Page 30 of The Vagabond

Maxine crossed the street, and I followed. Distant. Cautious. Like a ghost.

Because what the hell do you say to the woman you once tried to save... and ended up destroying instead?

She slipped into the coffee shop a few blocks away—where she now worked. I knew her hours. I knew her choice of brew. I knew the smile she faked when people tipped her and the way she wiped her palms down her apron when she was anxious. She didn’t know I was there, that I had never really left her.

And as I stood outside that shitty glass door, I wondered if I had the balls to walk in. To say something. To have a conversation without the eyes of her family on us.

She was wearing an apron that didn’t fit right. Her hair tied back in a low, lazy knot. Sleeves pushed up to her elbows, exposing the kind of skin I still dreamt about when the nights grew long and my conscience got loud.

She was wiping down a counter, brow furrowed, completely unaware of the war she just started in my chest.

I paused across the street. Just for a second. Then I crossed the road and walked in.

The bell above the door chimed. That soft, innocent sound that has no idea it’s marking the beginning of a collision.

The second I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. Not just for me, but for everyone. The barista at the register stiffened. A woman with a stroller faltered mid-order. The twocollege kids in the corner stopped talking. Because I didn’t belong there. Not in my tailored coat. Not with the holster under my arm. Not with the kind of energy that made men sit straighter and women edge toward the exits.

But I didn’t care. Because everything else ceased to exist the minute she looked up and her eyes connected with mine.

Her entire body went still behind the counter, sponge hovering in midair like she forgot what to do with it.

The air thickened. Tightened. My pulse didn’t spike—it anchored. Sank into my bones.

She turned to the espresso machine like I was nothing more than an unwelcome gust of wind. But I saw the tremble in her hand.

I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, just to piss her off.

“Americano,” I said evenly. “No sugar.”

Maxine didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak or engage me in conversation like she did the other patrons.

She turned, made the drink, and set it down on the counter with a thunk louder than necessary. I let it sit there. Then I reached for it, careful to touch the exact spot her hand just touched. My fingers brushed over the warmth, absorbing it like I was allowed to keep a piece of her.

She still didn’t speak.

I took a sip. It was scalding. Perfect.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said casually.I just wanted to hear her voice.

Her eyes rose to mine, flat and lifeless and done. “Well, now you do,” she said, voice clipped.

“I should come more often,” I offered, voice testing.

“Or not,” she said. “Plenty of other coffee shops around.”

She turned to help another customer without waiting for a response, like I was just static on a radio she didn’t have to acknowledge. But I didn’t move. I watched her instead.

She talked to a woman with a toddler—gentle voice, small smile. Asked if they wanted whipped cream on the hot chocolate. She tapped the screen with fingers that once curled around my soul. Her laugh was soft, automatic. But I saw it. The way she glanced at the door every few minutes like she was checking for an exit. The way her shoulder tensed every time someone got too close. The way she leaned away from men when she handed them their drinks.

But not from me. She doesn’t flinch. Because Maxine doesn’t fear me.She resents me.

I’m glad. That’s safer.

She finished her interaction and turned back to me, jaw set.

“Are you done watching me, or are you waiting for applause?”

I lifted the coffee. “Just finishing my drink.”

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