Isaiah

Nervous is not a sensation I’m familiar with.

Scared is a feeling I’ve ever truly known once before, when my life literally flashed before my eyes and settled in a cloud of smoke so dark I couldn’t see the screaming comrade in front of me.

But none of that compares to the way I feel right now, standing outside Maritza’s café, watching her stride across the checkered floor in her little black shorts and little green apron, smiling at everyone she passes, not a care in the world.

There’s something light and buoyant about her, and for a moment, like a woman who moved on from the meaningless fling she had eight months ago and found someone new to love her and treat her the way she deserves.

I wouldn’t fault her for it, but sometimes life happens and impossible things get in the way of the things we want most and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.

I’ve been home three weeks now.

I’ve stopped by the café seven times, each time only to find that it was her day off or I’d already missed her.

But today the stars aligned because here I am and there she is and there’s a letter in my pocket with her name on it—a letter that survived Syrian air strikes and Army hospitals and rehabilitation centers.

Drawing in a deep breath, I head in. The bell jingles with the door and the hostess glances up from her stand with a practiced smile.

“How many in your party, sir?” she asks, pretending this isn’t the eighth time she’s seen me in three weeks.

“I won’t be eating today. Just here to see someone.”

The hostess gives me a stale smile and directs me to have a seat at the breakfast bar.

Thanking her with a nod, I make a beeline for the restroom first. I need to gather myself, splash a little water on my face—anything to keep myself from sounding like a bumbling idiot when I see her.

Vulnerability is a horrible look on me, but then again, so are these burn scars covering the left side of my torso and curling up the back of my arms.

If she’ll hear me out …

If she can see past the burns and the limp in my gait and the distant look I get in my eyes when I’m having a flashback … then maybe we can pick up where we left off.

The men’s room is empty and the scent of lemon cleaner and bleach invades my lungs. Hunched over one of the sinks, I twist the right handle and cup a handful of cool water, lifting it to my face.

A second later, I dry off with a paper towel, give myself a once over, and take five long, deep breaths.

This is about as good as it’s going to get and I’m about as prepared as I’ll ever be.

Yanking the door open, I step out into the hallway, only to run head first into Maritza herself. She startles, taking a step back until she’s up against a wall between a USA Today newspaper rack and an antique gumball machine.

“Maritza,” I say, stepping toward her.

“What are you doing here?” Her face is pinched and this isn’t exactly the warm, joyous reunion I’d hoped for.

“I came to see you.” Reaching for her hand, I stop when she waves my assistance away.

“Seriously, Isaiah? You think you can just … disappear from my life for months and months without any kind of explanation and then walk back in here and act like you did nothing wrong?” Her hands lift to the sides of her forehead as she rants. “Do you have any idea how worried sick I was for you? How many nights I spent checking casualty reports and death records because I was certain the only reason you’d stop talking to me was because something bad happened—”

I smirk, cutting her off. “—Maritza.”

“—No. Let me finish,” she says. “I’ve waited a long time to be able to say these things to you, and you’re going to stand here and let me say them. Do you understand?”

My arms fold. She’s so fucking adorable when she’s angry. “Sure.”

“I don’t know how you can just stand there being all flippant after what you did to me,” she says. “But you know what? I’m done being angry. I’m just annoyed. And I’m not even annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at myself for being dumb enough to think that the time we spent together meant anything. Looking back, it was all so silly, wasn’t it? The stupid wax museum. The observatory. The farmer’s market. I assigned all this meaning to everything because I guess, somewhere deep inside, I wanted it to mean something because underneath it all, I was starting to fall for you.”

“Maritza …” I lift a hand, hoping she’ll let me get a word in.

“I’m not done yet.”

“All right.” I anchor my feet to the ground, arms still crossed as I give her my attention. Maybe in a moment, she’ll give me a chance to explain why I couldn’t get a hold of her, maybe she’ll give me a chance to tell her that I thought of her every minute of every hour of every day while I was fighting for my life, lying comatose in a hospital for weeks and waking up with a nurse telling me the doctors were trying to figure out a way to save my leg.

“You know, I’m glad this happened,” she says, dragging her hands through her hair as her lips pull into an incredulous grin. “Because if anything, I learned that there are kinder, better, nicer people out there than you and you’re not the person I thought you were. You saved me from … you. So thank you. Thank you so much, Isaiah.”

She turns to leave, but I hook my hand around her elbow, reeling her back to me.

“I can explain,” I say. “I can explain everything.”

“Yeah, well, I accepted a long time ago that I was never going to have your explanation and now that you’re offering it to me, I don’t want it.” Her words slice through the tight space between us. “Whatever reason it was that you stopped talking to me … it’s inconsequential now. I’ve moved on.”

“I get that you’re angry,” I say. “But I think you’ve made some assumptions …”

“Assumptions?” Her dark eyes widen and her brows arch. “You’re right, Isaiah. I did. I assumed you were a good person. I assumed we were on the same page with the no lies and bullshit rule. And I assumed we had something special—or at the very least a friendship.”

“No,” I say, lifting my hand, but she continues to talk.

“You’ve been home a while, haven’t you?” she asks.

“A few weeks, yes,” I say.

“Tell me,” she says, squaring her shoulders with mine. “Is it true you have a nephew you don’t acknowledge?”

My eyes narrow. How the fuck would she know that?

“And is it true you’ve ruined peoples’ lives, Isaiah?” she asks. “Is it true you … is it true your family blames you for your father’s death?”

Dragging my hand down my face, I look her dead in the eyes. “Yeah. It’s true. All of it.”

Maritza exhales, her glassy coffee-colored eyes settling in mine. “You should go. And please don’t come back here again. You’re not the person I thought you were, and I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to pick up where we left off. Not now. Not ever.”

With that, she pushes past me and disappears behind the swinging door to the ladies’ room.

A blue-eyed blonde donning a matching uniform rounds the corner, stopping in her tracks when she sees me.

“Oh. Hi,” she says, looking at me like I’m a bomb that needs to be defused. “Have you seen Maritza?”

I point to the ladies’ room.

“Right,” she says, offering a tepid smile. The waitress makes her way past me before stopping and turning back. “You should probably leave.”

“I know.”

“And you should probably never come back here again.”

Dragging my hand along my mouth, I linger.

A second later, I remember the letter, and I dig into my pocket to retrieve it.

“Give this to her,” I say, handing it off to the blonde.

I don’t wait for her to respond or refuse it.

I get the hell out of there.

I don’t want to upset Maritza any more than I already have.

It hurts like hell to see how much pain I caused her, and not just because I care about her but because she wouldn’t be so hurt if she hadn’t cared so much about me.

Our feelings? They were mutual at one point.

But evidently not anymore.

Not now. Now ever.