IT TAKES ONE MUFFIN, too much coffee too quickly, and ten minutes for me to realize this was a mistake.
Rex’s feels wrong. Nothing is different—we’re at our regular table, the papers in the newsstands are folded and old books on the bookshelves are leaning the way I remember, and they have the same radio station on they were playing in summer. Still, something, somehow isn’t right.
I remember how in the weeks leading up to Patrick moving, Rex’s had started to feel like a sign of our stagnant relationship, an espresso-scented existential cage. This isn’t that. Ever since Thanksgiving, Rex’s has gained a rosy glow from my memories here with Patrick. It was where I didn’t break up with him, twice. It was where we said we would throw ourselves into the lives in front of us while staying together. I’d been excited to return here with him.
Now it’s like the reality doesn’t match up to my daydreaming. Or like this place no longer fits us.
Patrick sits across from me, idly stirring his drink, staring out into the room. He has a nervous, expectant look in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure he’s searching the room for some ineffable flaw, some hidden explanation for why we’re having such an empty time. With every passing second, I’m hunting for scraps of something to say, a conversation to start, anything. I find nothing—nothing except one persistent fear. I’ve never not had something to say to Patrick. I’ve never spent this long with him in person since he moved, either.
What if it’s no coincidence? What if this stilted silence isn’t just the random misalignment of this particular plan? We worked when we were having brunch with Joe or distracted by my improv match and Reed’s get-together, but not now. What if being together for seventy-two hours has changed us back into people who no longer connect?
No. I refuse to believe it. Just because we’ve outgrown Rex’s doesn’t mean we’ve outgrown each other. If we’ve changed so much we no longer fit here, we’ve still changed for the better.
Patrick faces me again with a smile like room-temperature milk. The widening conversation-less quiet is physically uncomfortable, prickling in the joints of my fingers and my knees wedged under the table. Desperately, I say literally the only thing I can think of.
“I almost broke up with you right here.”
Patrick blinks, understandably caught off guard by my sudden confession.
Instantly, I feel worse. I want to shrivel up in my seat. Why couldn’t I have just commented on the weather?
“At Thanksgiving?” Patrick asks. His lips twitch with real amusement, not the feigned version I just saw. He . . . doesn’t seem surprised.
Incredulity steals over me. “Wait. Did you know?”
Patrick pops a piece of scone into his mouth. I realize he’s drawing out the moment, enjoying this for some reason. “I was really glad you didn’t,” he says once he’s swallowed.
I wait to feel guilty for how poorly I hid my intentions. Instead, seeing the knowing, even satisfied expression on Patrick’s face, I’m unable to keep myself from laughing. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Why didn’t you go through with it?” he counters.
I slouch forward, elbows on the table, reliving the memory. The details hold the same magic they did then. Silent streetlights, wet clothes on skin. “I pretty much knew I wouldn’t when you kissed me after we went in the pool,” I admit. In Patrick’s expression, some of the knowing softens out, like he’s recalling what I am. “But the first time I planned on breaking up with you was the day you told me you were moving,” I go on.
Patrick’s eyes flit wide. This, I know instantly, is new information. He pauses—then, decisively, even fiercely, reaches for my hand resting on the table.
I grasp his fingers, just a little nervous. I didn’t say it to upset him. To me, those almost-breakups feel inconceivably distant in the past, far from whom we’ve become. It’s just a conversation, no longer a possibility.
“I had no idea.” Patrick stares at the foam collapsing on his cappuccino. His eyes snap up like he’s realized something. “Siena,” he says, his voice sharpening slightly. “I literally asked you if you wanted to break up. I practically handed it right to you.”
I smile, remembering he’s right. “You did,” I say. “But you said you were leaving, and it gave me second thoughts. I just . . . kind of figured we’d fizzle out over long distance.”
His hand in mine, Patrick raises an eyebrow. “And?”
I know my answer immediately. It makes my heart swell and my smile widen. Imagining me right here, having the doubts I had, is nearly funny to me now. It feels like a different world. A different life.
“We didn’t fizzle out,” I reply.
Patrick’s eyes warm with fondness. “No,” he agrees. Something wry flickers over the corners of his mouth. “So you’re saying I have long distance to thank for still having you?”
“Yes and no,” I reply, matching his playfulness. “You have yourself to thank.”
This time, when quiet settles over us, it’s comfortable. We’re left with shared smiles. Then Patrick’s gaze shifts from me into the crowded café. He frowns. “Maybe that’s why it feels wrong here,” he muses. “I didn’t know how often I almost got dumped here.” When his expression goes grave, I’m not completely certain whether he’s joking. “We should go before you start having doubts again.”
I laugh, not letting go of his hand. “We should,” I say. “Not because I might have doubts. But because this . . . isn’t us,” I say. Putting words to the idea feels like lifting it from my shoulders, placing it between us where we can contend with it together. “Not anymore. I think . . .” I trail off, ideas forming in my head. “I think maybe instead of bringing each other into our respective worlds, or trying to return to our old one, we need to go and create a new one. Just us.”
Patrick’s eyes focus on mine. Excited inquisitiveness lights his expression. “What did you have in mind?”
In reply, I step out from the table. Patrick follows me wordlessly. While this place, these very seats, have been checkered and crisscrossed with miscommunications, right now, there’s no need for either of us to speak. I know exactly what we’re going to do, and I know he’s with me.