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Present Day
I sit in the coffee shop and wait, anxiously, while others laugh and converse around me. Becs called me four days ago after a week of waiting to hear from her. She sounded tentative on the phone, as if meeting with me was the worst idea. I wish I could understand all her hesitation. I understand her anger toward me breaking us up, but I can’t help but fall back on the fact it’s been nearly three decades. Why would a coffee date be so difficult for her?
It’s a busy Tuesday morning. I feel like all of New York is at this shop, but somehow, I lucked out with a table at the front where I could see out onto the street. I see Becs come through the door, and I immediately relax. Much like that first time I walked into the diner, I wasn’t sure she’d show up.
She looks around and the moment her eyes connect with mine, she smiles. It’s not as vibrant a smile as I used to get from her, this one not even reaching her eyes, but at least it’s not a scowl. She points toward the line where people are placing their orders, and I give a slight nod. She puts her order in and makes her way over.
The moment she sits down, she blows out a breath and greets me, “Hey Shane, sorry I’m late.” It seems there was more she was going to say, but she’s distracted by a little box on the table with a note.
She opens the note and chuckles. At least some things remain the same—she still loves corny jokes and notes. This one reads:
What a barista’s favorite exercise at the gym?
–The French Press.
She looks up at me as if asking for approval to open the little box in front of her.
“Well, you know I didn’t bring myself a gift. Open it up.”
I wink and push the box toward her a bit. She grabs it, probably confused by the packaging. Once she opens it, I see her eyes light up. She takes a deep breath, as if she’s suppressing herself from getting emotional.
“How in the world did you get Mrs. Ace’s cakes out to New York? I haven’t had this in years. It’s still my favorite bakery in Saddle Ridge.”
My lips pull to the side. I can’t help but chuckle that she has no idea how far I’d go to see her smile just like she did right now.
“I called and had them send it over to me the moment you agreed to meet with me.” I don’t need to elaborate on the fact that I had it overnighted and it cost a small fortune.
I think my plan worked because I see her relax in her seat. She puts the little lemon bundt cake to the side, likely to devour it later. She always was a feen for those cakes when we were kids. I hope it holds up to how she remembers it.
She’s wearing scrubs as if she just got off her shift from the hospital.
She sees me taking her in and begins to explain, “I got called in for a delivery early this morning and just decided to sleep at the hospital instead of going home. My kids were at their father’s last night, so I didn’t have to be home to see them off to school.”
Becs is a mom. It’s hard to imagine, yet I can also see her thriving in the role. I wonder what she looked like pregnant.
I remember when we were younger and madly in love, thinking we had our whole lives ahead of us,together, we’d talk about becoming parents. She would rub her belly and talk about how one day, way in the future, once she was a doctor, she would have all my babies, and I would smile at her because nothing about that scared me.
I knew Becs was it for me. I knew we were meant to be together. But I changed all that after graduation. And I have to live with wondering what could have been had I not destroyed us all those years ago.
“I can’t believe you’re a mom, Becs. You must be amazing with them.” Before I can stop myself, I continue regurgitating the first thing my brain thinks up, “It feels like yesterday we were planning our own future together and having kids. I know that I ruined that for us. But I wish I could have been the father in your scenario instead of someone else.”
She’s looking out the window as I’m speaking, but whatever I say causes her to whip her head back at me and a look of confusion crosses her face. She opens her mouth to speak, and we are interrupted by a gentleman who seems to know her.
I’m immediately seeing red because of the way he’s looking at her, I can tell he’s more than just a friend. I have no right to feel possessive of her, but it’s hard not to when I feel like the universe has given me,us, this second chance.
Becca looks at me for another beat before looking up at the man by our side. He looks like an older version of the actor that played Prince Eric in the latest adaptation ofThe Little Mermaid. The only exception is that his eyes are hazel, compared to the actor’s blue.
“Oh hey, Hudson. How are you?”
She gets up and hugs him, and he pecks her cheek. I’m calming myself down by taking deep breaths through my nose. My therapist said counting to four for both my inhales and exhales is best to keep me from getting too agitated. It’s not working right now, but I hope I’m playing it off enough to get through this conversation.
Hudson looks over at me immediately, and Becca takes a moment to introduce us.
“Hudson, this is Shane Philips. Shane, this is Hudson Coulder, my ex-husband.”
I extend my hand and Hudson looks at me like I killed his puppy. His nostrils flare and he looks at Becca, “So this is him?”
That makes me pause. What’s that supposed to mean? She talked about me to her ex-husband? That seems strange. Becca puts her hand on his chest, and I have to look away for a moment.
