Page 79 of A World Without You
I toss my head back in laughter. I love that he remembers my favorite latte during the holidays. I love that he ordered for me. I love that he was here on time. I love that he’s here at all. Because I know he doesn’t have to be. He has every right to tell me to get lost and never want to see me again. Perhaps he just has the decency to do that over coffee, or perhaps he’s as hopeful as I am that he can forgive me.
Taking the coffee from him, I say, “You will never just accept the fact that they’re the best, and your peppermint mocha will never live up to this velvety, rich goodness.”
“It’s egg milk.”
“It’s delicious.”
He frowns at me. “I’m not here to fight you about coffee.”
“Well, you started it.” I smile because his expression is still so serious, but then I think better of it. I don’t want to lose the importance of this moment, so I say, “I’m not here to fight with you at all.”
He opens his mouth to say something but freezes, pressing his lips together and turning his eyes downcast.
“Let’s sit!” I suggest, my voice a little chipper. It reads,let’s catch up! I haven’t seen you since college!And not,hey, remember when we broke up at Christmas, and I married the man I fell for that week? It’s a funny story if you think about it—a real knee-slapper.
I wince at my own nervous immaturity. I don’t know how to step back into a heartbreak with enough care to not shatter the edges of the cracks that have been mending. While there is no easy way to start this conversation, my tone certainly missed the mark.
I start to walk toward an empty table, but Colin catches my arm. “I’d rather we didn’t.”
My breath and my response catch in my throat as I look up at him. The whole point of our meeting here was to talk. Well, actually, for me to grovel and him to listen—and hopefully—accept all my apologies.
He runs a hand around his neck, grazing his scar, and glances at the doors leading to the outside.
“Oh,” I say, realization striking me in the middle of a Seattle Starbucks. “Is it too much?”
His brow furrows, and his grip tightens on my arm. Not enough to hurt me, but enough to let me know he’s the one in pain. “Let’s walk.”
I nod and head toward the doors without any contest. I know exactly why he wants to walk. He doesn’t want to look at me while I talk. He used to say my eyes held all my emotions too obviously. He could tell when my words were honest and when they were fallacy. He’d sweep a thumb over my cheek bone and say, “Tell me the real version, Olivia.” And I’d smile, breathing out my white lies and tell him every honest thought. Colin knew me—every corner of my mind and every object I desired. He heard me and saw me all the way until the end. I told him what I needed and what I wanted, and he told me to just wait a few more days and he’d see me after Christmas.
I told him don’t bother.
Would the outcome have been different if I had said it to his face and not over the phone? Maybe then we wouldn’t be in this world.
The city hums as we start walking down the street. The air is so cold it feels like tiny icicles are cutting the skin on my cheeks, and our breath billows past our lips in white clouds. I sip my eggnog latte and hold it close to my chest. There’s an ache resting between us with each step we take. Both of us are hesitating to speak, locking our feelings behind a dam we built for five years, and the first true word is going to cause the dam to collapse.
“Colin—” I say just as he says, “Olivia.”
We flash small smiles at each other and mutter apologies. “Go ahead,” I say.
“You still taking pictures?” he asks.
“When I can. Mostly just for fun,” I answer.
“You should really do something with photography,” he says, his eyes remaining in front of him. I know he’s making small talk but there’s a clipped condescension in his tone that’s driving me mad.
“Are you saying I’m overqualified for being a temp at Wellingtons?” I joke, but I can tell by his expression he finds none of it funny. We round the corner and reach a large common area outside a corporate building. Families and swanky Seattle natives sit around sipping their coffee and chat while a Santa Claus rings the bell with a donation bucket for the Salvation Army.
He stops abruptly.
“I’m saying I don’t understand why you’re here.”
I swallow hard, the sticky bile of regret oozing up my throat.
I take in a breath, steadying the nerves pulsing under the surface of my skin.
“This would be easier if we could just sit,” I say, taking his hand and guiding him to an open bench.
He scoffs out a laugh, but he follows me to a bench and sits next to me. “None of this will be easy.”
