Chapter 5: The Letter in the Apron
Ethan didn't come back inside. He'd taken the bench on the sidewalk just to the left of our open door, the one where the delivery drivers usually sat with their coffees. I could see him through the big side window without turning my head. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, his OCP sleeves still creased from travel. He wasn't looking directly at me. He was looking at the brick across the street like he was trying to give me space that didn't actually exist.
The lunch rush started to fill in and I fell back into the motions because I didn't know what else to do. I wiped the same spot on the metal counter even though it was already clean. My apron was tied too tight and the pocket swung against my hip every time I moved.
That's when I felt it.
The envelope was still there. Folded in thirds, the paper soft at the edges from where I'd been carrying it for three days. I'd written it on my break last Tuesday at the back table after my shift, telling myself I would mail it to Fort Cavazos and by the time he got it I'd already be gone. It wasn't even sealed. Just folded over, my name and his on the front in my own handwriting. Ethan — I think we need to separate. Four pages about how the second deployment had stretched and how I couldn't keep waiting in an apartment that felt empty and a town where everyone asked when he was coming home.
My fingers brushed it through the apron fabric and my stomach dropped. I hadn't taken it out of the pocket that morning because I didn't have anywhere else to put it. I hadn't expected to need anywhere else to put it.
Ethan glanced in. Not at me exactly, just a quick check through the glass, like he wanted to make sure I was still there. Our eyes met for half a second and I went cold.
I slipped my hand into my pocket, pulled the envelope halfway out, and in one smooth movement shoved it flat onto the metal counter and covered it with the white towel. The terry cloth bunched over it completely. From the outside it just looked like the towel I'd been clutching all morning. My hand stayed on top of it, fingers spread, pressing down.
I could feel the paper's edge under my palm.
Jenna came around from the back with a tray of clean mugs. She was nineteen and worked afternoons while she took classes at the community college. She hadn't seen anything that had happened at the door.
"Hey, can I grab that towel?" she asked, reaching for the white cloth where my hand was. "I spilled half-and-half by the espresso machine."
I didn't think. I just reacted.
"No," I said, sharper than I meant to. My hand tightened and I pulled the towel - and the envelope with it - back toward me, against my stomach. "Don't. I've got it."
Jenna pulled her hand back. Her eyebrows went up.
"Okay," she said slowly. "Sorry. You good?"
My face got hot. I forced my fingers to relax. I could hear the low hiss of the espresso machine and the clink of a spoon against a mug somewhere behind me, and outside Ethan shifted on the bench, his boots scraping the concrete.
"Yeah," I said, quieter. "Sorry. Just leave that one. There's a stack of grays in the back."
She nodded and went to get another towel, glancing at me like she wasn't sure what she'd done wrong. I watched her go and then I smoothed the white towel back out on the counter, exactly where it had been, the envelope hidden flat underneath. I kept my hand resting lightly on it, like I was just leaving the towel there for a second.
Through the window, Ethan was still sitting there. He'd looked away again, out toward the street where a truck was passing. He hadn't seen anything. He couldn't have seen anything from that angle, not through the reflection on the glass and the distance.
May you like
But the letter was right there. Under the only thing in that cafe that had been in my hands since he showed up. And if anyone lifted that towel - if Jenna came back, if a customer needed it, if Ethan came inside and leaned on the counter - they'd find it first.
I left my hand where it was and started taking the next order, my voice barely steady, while the paper stayed warm under the cloth.
