For two days the hurricane off the coast had blown wind and rain through the town and the surrounding hills, but now the storm was gone and in its wake came one of those unblemished blue days that redeemed the bad weather. The maples across the street from the coffeehouse were just beginning to change color, from summer green to pale green or faint yellow, and beside the patio the ramshackle brick backsides of several commercial buildings, painted blue and white, glittered in the sunshine like those houses you see in pictures by Mediterranean painters.
Rick had ordered his coffee in a cardboard cup so that he could sit on this patio, smoke his cigarettes, and enjoy the weather. It was warm in the sun, but the heavy tables were in the shade and before sitting he pulled on the sweater he had brought from the trunk of his car. Because it was hidden away behind the café with no separate entrance into the building, customers rarely discovered the patio and during the summer Rick had often worked here. He considered working now—he and Bobby, once his college roommate and now his business partner, constructed websites for a living—but he decided to leave his laptop in his pack. He wanted instead the pleasures of the clear air and sparkling street, and especially the solitude. He texted Kathleen to tell her he was on the patio and not in the café, and then sat at one of the tables, coffee at his elbow, backpack at his feet. He sat erect because his ribs hurt less that way and breathing was less painful.
Kathleen arrived a few minutes later. She parked in the lot across the street, and as she crossed the lot and the alleyway with her long lovely strides Rick could feel himself tighten inside. Watching her walk, he had often thought, was one of the great pleasures of his life. He stood and she kissed him and slipped into the seat opposite him.
“You made good time. Want some coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
She was wearing the blue blouse he had given her last Christmas and over the blouse a grey sweater whose softness and color accented the clean, sharp lines of her face.
“My God. What happened to you?”
“A couple of guys jumped Bobby last night outside the Knotty Pine. We had a burger together and came outside and they were waiting for him. We’d seen them inside and Bobby had talked about the girl sitting with them. You know how he talks. Anyway, the girl turned out to be their sister. They must have overheard him.”
“And you got involved?”
“What do you think?”
“I think they pounded on you.”
In the emergency room the doctor had put three butterfly stiches in the cut above his eye, given him an ice pack for the swelling on the left side of his face, and x-rayed his ribs where one of the brothers had kicked him. Nothing in the rib cage was broken, but every breath brought a little stab of pain. “I got in a few hits.”
“I’m sure you did,” Kathleen said. “Is Bobby okay?”
“He came out looking better than me.”
“Do you ever get tired of acting out this way?”
“I wasn’t acting out. They jumped Bobby. What was I supposed to do?”
“You’re always getting into situations.”
“I’m not always getting into situations.”
“What about that guy on Emerald Isle? Remember him?”
“He was going to belt his girlfriend.”
“But he didn’t, did he? Instead he nearly belted you. He would have too if that cop hadn’t come out of the store. And what about that time when you got between those two rugby players and instead of them beating each other up they beat you.”
“That was in college.”
“Rick, college was only two years ago.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “Trouble seems to follow you around. I think you welcome it.”
He shrugged and she took her fingers from his face and folded her hands on the table.
“So?” he said.
“So.”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“Yes.” She shifted her eyes from his face and looked past his shoulder toward the wide door at the back of the café. The door had once served as a place for deliveries, but after the owner had built the patio he had permanently sealed the door and had stapled large burlap coffee bags to it for decoration. When she had first seen these bags, Kathleen thought they were attractive and cleverly employed, and she told Rick they might someday use the idea in decorating their own place.
“I have thought about us,” she said now. “I know I love you and I know we’re good together in a lot of ways.”
The words sounded rehearsed, like a speech practiced many times before a mirror. Here it comes, he thought. “But…”
“I think we need some space right now.” She was still looking past him, and her hair in the ponytail had loosened so that brown and golden threads of hair brushed against her cheek.
“Does that space have anything to do with this?” he said, touching the stitches above his eye. “With me and situations? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. It has to do with us. Both of us. I just need some space between us right now.”
They had begun going out together in their third year of college. Four years, he thought, then said the words aloud: “Four years.”
“Yes. Four years. A long time. Though we only see each other now on the weekends.”
Kathleen lived in Northern Virginia, an hour away. They had spoken of her commuting or of him moving there, but nothing had come of those considerations. He should have followed up on them, but he liked the town and the rental house he shared with Bobby, and she refused to commute the distance all the way into D.C.
He had realized vaguely this moment might one day come, but now that the moment was here he could scarcely believe it. He was like a man who had always known of the existence of some terrible disease. Others succumbed to the ravages of this disease, but for whatever reason Rick had always felt himself immune and so gave it little thought. Yet here it was.
Then he understood.
“Who is he, Kath?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s the guy?”
He watched her face shift into a mask and her folded hands tighten. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You meet him at work?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Have you slept with him?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But it’s not your business now.”
“So this is the way we’re going?”
“No way is easy. There is not an easy way.”
She picked up his pack of cigarettes, shook one out, as she sometimes did, and lit it and inhaled.
“Does he smoke?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
In just those few moments she had become a stranger, someone who had wandered over to sit at his table and share a smoke. “No,” he said. “No, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“We can still be friends. We can keep in touch.”
“We might keep in touch, but we can’t be friends. That never works.”
“Maybe some things will change. I just know I need some separation.”
He was watching her and wondering at himself. He felt nothing but a numbness in his head and chest. He knew he sadness would come later, when he revisited the places in the town they both knew so intimately or at night when he was alone and thinking of her. He felt no anger toward her or about what had happened, and even later he knew there would be no anger. Sadness, yes, but not anger. He had loved her—or he thought he had loved her—and that love prevented him from feeling rage or anger. Some of what had happened was his fault and some was hers and some was just misfortune and living apart.
Saying goodbye was awkward. Kathleen patted him on the back when they hugged, as if he was her kid brother, and then he watched her stride across the parking lot, leggy and beautiful in the way she walked. She did not look back. She got into the Accord in which he had ridden a thousand times and drove away.
Rick went inside the café and ordered a glass of the local cabernet. When he dug into his pocket for change, he pulled out the coins, his car keys, and the buckeye Kathleen had found a year ago when they were hiking. She had given him the buckeye for luck. The buckeye, he saw, was nearly the same color as the wooden counter. He paid the barista with bills from his wallet and some of the change, scooped the remaining change and keys into his palm, stuffed them into the pocket of his pants, left the buckeye on the counter, and walked to the patio.
Kathleen arrived a few minutes later. She parked in the lot across the street, and as she crossed the lot and the alleyway with her long lovely strides Rick could feel himself tighten inside. Watching her walk, he had often thought, was one of the great pleasures of his life. He stood and she kissed him and slipped into the seat opposite him.
“You made good time. Want some coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
She was wearing the blue blouse he had given her last Christmas and over the blouse a grey sweater whose softness and color accented the clean, sharp lines of her face.
“My God. What happened to you?”
“A couple of guys jumped Bobby last night outside the Knotty Pine. We had a burger together and came outside and they were waiting for him. We’d seen them inside and Bobby had talked about the girl sitting with them. You know how he talks. Anyway, the girl turned out to be their sister. They must have overheard him.”
“And you got involved?”
“What do you think?”
“I think they pounded on you.”
In the emergency room the doctor had put three butterfly stiches in the cut above his eye, given him an ice pack for the swelling on the left side of his face, and x-rayed his ribs where one of the brothers had kicked him. Nothing in the rib cage was broken, but every breath brought a little stab of pain. “I got in a few hits.”
“I’m sure you did,” Kathleen said. “Is Bobby okay?”
“He came out looking better than me.”
“Do you ever get tired of acting out this way?”
“I wasn’t acting out. They jumped Bobby. What was I supposed to do?”
“You’re always getting into situations.”
“I’m not always getting into situations.”
“What about that guy on Emerald Isle? Remember him?”
“He was going to belt his girlfriend.”
“But he didn’t, did he? Instead he nearly belted you. He would have too if that cop hadn’t come out of the store. And what about that time when you got between those two rugby players and instead of them beating each other up they beat you.”
“That was in college.”
“Rick, college was only two years ago.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “Trouble seems to follow you around. I think you welcome it.”
He shrugged and she took her fingers from his face and folded her hands on the table.
“So?” he said.
“So.”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“Yes.” She shifted her eyes from his face and looked past his shoulder toward the wide door at the back of the café. The door had once served as a place for deliveries, but after the owner had built the patio he had permanently sealed the door and had stapled large burlap coffee bags to it for decoration. When she had first seen these bags, Kathleen thought they were attractive and cleverly employed, and she told Rick they might someday use the idea in decorating their own place.
“I have thought about us,” she said now. “I know I love you and I know we’re good together in a lot of ways.”
The words sounded rehearsed, like a speech practiced many times before a mirror. Here it comes, he thought. “But…”
“I think we need some space right now.” She was still looking past him, and her hair in the ponytail had loosened so that brown and golden threads of hair brushed against her cheek.
“Does that space have anything to do with this?” he said, touching the stitches above his eye. “With me and situations? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. It has to do with us. Both of us. I just need some space between us right now.”
They had begun going out together in their third year of college. Four years, he thought, then said the words aloud: “Four years.”
“Yes. Four years. A long time. Though we only see each other now on the weekends.”
Kathleen lived in Northern Virginia, an hour away. They had spoken of her commuting or of him moving there, but nothing had come of those considerations. He should have followed up on them, but he liked the town and the rental house he shared with Bobby, and she refused to commute the distance all the way into D.C.
He had realized vaguely this moment might one day come, but now that the moment was here he could scarcely believe it. He was like a man who had always known of the existence of some terrible disease. Others succumbed to the ravages of this disease, but for whatever reason Rick had always felt himself immune and so gave it little thought. Yet here it was.
Then he understood.
“Who is he, Kath?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who’s the guy?”
He watched her face shift into a mask and her folded hands tighten. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You meet him at work?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Have you slept with him?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But it’s not your business now.”
“So this is the way we’re going?”
“No way is easy. There is not an easy way.”
She picked up his pack of cigarettes, shook one out, as she sometimes did, and lit it and inhaled.
“Does he smoke?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
In just those few moments she had become a stranger, someone who had wandered over to sit at his table and share a smoke. “No,” he said. “No, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“We can still be friends. We can keep in touch.”
“We might keep in touch, but we can’t be friends. That never works.”
“Maybe some things will change. I just know I need some separation.”
He was watching her and wondering at himself. He felt nothing but a numbness in his head and chest. He knew he sadness would come later, when he revisited the places in the town they both knew so intimately or at night when he was alone and thinking of her. He felt no anger toward her or about what had happened, and even later he knew there would be no anger. Sadness, yes, but not anger. He had loved her—or he thought he had loved her—and that love prevented him from feeling rage or anger. Some of what had happened was his fault and some was hers and some was just misfortune and living apart.
Saying goodbye was awkward. Kathleen patted him on the back when they hugged, as if he was her kid brother, and then he watched her stride across the parking lot, leggy and beautiful in the way she walked. She did not look back. She got into the Accord in which he had ridden a thousand times and drove away.
Rick went inside the café and ordered a glass of the local cabernet. When he dug into his pocket for change, he pulled out the coins, his car keys, and the buckeye Kathleen had found a year ago when they were hiking. She had given him the buckeye for luck. The buckeye, he saw, was nearly the same color as the wooden counter. He paid the barista with bills from his wallet and some of the change, scooped the remaining change and keys into his palm, stuffed them into the pocket of his pants, left the buckeye on the counter, and walked to the patio.