I see him through the window – he’s looking out, down Sheridan, his hand curled loosely around his mug. And the old pain resurfaces, and I wonder when I’ll be able to see him without hurting inside, and I think again that this is probably a bad idea.
But I love him.
And with a quick dart of his eyes, I see that he’s seen me, and it’s too late for me to run away. I muster a small smile and enter the coffeehouse. He rises to meet me, saying simply “Jessa.”
Our past is in his voice, the gentle, deep almost-growl. It’s in his eyes, that reflect that same old pain. It’s in the way he does not hug me.
This is a terrible idea.