Thank god Brooklyn has so many coffee shops.
Henry hasn’t been back into Roast, not since the Great Fire of 2013, as Robbie calls the whole Vanessa incident (with a little too much glee). He gets to the front of the line and orders a latte from a very nice guy named Patrick who is mercifully straight, who looks at him with cloudy eyes but only seems to see a perfect customer, someone friendly, and brief, and—
“Henry?”
His stomach drops. Because he knows that voice, high and sweet, knows the way it bends around his name, and it is that night again, and he is down on one knee like a fool as she says no.
You’re great. You really are. But you’re not …
He turns around, and there she is. “Tabitha.”
Her hair has gotten a little longer, the bangs grown out into a sweep of blond across her forehead, a curl against her cheek, and she stands with the easy grace of a dancer between poses. Henry hasn’t seen her since that night, has managed, until now, to avoid her, to avoid this. And he wants to back away, to put as much distance between them as possible. But his legs refuse to move.
She smiles at him, bright and warm. He remembers being in love with that smile, back when it felt like a victory every time he earned a glimpse. Now she simply hands it to him, brown eyes shrouded in fog.
“I’ve missed you,” she says. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” he says, because it is the truth. Two years of a life together, replaced by a life apart, and there will always be an empty
space in the shape of her. “I had a box of your things,” he says, “but there was a fire.”
“Oh god.” She touches his arm. “Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?”
“No, no.” He shakes his head, thinking of Vanessa standing over the sink. “It was … contained.”
Tabitha sways into him. “Oh, good.”
Up close, she smells like lilacs. It took a week for that scent to fade from his sheets, another for it to vanish from the sofa cushions, the shower towels. She leans into him, and it would be so easy to lean back, to give in to the same dangerous gravity that drew him to Robbie, the familiar pull of something loved, and lost, and then returned.
But it isn’t real.
It isn’t real.
“Tabitha,” he says, guiding her back. “You ended things.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I wasn’t ready to take the next step. But I never wanted it to end. I love you, Henry.”
And despite it all, he falters. Because he believes her. Or at least, he believes that she believes herself, and that is worse, because it still doesn’t make it real.
“Can’t we try again?” she asks. Henry swallows, and shakes his head.
He wants to ask her what she sees, to understand the chasm between who he was and what she wanted. But he doesn’t ask.
Because in the end, it doesn’t matter.
The fog twists across her vision. And he knows that, whoever she sees, it isn’t him.
It never was.
It never will be.
So he lets her go.
