Page 48 of Love Always

Laurel, dressed in faded denims, a loose turtleneck, dark brown, cable-stitched sweater and in mud boots, points at three different carafes of coffee.

“All fresh,” she says. “Are you a flavor guy or are you classic?”

“Boring,” I admit.

“Not boring. Just a purist. You want a mug or cup?”

“I better take a cup. I can’t stay.”

“You want a breakfast burrito to go?”

I’m not hungry, but I nod, pick up a tiny library pencil, and make a few check marks on a list of goodies to be stuffed inside. She picks it up from the table and pins it to a wheel by the cook’s counter.

“Dezi,” she calls. An older man, a little wide around the middle with a dirty apron and a somewhat tired chef’s hat, appears behind the counter and snaps the order off the wheel.

“How did you sleep?”

She nods as if seeking agreement with herself. “Fine. It was good. I fell back asleep around midnight after Devon and I talked a little bit and I woke up at five and went for a run.” She sees my face. “Really. I feel okay.”

“What are you going to do about a car?”

“Chloe drives The Inn’s van all the time now. That’s why I could use her Squareback. If I need a car, I can borrow Devon’s. I’m fine.”

The silence that follows between us is not awkward, but it’s sobering. The minutes that tick by seem to be coming from a place of resignation—as if we were both anticipating what the other is about to say. We end up speaking over each other.

“I just want to say—” she says.

“Listen, about last night—” I start.

“You don’t need to say anything. It’s what we were going to do the first time we met anyway.”

But this time we both wanted it, is what I want to say, but I don’t. Instead, what I do say comes out all wrong. “I’m still adjusting to who I am and kind of what I’m capable of. I don’t want to be with someone until I have this piece of me figured out.” Just say it: I don’t want to be a burden.

“I get it. I know. I can’t imagine. And I’m not in a great place either. I mean Cory is a lot.”

I shake my head. “Not following.”

“He’s … different. He’s not easy.”

“What kid is?”

“No, I mean … I just can’t get involved with somebody until, you know, he’s a little older and I’m a little more sure that he’s going to be okay. That he’s going to function in school and have friends and all that stuff.”

What is she saying? I just need to listen and not assume. It’s taken me a long time to not react to people’s micro expressions and just sit for a beat. Profilers are notorious for thinking they can read everyone and I’ve fought that impulse to assume—especially when my emotions are involved. And yet, for a split second I think I hear what she is really saying: I don’t want to be a burden.

“But I am so grateful you stayed last night, and we had—”

“Breakfast burrito,” calls Dezi, sliding a short brown paper package up on the counter.

“What do I owe you?”

“On the house,” she says.

“No. What do I owe you?”

“Seven fifty-two,” says an older woman walking by, giving Laurel the snake-eye.

Laurel reaches around, grabs the package and hands it to me. “Ignore her.”