Chapter 7
The café on Pine Street smelled of roasted espresso beans, cinnamon, and wet wool. It was a quintessential Seattle establishment, featuring mismatched velvet armchairs, exposed brick walls, and large windows streaming condensation from the cold rain outside. Maya sat at a corner table near the back, nursing a hot mug of black tea. She wore a heavy wool gray coat over a cream turtleneck—a stark departure from the maroon sweater that had become an unintended uniform of her past life.
The door chimed softly, and a bell jingled as a gust of wind swept inside. Clara entered, shaking out a forest-green umbrella before folding it neatly. She wore a tan trench coat, her light blonde hair caught in a loose ponytail. She looked healthy, her posture relaxed, the faint bruise on her jaw long since vanished. Scanning the room, her eyes locked onto Maya’s table, and she offered a tentative, genuine smile.
Clara walked over and slid into the armchair opposite Maya. "Thank you for meeting me," Clara said, unwrapping her woolen scarf.
"You're brave for venturing out in this weather," Maya replied, returning the smile. "How long have you been in the city?"
"About three weeks. I’m staying in a sublet near Capitol Hill. Working remotely for a design firm downtown." Clara signaled the barista for a cup of green tea. "It’s different here. Quieter, in a strange way. People keep to themselves."
"That's kind of the point, isn't it?" Maya took a sip of her tea. "We moved here to disappear."
"Or to find ourselves without an audience," Clara corrected gently.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the pedestrians rush past the fogged-up window, hunching their shoulders against the drizzle. The awkwardness that Maya had feared never materialized. The shared trauma of their history acted as an invisible shield, protecting them from trivial small talk. They had already seen each other at their absolute worst; there was nothing left to hide, no social masks left to maintain.
"Have you spoken to David?" Maya asked carefully, setting her mug down.
Clara’s expression remained neutral. "A few times. Mostly about final tax documents and closing the bank accounts. He’s still in California, renovating a fixer-upper in San Diego. He seems... fine. Moving on, just like us."
May you like
"Do you regret any of it?" Maya asked, her voice dropping to a softer register.
Clara looked directly into Maya’s eyes, unblinking. "I regret the way I handled my life for years. I regret letting myself stay in a situation that was slowly killing my spirit. But the crash? The day on the rug? No, Maya. As terrifying as it was, it was the wake-up call I desperately needed. Sometimes the house has to burn down for you to realize you were living in a tomb."
