The Break(14)

I leave them alone in the foyer, hurrying with Lila toward my bedroom. In the dark I turn on my phone to see a text from June.

Saw your text and Sean told me you stopped by. Can we meet? Tomorrow? I’d like to talk to you. Can it be just us?





SIX


Rowan. Tuesday morning. November 8th.


The next morning I’m standing in line buzzing with nerves in a chic coffee shop called Switch. Last night while Gabe was busy entertaining Harrison, I snooped in his phone and saw his meeting scheduled at Paramount, and then quickly texted June back to tell her I could meet at 10:15. It was almost too easy, like I’d dreamt it, and now I’m exhilarated standing here: a free woman in a coffee shop holding a beautiful baby, surrounded by purposely distressed brick walls and gorgeous baristas who look like aspiring actors and probably are. I feel full of energy and powerful, too, like the person I was before I got pregnant, the one who wrote up storms in these kinds of places.

“Can I help you?” asks a twenty-something with a purple streak in his red hair.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, scanning a menu on the wall lettered in neat handwriting with chalk. “I’d like a decaf almond milk latte, please.”

Because my daughter is sensitive to dairy.

I look down at Lila and a strange feeling comes over me. I want to ask the boy: You see her, don’t you? I didn’t make her up? It’s the most unsettling sensation, as though Lila is too good to be true, like she’s only a figment of my imagination. I take a deep breath and touch the tip of her nose, grounding myself with the feel of her skin. I look around for June, but she isn’t here yet. I want to buy her a coffee but I have no idea what she drinks, so I settle on a blueberry muffin and hope she likes it. I’ve only ever seen her with the water bottle she always carries, a stainless steel one with a fancy design that closely matches her phone’s case. June is the kind of person who always looks stylish, down to little things like her fingernails and toenails being painted, or the stacked rings that looked effortless but never are. Those things take thought, and June gives them that. And not to be weird, but her legs are also always tanned and shaved, even in late fall, and they never look streaky like mine did when I tried self-tanner in college. It’s sort of remarkable.

Maybe I’m just getting old.

I switch my weight from one leg to the other, hardly believing how much better the baby carrier feels now that Sean fixed it and it’s not cutting into my hip anymore. I scan again for June while the barista makes my coffee, listening to snatches of conversation and the grinding of beans. Hipsters dot the tables. I like this neighborhood; Gabe and I rented here once for a year in our midtwenties. It’s filled with artists.

I take my coffee with a smile and a thank-you. I head toward an empty table by the window, carefully lowering myself onto a creaky wooden chair. I get lost sitting there, watching New Yorkers pass in a blur and seeing the city I love, snuggling Lila. She was up for an hour before we started our walk here, so I’m pretty sure she’s going to sleep deeply. I rub her back, feeling the curve of her spine beneath my hand, the points of her shoulder blades. It’s hard to believe someone so perfect is mine.

I scan the scene beyond the coffee shop’s glass windows. I once read that green is the easiest color on the eyes, but along these city streets there aren’t evergreens dotting the landscape with color. Here, when autumn plummets toward winter, it’s all white and black and gray, concrete and puffer jackets and black pants. I let my eyes relax, zoning out until a familiar face jolts me into focus.

Sean.

We’re only a block from his and June’s apartment. I look away from the window so we don’t catch each other’s eyes through the glass, but then I see him slowing down.

No, no. Please don’t come inside.

But there he is, pushing open the coffee shop’s door and sounding the old-fashioned ding. I have no idea if he’s here because he saw me in the window, or if he was already planning to stop here because this is where he gets his coffee before he goes off to do whatever it is he does. For a brief second I imagine what his day job might be (ticket counter in the theater district? PR assistant? Receptionist at a veterinary clinic? Chimney sweep?).

I stare down at the knots in the wooden coffee table, not wanting him to see me because I don’t want him to be here when June arrives. What if he tries to join us? I can sense his lumbering body weaving slowly between the tables, and I know I’ve been spotted. I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “Hey, Sean,” I say, smiling.

He doesn’t smile back. He stops in front of my table, looking smug, like he knew I’d be there. What if Harrison’s right to be worried, and something bad happened to June, and Sean was the one who texted me from June’s phone, tricking me into meeting here? That’s how I would write this scene. “How are you?” I ask, trying to sound pleasant even though my heart is pounding.

He only stares. I will myself not to break the silence.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asks, sounding vaguely suspicious.

Where is June? I look around once more to make sure I haven’t missed her, but the coffee shop isn’t really that big. I can’t lie to Sean, because June could be here any minute, and then I’m caught anyway. “I’m meeting June,” I say matter-of-factly.



“Really?” Sean asks, dubious. “She decided she wants to see you?”