Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
She takes a long breath, her shoulders dropping. “I just wanted to be something different. To matter.”
The words settle between us, soft but radioactive.
I run my thumb along the edge of the mug, then set it down with a dull thunk. “You mattered to me. Still do.”
She blinks, not believing it.
I lean forward, elbows on the Formica. “You know I tried to move on. I could have anyone. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I tried to forget you, and it made me miserable.”
The truth is like acid, eating through all the bullshit.
She smiles, shaky and small. “I tried, too. I couldn’t. I kept waiting for you to show up. Every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was you, even though I knew it wouldn’t be. I watched random male figures sometimes, from the river walk. I would see you through the window, but it was always a figment of my imagination.”
A pause, heavy as a brick.
“I still wanted you to want me. Even after you found out.”
I reach across the table, rest my hand on hers. Her skin is ice cold. “I do,” I say, and the words scrape my throat raw. “I don’t forgive you for everything, but I do want you.”
Andie looks up, and her eyes are wet but fierce. “Then what do we do?”
I let the question hang, let the silence fill up with the sound of the world moving on. The espresso machine spits and clatters. The waitress hums to herself as she wipes down a table. The radio plays another heartbreak song, the lyrics too on-the-nose to be funny.
I squeeze her hand once, then pull it back. “We start over,” I say in a fierce tone. “If you want to.”
She nods. “I do.”
The relief is sharp, almost painful.
We sit there, not saying anything else, just watching the coffee cool and the neon flicker in the dark window. It’s not a happy ending, not yet. Maybe not ever. But it’s enough for now.
The rest, we’ll figure out together.
The lull comes after the confessions. It’s like the hush after a car crash, that floating second where you can’t hear anything but your own pulse. Our coffee has gone cold and the windows of The Copper Rail are filmed with condensation, blurring out the city beyond.
For a while, we don’t talk at all. The only movement is Andie tracing a circle in the sugar grains spilled on the tabletop, slow and steady, as if she’s counting down to something. I watch her do it, and realize I want to see that hand every day for the rest of my life. The thought is so huge and ridiculous I nearly laugh.
She breaks the silence first. “What about Stella?”
I exhale, the breath fogging up my mug. “I don’t know why my daughter did what she did.” My voice is smaller than I expect. “She’s always been unpredictable and rash. With people. With feelings.”
Andie nods, like this makes sense. She’s seen it up close.
I keep going, “My daughter never got great grades. Never tried to. But she can see through any lie, any angle. She knew what you meant to me long before I did. Maybe before you did.”
Andie bites her lip, thoughtful. “Yeah, but she filmed us, Thomas. She showed the sex video to everyone.”
“I know.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to scrub out the sick anger I felt that night. “It was a fucked up thing to do. And it wasn’t about you, or the bet. I think it was about me. About trying to pull me back into her orbit. Make me pay attention again, even if it meant burning the place down.”
Andie is silent, hands flat on the table now. “She could have just told me.”
I shrug, helpless. “That’s not how Stella is. She makes everything a performance. Even her pain.”
The waitress comes by with the coffee pot, but we don’t need more. She tops us off anyway, and winks at Andie as if to say, men, am I right? Then she vanishes again, leaving us adrift.
Outside, the sky is going blue at the edges, a little halo over the buildings on the other side of the street.
I say, “She’s been asking about you.”
Andie’s head snaps up. “What?”
I swirl my mug, watching the black ripple. “Stella. She’s not mad. I mean, she was, but she’s over it. She says you’re hiding from her, and she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want you gone from her life.”
Andie stares at the window, jaw working. “She could have fooled me.”
“She’s not angry, Andie. If anything—” I hesitate, pick the word carefully, “—Stella’s repentant. She wants to see you. She misses you.”
That does it. Andie closes her eyes, lets out a sigh that sounds like defeat, but isn’t. It’s relief. The kind that hits you when you realize the guillotine isn’t dropping after all.