Coffee Shop Confrontation

  He sat, his laptop on the table in front of him, the window to his left looking out onto the busy street outside his local coffee shop. It was a lovely Saturday morning in San Diego. Despite Christmas being only a week away, the weather was a cool 67 degrees outside.

  He looked back from the passing traffic to the word document pulled up in front of him. He came here every Saturday to write. He had found it was a good place for him to focus his thoughts outside of the home, especially after a particularly brutal week. As he sipped his caramel frappe with extra whipped cream and caramel, courtesy of the friendly staff who had come to know his order by heart, he was reminded that this was also a way he had developed to treat himself.

  As he placed his frappe back down on the table and started to type again, his peripherals caught the last thing he wanted to see today: her. He’d know her hair anywhere. As his eyes glanced up unintentionally, his worst fears were confirmed: her black, curly hair, her thin frame, her light brown skin…there was no doubt it was her.

  Shit, he thought to himself, what do I do?

  Their last meeting had been amicable, but time had not done much to heal his heart. Even after the intensive outpatient program and starting his anti-depressant, he still found himself struggling to survive some days nine months after the fact.

  His glance lasted no more than a second before he focused his attention back to the screen in front of him. He continued to stare at his monitor, unseeing, as she walked in and to the counter. Had she seen him when she walked in? He didn’t dare risk even his peripherals catching her attention. He listened as the voice that served as his place of refuge for almost six years ordered her drink. Listened as the barista behind the counter made idle conversation. He tried his hardest to fight the growing maelstrom of guilt, agony, and stress that was building in his chest. He also fought against the simultaneous anger and resentment that accompanied it. He could feel the heat building around his ears and at the back of his neck. Felt his heart race rapidly in his chest. Felt the tightening in his throat. He listened as her order was called out and she thanked the barista, turning to leave. Then, he heard it…

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice cautious.

  The raging battle between sorrow and rage swirled out before he had a chance to contain it. “What makes you think you have the right to talk to me at this point?” he asked her, his tone deeper and more aggressive than he’d wished. He dared not look at her, but he could still see her face–after almost six years, you don’t forget such things easily.

  “Wow,” she said, her own temper beginning to flare, “okay then.” She turned and began to walk toward the door.

  He knew the sass in her voice. Knew the rise she was trying to get out of him just with the way she said it. Just leave it, he thought to himself. Then he heard her mutter, “Rude asshole,” and the dam broke.

  She just can’t help herself, can she? he thought. He knew she had intentionally said it just loud enough for him to hear. It’s how she always did it. Always saying the one thing that she knew would make him feel enough to jump back into the fight.

  He stood up. “I’m sorry, excuse me? Rude?!” The maelstrom was in full swing now, the swirling mass of rage and despair twisted inextricably together. “Rude? No, I’m not being rude. I’m being perfectly reasonable.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  He could feel the eyes of everyone in the coffee shop on him. He hated this. He didn’t like making scenes in public, and he hated looking like the bad guy. But the die was already cast.

  “Perfectly reasonable," he continued, "to the woman who left me to drown when I was at my lowest point–struggling and broken. Perfectly reasonable to the woman who had moved on with the vine she had been holding onto within three months of leaving the man she had been with for almost six years; the man she had promised to spend the rest of her life with. To the woman who swore she wanted a family–until her theater dreams mattered more. Until it was ‘impossible’ to do both. Perfectly reasonable to the woman who made me realize and understand in a way I never had before just how rational suicide can seem to those who are suffering. The woman who has the audacity to sit there and wonder how her mother can attract so many good men and then leave them broken as she walks away with a profit.”

  His eyes were alive with the pain and fire he felt, he could see it in her reaction. He scoffed. “Well, congratulations. I’m glad I was able to help you answer that question.”

  That did it. He saw the hurt in her eyes at his comparison to the monster in her life. He felt a momentary twinge of regret as he saw the hurt he inflicted; as he broke the promise he had made to her. Despite his rage, he still hated seeing her in any pain, but his own pain and rage could not be abated.

  Her jaw had tightened as he spoke. For a second, her expression softened, like she wanted to say something–apologize, argue, explain–but the mask of anger snapped back into place. She moved to slap him, but his hand shot up, catching her wrist. Her skin was warm…familiar…for a moment, his mind was taken back to all the times he had held her hand: in bed, at dinner, at the store, in the car during drives. Even though he held her wrist firm, he could still feel how soft her skin was–the softest he had ever felt. He remembered the night he first realized that. The surge of memories flooded him in an instant and he felt the trembling, but it wasn’t hers, it was his own.

  “See that’s the thing, Jos,” he said, some of his pain sneaking through the cracks of his anger, “you’re not a mystery to me. I know you. I spent six years with you. I devoted my life to you. I know who you are…and I chose to love you.” He felt a weak, half-smile form on his lips and he scoffed incredulously. “But you know what? You may get lucky and find someone else who is as dedicated to you and your growth and happiness as I was, but you’ll never find anyone who’s more dedicated than I was.

  “So good luck spending the rest of your life searching for something equal to the thing you once had and gave up.”

  He could feel the tears threatening to start behind his eyes, stinging them as though he hadn’t blinked in a full minute. He turned, leaving her standing at the door. Whatever face she wore, he didn’t know. He refused to look. Refused to acknowledge. He had given her everything. He had never left her side. He hadn’t been perfect, but no relationship ever is. And when he had finally seen his errors, when he had finally started changing for the better, she left him. He spent months swimming in guilt. He still did, truth be told. He had given her nine months to come to her senses. To realize that she had made a mistake. But she never did.

  Now, he realized she never would. The woman he kept torturing himself with was just an echo of the woman she was. The only one torturing him at this point was himself. He was giving her this power in his heart…and he couldn’t do it anymore. He wouldn’t.

  He sat back down at the table and stared intently at the screen in front of him. The guilt he felt about his role in their relationship would never truly go away. In time, he’d learn to live with the scars, but he was done reopening them.