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I'd asked her what she liked about it.

She'd told me the coffee was good, the pastries were better, and nobody bothered her if she wanted to sit there for two hours with a book.

I remember thinking that sounded like the kind of place I could understand.

Now I'm sitting at the table in her photograph, looking at the same window, the same wooden tabletop, the same street outside.

Waiting.

I haven't told her I'm coming.

I haven't called ahead or asked her to meet me. I haven't given her the chance to tell me not to come, and I know that isn't entirely fair. I've spent the entire flight reminding myself that I cannot make her choose me by showing up in her hometown. I can't force a conversation or expect her to reward the effort it took to get here.

All I can do is ask her if she has some free time to spend time with me.

So, when I landed, I sent her one message.

Me:

What’s the name of that little cafe you get coffee?

She answered a little while later.

Anna:

Café Morgenrot, why?

I looked at that message for a long time before replying.

Me:

Might be interested in opening a German coffee shop in Chicago.

She asked where.

I told her I'd show her one day.

Now I watch the street through the window, trying not to check my phone every thirty seconds. I've been in playoff games with less tension than this. At least on the ice, I know what I'm supposed to do when the puck comes toward me.

The bell above the café door rings.

I glance up automatically, expecting another faceless person I name in my head, not Anna, but then I see her.

Anna steps inside, and I swear my heart stops. Her eyes move across the room and land on me.

For one second, neither of us moves.

She looks different from the last time I saw her in person. Not because anything about her has changed, but because she's here, in front of me, and a month of looking at her through a screen hasn’t prepared me for the reality of her. Her hair falls over her shoulders. She wears a pale pink wool coat, her cheeks the same color from the cold, and stares at me as if she’s deciding whether I’m actually here or her mind has taken something she wanted and put it in front of her.

I stand. "Anna."

Her hand slips from the door, and then she runs.

I barely have time to move around the table before she's crossing the room toward me. She comes straight into my arms, throwing herself against me so hard I take a step backward to catch her. My arms close around her, one hand spreading across her back, the other cradling the back of her head as she buries her face against my neck.

For a moment, I can't do anything but hold her.

She's here. She's warm. She's real. Her hands grip the back of my jacket, and I can feel her breathing against me, quick and uneven.