Page 11 of Befriending the Bear
Or maybe I was fooling myself. Wouldn’t be the first time.
5
CALLOWAY
The text came on Thursday morning while I was staring at my laptop screen, cursor blinking mockingly on the same paragraph I’d been trying to write for three days now.
Fraser
Good morning. No pressure, but I’ll be at Brianna’s at 3 p.m. again today if you’d like that coffee. I’ll bring a book so you don’t have to worry about entertaining me.
I blew out a slow breath. He’d texted me the same thing four days in a row, mentioning he’d be at Brianna’s and inviting me to join him. Not too pushy, but also not giving up. Simply being patient, the same way he waited whenever I was fighting to get words out.
My thumbs hovered over the screen. It would be so easy to say no, to claim another headache or deadline or any of the dozen excuses I kept in reserve. To stay here in my sanctuary, where I was protected and safe and never had to watchsomeone’s face shift from interest to impatience when my voice betrayed me.
But I thought about Friday night, about another book club discussion I had missed. I’d sat in my dark living room, poetry book clutched in my lap, imagining what Fraser might have said about Maya Angelou’s voice and style. Wondering if his eyes lit up when he talked about things he loved the way they had when he mentioned thatwild and precious lifeline. Questioning if I’d made the right choice or if I was the coward I accused myself of being in my more honest moments.
Five days of wondering. Five days of that folded paper with the Walt Whitman poems sitting on my kitchen table like an invitation to something I wasn’t brave enough to want. Five days of coming up with excuse after excuse why meeting with Fraser was such a bad idea, but also questioning which poem to bring to book club. Three days of staring at the texts Fraser had sent me, at those patient invitations that had gone unanswered. Three days of going through an endless cycle of hope, despair, blame, and guilt.
And somehow, I found the courage this time.
I’ll try to make it.
Not a commitment, but not a no. My hands shook as I hit send.
His response came immediately.
That’s all anyone can do. Hope to see you.
I spent the next four hours accomplishing absolutely nothing. Every attempt to write devolved into imagining conversations, like what I might say if my voice cooperated, what Fraser might ask, how I could possibly explain seven years of self-imposed exile without sounding pathetic.
By two-thirty, I’d changed shirts three times and practiced saying “it’s only coffee” in the mirror until the words lost all meaning. This was ridiculous.Iwas ridiculous. A forty-eight-year-old man shouldn’t feel like a teenager before a first date.
Except it wasn’t a date. Fraser had been clear about that. It was coffee between potential friends. I could do that. I’d done it before, hadn’t I? Before Marcus, before grief rewired my brain and made every social interaction feel like navigating a minefield.
At a quarter to three, I made myself leave the house. The walk to Brianna’s had never felt simultaneously longer and shorter, with time playing tricks the way it did when you were heading toward something that might change everything or nothing at all.
The bell chimed as I entered, and there he was. Back corner table, the one with the good light from the window. A book was open in front of him, but I couldn’t see the title. He’d dressed simply in a black T-shirt that brought out his eyes and well-worn jeans. His cane rested against the table, and I was oddly grateful for it. We both carried visible damage. Maybe that made this easier.
He looked up as I approached, and his smile was like a sunrise—slowly spreading and warm and impossible to look away from. “You came.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet, and slid into the chair across from him. Jamie appeared immediately, bless them, with my usual order. They must’ve been watching for me.
“Can I get you anything else?” they asked, their voice carefully neutral, but I caught the tiny smile at the corner of their mouth.
I shook my head, wrapping my hands around the warm mug like an anchor. The familiar ritual helped—the weight ofceramic, the bitter scent of coffee, the gentle bustle of the bakery around us. Normal things. Safe things.
“So,” Fraser said, marking his page and setting the book aside. “How’s the writing going? Eleanor mentioned you were working on a memoir.”
The question was so unexpected, so far from the usual small talk strangers attempted, that I answered honestly. “St-stuck. On a ch-chapter about—” I paused, took a breath.
He didn’t know. Or did he? Had someone told him? I couldn’t assume. Even so, he deserved to hear about Marcus from me.
“About l-loss,” I managed finally, the word hanging between us like smoke.
Fraser’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes deepened. “Those are the hardest chapters. The ones where you have to decide how much truth you’re ready to face.”
It was such a perfect response—acknowledging without prying, understanding without presuming—that I felt my shoulders drop from their defensive hunch.
