healthy soil.
I shrug. “I think whether they can show you they’ve learned from it is more important.”
Except it wasn’t healthy soil, was it? Nate didn’t return that kiss out of the blue. I missed the symptoms. Well, I didn’t miss them, but I didn’t come up with the right treatment plan.
“And Zac, you’re not responsible for someone else’s mistakes, but …”
“But what?”
I press my lips together. “It may feel like it, but relationships don’t crumble overnight.”
The creases on his face smooth—not peace exactly but pondering. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s a good point.”
I just don’t know what it’d take for the ground beneath me to feel stable, settled. And I don’t think I know how to trust that groundwork anymore. But Zac seems like he knows, and I’m glad for him, even if a bit dejected for myself.
I close the door and roll the window down an inch. “Take care of yourself, Zac.”
“You too, Robyn.”
For the longest time, while we were together and even afterward, I didn’t see it. Even now, it’s a trickle of little memories. Like one of the many nights I got to Nate’s apartment much later than I’d planned. My mind was still half at the hospital, turning over details, possibilities, next steps.
His apartment was dim, the kitchen light left on like a beacon for me to find him. And Nate was there, leaning against the counter, a beer in his hand.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” I set my bag down, nudging my shoes off with my toe.
I tracked the clean counters and tidied up living room.
The way he did every night before going to bed because he liked waking up to an organized home.
I suppose he still does. And under a dome on the kitchen island, I just knew, there was also a warm plate of food waiting for me.
No quiet reprimand that he’d expected me earlier, just a sign that no matter when I came home, he’d be there.
“It’s been a day,” I said, not looking at him while opening the fridge for a beer. “There’s this case—”
I glanced over my shoulder then, out of habit more than intention.
He’d shifted, just slightly, turning back toward the counter, one hand flattening the edge of the paper in front of him, smoothing it even though it wasn’t wrinkled. His beer was on the counter, and his shoulders were sharper than when I’d first walked in.
I turned back to the fridge and kept talking. Without a thanks or recognition that not only had he eaten alone again, but he’d made sure I didn’t have to. Filling the space the way I always did, assuming it still worked the same way it always had.
At some point, his silences got loud enough I couldn’t ignore them, and all I did was worry about what would happen eight to six months later if I didn’t work harder.
I let his silence grow, but not because I didn’t care.
Because I thought we were solid enough to hold on our own. We were … until we weren’t.
Nate kissing Tessa is on him. But not realizing how much I’d stopped seeing him—that part’s on me.
I pull away from the curb, Loam & Latte already just another storefront in the rearview mirror.
My lamp is on the dimmest setting, enough to read but not enough to feel exposed. I’m lying in my armchair, feet braced against the backrest, head curled on the armrest. The book lies open on my chest, chapter seven dog-eared. My phone buzzes against the hardwood floor.
Nate: Are you done yet? It gave me a lot to think about. In a good way.
I smile into the chair, sure he can’t see me.
Me: Tell me more.
A pause then three dots appear, disappear, and reappear. It’s been a month since the first time I let Nate see I joined him and the second week we’ve chatted back and forth. It’s scary how much I’m enjoying this dysfunctional book club with my ex.
Nate: The brain does more than recognize beauty, it predicts it. Our brains like to anticipate what comes next, and there’s a rush of serotonin when it gets it right.
I shift, the chair creaking as I hook one ankle over the backrest, the book sliding lower on my chest. His words are familiar and comfortable. A little dangerous.
Me: That’s why buildings get your brain going even if you don’t know the theory behind them.
I slide again so my legs dangle over the side, the book slipping to my stomach.
Me: Your brain fills in the gaps based on symmetry and pattern recognition.
I picture him nodding—eyes bright, already halfway into an explanation. If I were to flick gaze up, across the compound, I’d be looking into his living room. I resist the urge test how thin this distance really is.
Nate: Unfinished spaces make people uneasy. Exposed beams, weird sightlines. The brain keeps trying to resolve it and can’t.
I want to pull my eyes off the ceiling, but I keep them locked on an uneven speckle of paint.
Another buzz.
Nate: You have to let your audience be right, but not all the time, or they’ll get bored of it. Like with a good movie.
I smile. Nate has always had a knack for drawing inferences and coming up with unique similes. It makes him a great architect because he can turn it all into blueprints.
Me: The serotonin levels decrease if the brain isn’t actively engaged.
Nothing for a whole minute. I chuckle.
Me: Your brain checks out.
Nate: Ah. Duh.
Smiling, I picture his place and wonder what surprises he allows himself there. What he withholds.
Me: It’s the peekaboo principle. You get your serotonin rush when you figure out where something went.
Several attempts later, another text comes through.
Nate: It works with people too, I think. It’s peak shift. Turning the volume up so the brain pays attention.
My fingers curl around the book’s spine.
I think of his old Chicago apartment. The Myes Van der Rohe decal that only revealed itself in the right lighting—because he’s such a fucking nerd.
My brain didn’t pick up on the shifts it should have.
I tug my knees closer, the leather of the chair cool against my shoulder.
Me: We want clarity, loudness, not always accuracy. The brain’s evolved to trust environments that don’t surprise it in bad ways.
I let out a shaky breath. Three dots linger.
Nate: That’s probably why brutalist buildings feel hostile to some people. Too much contrast. Too much isolation. The brain can’t group anything, and it’s exhausting.