Questions

I smoothed the wrinkles in my shirt before scooping my coffee from the counter. I dropped the few spare coins from my change into the donation jar—a meagerly collection of singles and dimes marked “Save the Rain Forest!”—before making my way to an open table. I nervously shifted my coffee in front of me as I walked.

Was she here yet? Would I find her at the back table sifting through the pages of Brontë or Chopin?

I thought back to that orchard all those years ago. The orange-gold light filtering through the greens of the trees, and her sitting in the middle of a row of trees, sweeping back her cascading waterfall of black hair as her brilliant brown eyes darted along the lines of her books. I breathed deeply at the memory of her sweet, serene smile when her eyes met mine.

Would she be just as nervous as I was?

The only other people seated in the coffee shop were an elderly lady crocheting in the corner, and a burly fellow typing furiously away at an undersized laptop. I took a two-seater along the west wall, facing the warm sunset over the mountain backdrop to my long-forgotten hometown. Overhead, rhythmic bass lines of some memorable alternative tune beat against the speakers. It was the same song we danced to at the putt-putt course on that fateful evening way back when. I smiled and tapped my foot along.

Did she remember that night?

I worked up the courage to ask her along to what would be our first date over the aching course of three long weeks. Our lockers were not even in the same hall, yet I found myself walking her hall just to catch a glimpse of the back of her head in between classes. I wanted to know more.

What was her favorite color? What did she like to do? Did she even know who I was? Was she single?

All the dorky pressures of infatuation coursed through my blood for three painstaking weeks before I knew it was time. Her eyes met mine and we spoke our first few words to each other. And just like that, with all the speed and intensity of a cannonball fired into open air, sparks began to fly.

I pushed my coffee to the center of the table and spun the sleeve around the base over and over. My pulse pounded in my ears as I watched the door carefully. I felt the searing heat of my coffee cup warm the backs of my thumbs as I twiddled with my drink. I remembered her touch back at that mini golf park. She greeted me with a hug; a warm, tight embrace that put her cheek solidly against my chest. I could smell her shampoo and its citrus infusions. She barely knew me at that moment but she trusted me as I returned both arms over her back.

The bell over the door rang, and I sprang from those memories into the moment. Only a family of four out for a pick-me-up latte on their way home. I watched the youngest gingerly tinker with his wrist watch, gazing at the time as if he worried about the late hour. Me too, kid. I pulled back the sleeve of my sweater and caught a look at the hour. Quarter past—the October sun managing to eke over the horizon and squeeze a few sparse rays of light through the thin blanket of clouds.

She was late; but then again, she always was. A school dance in our junior year was halfway over before we came strolling in. In the middle of the cha-cha, we rushed the dance floor to join, her high-pitched giggle ringing like an angel’s voice over the pump of the music. Her slender hips swayed to the sound. Her floor-length dress swept the gym floor and scattered the debris of glitter and confetti into the air. I remember the song fading into a slow dance, and we wound up into each other’s arms as we awkwardly traversed the dance floor. Her eyes stared straight into my heart. We met in that cosmic moment on another level. We leapt the fence of high school romance into a bond conditioned to survive, a love deeper than simple crushes. I ached at the thought of how deep we were, how insurmountable. I twirled the cooling coffee into a typhoon.

Would she still be this taken with me all this time later? Would she too smile at the mere thought of our storied past?

I dreamt of her far too often. Even with years between the last time I held her hand, the last time I kissed her soft lips, she still invaded my sleep. The tale of the first time we kissed has long since burned its place into my history years ago. The small town we lived in was littered with empty, untraveled back roads and dirt highways. We walked across them freely in those days, getting wherever we needed on foot in the fastest possible beeline. Halfway over a dusty roadway, that moment hit me in the gut. I spun her by the elbow, brought her waist into mine, leaned over, and stared deeply. I don’t know why, even to this day, that moment came over me, but it made the perfect moment. And she leaned up.

That was my favorite. That right there I missed the most. We spent the rest of that evening strolling through the elementary school recess yard, locked hand in hand, stopping every so often to relive that moment in the middle of the road. We settled near a paddock on the edge of that little town in a tiny outcropping patch of land, laid out a blanket, and spent the rest of the night staring up at the stars. For me, the best stars were in her eyes. She gazed into the heavens while I gazed into mine. And she was the only heaven I ever knew.

The hum of the overhead speaker as another track started on the radio centered me, pulled me out of that magnificent night into the coffee shop again. The dying rays of sun washed the room in a faint golden glow, outlined by the purpling onset of night. I pushed my thick-rimmed glasses up my nose and blew on my coffee although it was well past too hot to drink. A song with a lot of piano jammed through the silence of the restaurant. The elderly woman crocheting packed up her yarn and departed. Two teens sat a few tables up chatting energetically over sweet drinks encased in mountains of whipped cream. The man hammering on his keyboard had long since left. I sighed and rechecked the time. Forty past.

Perhaps this was the wrong coffee shop? Maybe she meant the one on Sycamore and Dixon, not Main and Walnut. Perhaps I heard her say the wrong time, or the date?

I scanned through the details in my mind. I am sure I heard her right. I must’ve recited this date and time in my head a hundred times before we hung up. I was right. I drove myself into a panic often with her. Even after all these years, she still made me mad.

I watched the crocheting lady come into my window’s view on the way to her car. She walked carefully across the parking lot to her sedan. She reminded me of her mother; a caring, understanding woman with a penchant for crafts. I cringed a little; thinking of how I met her mother. One night, she called me after a nightmare and said she couldn’t sleep. Me, being the gallant knight I once was, drove right over and tried to crawl through her bedroom window. Of course, her mother happened to walk in right as I heaved my leg over the windowsill and caught us red handed. Instead of calling the police, she greeted me with a handshake and made us sit in the living room as I consoled my embarrassed girlfriend. How her cheeks got that red, I will never forget. She made pancakes for us and promised not to tell my dad.

Grinning sheepishly, I fidgeted with my watch once more. Getting closer to the hour. Sun had all but left this world and the day concluded unceremoniously. No bang, no earth-shattering end to that October day. The embers of daylight burnt slowly, like campfire left to smolder in the night.

She and I spent the last day before graduation curled up in a sleeping bag, camping in the woods behind our school. Graduation came fast upon us. That year we loved and lived with the brilliant intensity of a dying star. We never spent a moment apart if we didn’t have to, and we glued our ears to our phones in the evening. We shared in so much, and I knew she was the one. After we walked across that stage, I gave her one more gift to commemorate the date. I dropped to a knee. In my hands was a pitiful, cheap rock bought with whatever I could scrounge together; my every penny went into that ring. I was almost ashamed of it, but I couldn’t spend another minute not knowing if she would say “yes”.

Would she say it? Was she head-over-heels for me, just as I was for her? So early in our lives, was she ready to spend the rest as my eternal? Did she just begin to cry?

And she did.

I fiddled with something in my pocket, staring into empty space as I waited. I wondered if she still had that ring. I know it was small and inexpensive, but it still made her smile whenever she looked at it. I replaced the lid to my coffee and shifted in my seat. God, how that smile still bore into me to this day. From our first date to the day she left for college on the East Coast, that smile was infectious. Even while we were our saddest, the day we parted so she could pursue her education a thousand miles away, her smile intoxicated me. I could see a tinge of sadness behind her joy, but she insisted. She told me to remember that, whenever she missed me the most, she would stare down at her finger, those pale, smooth, soft hands, and smile at her ring. Smile at the love we held for one another. Smile at the extraordinary bond we shared. Now, I smiled in that little coffee shop, staring into the lid of my beverage, entranced once again.

Cars came and went past my window, meeting my stare before fading into the distance. They left me glaring after, wondering if she was in one of them.

Maybe she left without stopping, just as scared and nervous as I was now?

The coffee shop cleared rapidly as the evening wore on. The jingle of the bell over the door signified more goings than comings now. Departure took the place of arrival. I frowned slightly, and I was back to our first time apart in ages. At first, we talked unendingly. She shared everything with me: her classes, her experiences at a new school, her new friends. And as with all things, time took its toll. Fall came around and she couldn’t make it home. Weeks without seeing one another turned into months, nightly conversations became weekly. One day, without realizing it, we spoke for what would be the very last time. As with all things too good to be true, we faded, fizzled into a backdrop of textbooks and miles. We promised to wait, to hold off on all of the things that fused us together. If we waited, surely it would all come rushing back when reunions happened. Summer would be there before we knew it. That spark was never meant to die, and neither could we. All we had to do was wait. But even a connection as remarkable as ours could not endure.

Was she torn, too? Did she ache at the memory? Did she remember that cold, miserable January when we last loved one another? Could she really forget me?

I removed the lid and stirred my coffee a final time. It was past the hour. One hour late. Even in her chaos, in that characteristically late quirk of hers, this was too late. My coffee sat cold, un-sipped, abandoned in its paper cup. She wasn’t coming. I no longer had to wonder if she was nervous. I no longer thought she was anxious. I didn’t believe she was just as lost in her heart as I. No, I didn’t have to think on it anymore. My answer sat in front of me, and that answer was an empty chair.

A barista scrubbed at the counter up front, but beyond that, the coffee shop was empty, lonely in that October night. I threw my cup into a bin, completely full, and strode to the door. I had to accept that what was gone was gone. My second chance would not come today. Maybe it was a mistake reaching out to her, reconnecting with her. Seeking closure was my second heartbreak. I scratched the stubble on my face and pushed into the night air.

Was I really not worth seeing again? What did I do to lose her so finitely? Would I ever see her again?

All those questions swirled around in my head as I stepped out into the crisp evening air. They pervaded my mind, even as it fell apart, unable to comprehend the hurt. Maybe we were just two kids infatuated with one another. Maybe it wasn’t as real as I remembered. Maybe we weren’t really meant to last. But it sure felt like love. It felt real, even after all these years. And maybe it didn’t last for her, but here I was, soul-crushed outside a coffee shop because of her. In my infinite devastation, I still loved her.

My eyes downcast at the sidewalk, I began to turn toward my car. Before I had the chance to look up, a set of pale, smooth, soft hands wrapped their way around my waist. A cascading waterfall of black hair swept down slender shoulders. It smelled of citrus. She turned her tearful brown eyes to mine and smiled that smile. In mild shock, I returned the hug. I held her close. The hurt faded. The sun seemed to wink one final ray over the horizon, and it brightened her beautiful face. And I knew the answers to all of my questions.