Chapter 9: After The Lunch Rush
The lunch rush finally broke a little after one. I had spent the last hour trying to be invisible behind the counter, taking orders I didn't remember, wiping the same spot on the metal edge until the white towel was damp in my fist. Ethan had moved to one of the chrome stools by the window. He didn't order anything. He just sat with his hands on his knees, his OCP uniform too heavy for the warm light inside, and let people stare.
Diane came up behind me and touched my elbow. She was fifty-something and had run this cafe for ten years and never asked about my personal life beyond whether I could cover a Saturday.
"You need to go talk to him," she said under her breath, not looking at Ethan. "You're no good to me like this. Take fifteen. I'll cover the floor."
I nodded before I could talk myself out of it. I untied my apron and left it bunched on the back counter, but I kept the towel. I didn't know what to do with my hands without it. I pushed through the side of the counter and walked to the open glass door and stepped out.
The air outside was cool and gray, the kind of overcast that made the brick look darker. Ethan stood up when he saw me coming. He met me by the wall, a few feet from the door, where the brick was rough and cold. We didn't get close. There was a full arm's length between us, maybe more. I could smell the faint detergent on his uniform and the coffee on my own shirt.
For a second we just breathed. I stared at the flag patch on his shoulder because it was easier than his face.
"Why didn't you call first?" I asked. My voice came out quiet and scraped. "You could have called."
He looked at me and his jaw worked once before he answered. He wasn't angry. He sounded tired, like he'd rehearsed this and still didn't know how it would land.
"I did," he said. "For three days. You didn't pick up."
I felt my fingers tighten around the towel. He was right. I'd seen the calls. Fort Cavazos, then unknown, then his number. I'd let them go to voicemail while I was wiping tables or pretending I didn't see the screen light up. I'd told myself it was better to let him get settled, that he'd be busy with in-processing, that we could talk later.
"I thought if I called first you'd tell me not to come," he added.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. It made a small cloud in the air.
"I wasn't going to be here," I said.
He didn't move, but his eyes shifted, waiting.
I looked down at the sidewalk, at the gum spots and the crack that ran toward the door.
"My last shift was supposed to be tomorrow," I said. "I put my notice in last week. I was going to close and leave town. I wasn't going to tell you where I went. Not until I figured it out."
The words sounded awful once they were out, plain and selfish. I didn't dress them up. I watched his hands flex at his sides. He didn't step forward. He didn't reach for me.
"Where would you have gone?" he asked after a beat.
"I don't know," I said. "My mom's outside Lubbock maybe. Or just north. I hadn't picked a place. I just knew I couldn't stay here and keep waiting for you to be gone again."
I expected him to say I was being unfair. He didn't. He nodded once, slow, and leaned his shoulder against the brick wall. The open cafe door behind us was propped with the little rubber stop, and I could hear Diane calling an order and the hiss of the espresso machine. Warm air leaked out and mixed with the cold.
"I get it," he said, his voice low. "I know I stopped picking up too. Over there. I thought if I didn't hear you being okay, I could stay focused."
I swallowed. The towel was twisted now, wrung between both hands.
"I didn't want you to come home to an empty apartment and think I just disappeared," I said. It was the closest I could get to an apology without lying about the rest. The letter was still folded in the apron inside. That truth was bigger and I wasn't ready.
He looked at the door, then back at me.
"I'm still here for fifteen?" he asked.
I realized Diane had given me fifteen minutes and I was wasting them staring at the ground. I nodded.
May you like
"Yeah," I said. "We can stand here."
We stood there apart, the brick at our backs, the door propped open behind us, neither of us touching, both of us breathing in the gray daylight.
