Still Friends

Chapter 3: Not a Date

I agreed to meet Eli for coffee because I wanted to find out whether we could talk without turning every sentence into a test.

We chose the Harbor Cup, a narrow café at the end of Dock Street. The owner had known us since we were kids and pretended not to notice when we sat at the same table. Eli arrived first and put my usual order in front of the empty chair: black tea with honey, no lemon.

"I almost ordered coffee," he said when I sat down. "Then I remembered you'd complain about the coffee here."

"I would have."

"I know."

The tea was right. I drank it anyway.

We talked about the Lifeboat House, the changes at the restaurant, and the trouble he'd had finding a reliable refrigeration repair company. We discussed the weather, too. The forecast had rain all week. The conversation moved through safe territory as if we'd both agreed not to touch the ground under our feet.

Then Eli said, "My mom asked if I'd told you I still love you."

I set my cup down. "What did you say?"

"I said it wasn't her business."

"That's not an answer."

"No." He looked at the cup between his hands. "I said I didn't know what you wanted from me."

"That's not an answer either."

"I know." His jaw tightened. "I told her I loved you. I told her we weren't together. I didn't tell her I was waiting for you to change your mind."

I watched his face. "Were you?"

He took a breath. "I thought if I left the door open, maybe we'd figure out a way back."

"That sounds a lot like waiting for me to change my mind."

"I didn't expect you to stay in Saltmere."

"You didn't say that when we were engaged."

"I didn't understand how much I was asking you to give up."

"You understood when I told you."

He nodded. "Yes."

The answer was plain. I appreciated it, even though it didn't soften anything.

I looked out the window. Two women in raincoats hurried past with a dog between them. The dog stopped to sniff a lamppost while both women kept walking, their leashes pulled taut.

"Do you want to be friends because you love me," I asked, "or because it lets you keep me close?"

Eli considered that. "Both, probably."

"Those aren't the same thing."

"No." He folded his hands. "I want to be your friend because you matter to me even if you never come back. I'm also still in love with you. I don't know how to make that disappear just because we broke up."

"I don't want you to pretend it's gone."

"Good."

"But I can't be the person you use to avoid grieving."

"I don't want that."

"You didn't want to take my fellowship away, either."

He winced. "I know."

That was the first time he'd let me say it without defending himself. I felt the familiar pull to reward him for trying, to hurry toward forgiveness so neither of us had to sit in the uncomfortable part. I left the silence alone.

At last he asked, "What would friendship look like to you?"

"Honesty. No treating my choices like temporary weather. No letting your mother or anyone else tell stories about us that you won't correct."

"All right."

"And if I say I'm leaving, you believe me."

"I believe you."

"Even if it hurts?"

"Especially then."

I searched his expression for a familiar escape hatch. I didn't find one.

He reached toward my hand, then stopped before he touched it. The restraint was small, but I noticed.

I tucked my fingers around my tea. "I don't want to make a promise about being friends forever."

"I'm not asking you to."

"I don't want us to say this is just like before."

"It isn't."

"Good."

He let out a breath that almost became a laugh. "We're terrible at casual coffee."

"We've never been casual about anything."

"No."

We finished our drinks and walked outside. Rain was falling lightly, silvering the pavement. Eli offered to walk me to my car, which was parked one block over.

I said yes.

At the curb, we stood close enough that I could see a little scar near his eyebrow. I'd watched that scar form when we were sixteen. He'd slipped off the rocks while trying to prove he could jump farther than I could. I'd held a towel against his forehead while he insisted it didn't hurt.

"I'm going to miss you," he said.

"I'm still here for three weeks."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know."

He didn't reach for me. I was grateful. I was disappointed, too, and I didn't pretend those feelings canceled each other out.