He hesitated for just a moment. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face, and then he stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud, and suddenly the diner felt smaller. Warmer. Like the walls had moved closer, trapping us in this moment together.
I turned away from him, needing distance, needing something to do with my hands before I did something stupid like reach for him. I walked behind the counter, my movements stiff and mechanical, and grabbed the pot of coffee from the warmer. It was still hot—fresh from the last brew I made an hour ago. I pulled two mugs from the shelf, the ceramic cool and solid in my trembling hands.
“Sit,” I said quietly, not looking at him.
I heard him move. The soft scuff of his boots against the linoleum, the creak of vinyl as he slid into one of the booths near the window. I carried the coffeepot and mugs over, setting them down on the table with a softclink,and then I slid into the booth across from him.
The vinyl was cold against the back of my thighs, even through my jeans. I focused on that sensation. The chill, the slight stickiness of the seat, the way the table was just a littletoo high for comfort. Anything to keep from looking at him. Anything to keep from falling apart.
I poured coffee into both mugs, watching the dark liquid swirl and steam. The smell was rich and bitter, grounding me in the present moment. My hands were steadier now. The familiar ritual of pouring coffee gave me something to anchor to.
When both mugs were full, I set the pot down and wrapped my hands around my cup, letting the heat seep into my palms.
And then, finally, I looked up at him. He was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Something raw and vulnerable and terrified all at once. His hands were flat on the table, his fingers spread wide like he was bracing himself.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and expectant.
And then he spoke.
“Hope, I—”
“You don’t need to apologize,” I muttered, interrupting him. “It was my fault, really.”
His jaw clenched, and something dark flashed across his face. Not anger, but something sharper. Harsher. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Don’t do that.”
I blinked, my fingers tightening around the mug. “Don’t do what?”
“Take the blame for what I did.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “I was drunk. I was out of my goddamn mind with grief. I thought you were—” He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “I thought you were someone else.”
The words hung between us, sharp and cutting.
Julie.He didn’t say her name, but I heard it anyway. Felt it settle into the space between us like a third person sitting at the table.
“I know,” I whispered.
His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, there was something broken in them. Something that looked like shame. “You knew,” he repeated, his voice barely audible. “You knew I thought you were her, and you didn’t stop me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. Not against me, but against himself. I looked down at my coffee, watching the steam curl upward in delicate spirals. “I didn’t want to stop you.”
My confession came out softer than I intended, but it was the truth. The raw, painful truth that I had been carrying for two weeks.
“Hope.”
“You were hurting,” I continued, my voice trembling slightly. “You were in so much pain, and I just... I wanted to help. I wanted to make it better, even if it was just for a little while.”
“Jesus Christ.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the motion rough and frustrated. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. You shouldn’t have—” He stopped, his hand dropping to the table with a dull thud. “I took something from you I had no right to take.”
My chest tightened, and I forced myself to meet his eyes. “You didn’t take anything I didn’t give.”
“You were a virgin.”
His words were flat, factual, but they landed like a punch to the gut. I felt heat flood my cheeks, and I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “How did you know?”
“The blood,” he said quietly. “On my fingers. On the grass.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was thick with something that sounded like regret. “I didn’t know. If I had known, I never would have…”
“I know.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, the faint drip of the coffee maker behind the counter, and the distant sound of acar passing on the street outside. But mostly, I heard my own heartbeat, loud and frantic in my ears.