I put the phone down. It was the first request she had made in twenty-four hours that sounded like a request instead of a demand. I was not sure whether it represented change. But I knew I could acknowledge her pain without promising to make the consequences disappear.
Sunday arrived without the pressure of an approaching ceremony, but the relief I expected did not come. The world had learned that the wedding was cancelled, yet my body still seemed to be preparing for an event it could no longer identify. I woke early, showered, and checked my phone for work messages out of habit. My manager had already approved three personal days after Caleb told him there had been a family emergency. For once, I had no desire to correct an imperfect explanation that did not invade anyone's privacy.
Lauren texted before nine. She asked whether we could meet at the cafe near the botanical garden, the place where we used to stop after long walks. I considered choosing somewhere without memories attached, but nearly every ordinary part of the city contained something from our relationship. The coffee shop by her office was where we had celebrated her promotion. The bookstore across from my workplace was where she picked out the notebook for our vows. I told her I would meet for thirty minutes at a quiet cafe near Caleb's neighborhood instead.
I arrived early and chose a table near the window. I wanted to be able to leave without navigating a crowded room, and I wanted to feel that I could see the world continuing outside. I ordered black coffee, although I usually took a little milk, and stirred it long after the cup was ready to drink. When Lauren came through the door, my first response was a painful flash of familiarity. I knew the way she moved, the way she searched a room, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before approaching someone she cared about.
She looked exhausted. She had not slept much, and the makeup beneath her eyes couldn't hide it. She was wearing the same cream sweater she used to borrow from my side of the closet because she said it was warmer than anything she owned. For one desperate second I wanted the sight of her to erase the previous forty hours. I wanted to wake up in our apartment and discover that the worst thing we needed to discuss was a late florist delivery.
She sat down. Neither of us spoke immediately. Through the window I watched a cyclist stop at the corner and wait for the light. Lauren put her phone face down beside her coffee, a gesture that would once have meant she was giving me her attention. Now it reminded me how much of the last year I had spent wondering what appeared on the screen when I wasn't looking.
"I'm sorry," she said.