Page 178 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

"I usually mean it."

"So do I."

The barista watches our familiar debate with an amused smile.

"I can split the bill if you'd like."

Both of us answer at exactly the same time.

"No."

We look at one another, then laugh. I hand over my card before Annette can recover.

"Longer arms."

She shakes her head as we collect our drinks. "That is still not how coffee works."

"It worked."

"It worked because you cheated."

"I prefer to think of it as excellent positioning."

"I'm beginning to think you've practiced this."

"I have years of experience."

Still smiling, we carry our coffees to the small table beside the front window. Neither of us suggests another seat. At some point this one quietly became ours.

Outside, Briar Cove is beginning to wake from winter. Shopkeepers prop open their doors, people stroll along the sidewalks without heavy coats for the first time in months, and someone across the street is arranging bright spring flowers outside the florist.

Annette wraps both hands around her latte and watches the town with a contented smile. "I think this might be my favorite hour of the day."

"After therapy?"

She shakes her head. "Before everyone gets busy. The whole town feels like it's taking one deep breath before the day begins."

I follow her gaze toward the street. Families wander from shop to shop. A delivery driver waves to the bookstore owner while carrying in another stack of boxes. Across the intersection, two children skip ahead of their mother, each proudly carrying a cookie almost as large as their faces.

"I never really noticed this before," I admit.

"You were usually passing through."

"I guess I was."

"You don't have to pass through anymore." There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way she says it.

Our conversation drifts the way it always seems to after therapy. We compare favorite movies, laugh about terrible motel rooms, and debate whether hotel coffee should legally qualify as coffee.

Annette insists she once stayed in a motel where the carpet extended halfway up the walls.

"I have pictures," she says. "I feel like pictures should be required before anyone believes that story."

"They're somewhere on my old phone."

"I'd like to see them."

"You'd laugh."