I have already finished my first cup of black coffee. My second cup sits before me, tempting me to take a sip as steam rises slowly out of the black liquid. My hands are slowly thawing, thanks to the heat of the ceramic blue-and-green-striped coffee mug around which they are tightly wrapped. My knuckles, which were a bluish purple when I first slipped out of the gray downpour and into the cafe, are now fading into a gentle rosiness. 

The Freckled Cow, my favorite cafe in town because of its robust coffee and (typically) relaxing atmosphere, is packed to maximum capacity on this soupy Sunday morning, filled with enamored couples staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, exchanging heartfelt gifts, which are received with a surprised face and a hand on the chest, a response that quickly transitions into exclamations of thanks and sweet kisses across the table. As I scan the cafe, my eyes wander from one loving couple to the next. 

I, for one, hate Valentine's Day. I always have. And the smooching couple at the table next to me, dishing out extreme doses of PDA—enough to make anyone deeply uncomfortable—is only further proving my case. I can’t help but stare for a second, watching the woman hold her boyfriend/husband’s hands across the table, her elbow so close to a big mug of coffee (or rather, milk with a splash of coffee) that knocking it over seems inevitable. 

Unfortunately, love birds seem to be early risers—the early lovebird gets a spot at the Freckled Cow, should be the saying—and when I arrived this morning, later than usual—at 9:45 AM rather than 8 AM— the only free spot was at a corner booth. Here I have an extensive view of the whole café, filled with all these loving couples. 

I check my watch, 9:56. I wait.

The obvious question, then, is how do I find myself—someone who avidly dislikes Valentine's Day—in a cozy café filled with romantic couples. Well, I am here mainly as a result of my dangerous curiosity. 

As I twist the note in my hand, bending its already worn edges, I realize I’ve made the wrong choice. I should have thought about this rationally; this is absurd. If they aren’t here at precisely 10 AM, I’m leaving. Well, maybe 10:05. I mean, I still have to finish my coffee. 

9:58. Taking bigger gulps of my steaming coffee, I watch the rain run down the cafe’s big glass windows in thick streams. I listen to the loud jumble of conversations around me, mingling with the buzzing of the espresso machine and the quiet jazz music warming the atmosphere in the Freckled Cow. 

The heat must be set to 80 degrees, at least, for I feel myself getting hot. The blue pleather seat squeaks beneath my jeans as I wrangle my jacket off, the sudden heat flash making me desperate to strip down further. Desperately searching for a new pastime, I analyze the intricate tiles behind the espresso machine on the far wall. The big white tiles are decorated with delicate blue lines woven into an intricate pattern. Draping wall plants with big green leaves trail down the tiles on either side of the wall, falling from a long wooden shelf situated slightly more than halfway up the wall. 

I continue running my fingers over the delicate paper in my hands, a simple cream-colored card with only a few words scribbled inside it in vaguely familiar handwriting: 

Meet me at the Freckled Cow. Sunday at 10 AM. 

-H

I can’t even be sure the note was meant for me. Who is H? Why am I supposed to meet them here today? I have so many questions. 

But that’s part of what drew me to follow these strange directions. 

I found the card three days ago, sitting among my other miscellaneous mail. Most people would presumably recognize the potential risks of such a letter and ignore these puzzling directions. But my curiosity is stunningly persuasive, and that handwriting, which is somehow distantly familiar, but I can't quite identify, now leaves me in this blue-cushioned corner booth in the Freckled Cow on Valentine’s Day (maybe) about to meet with the mysterious author of this letter. 

I glance at my watch—10 AM. 

I scan the bustling café one last time but see no one approaching my booth (do they even know what I look like? Are they coming to meet someone else, and I have simply received the note by accident? Is this all just a big miscommunication?). Finishing the dregs of my coffee, I hastily slip back into my jacket and gather my belongings, stuffing them forcefully into my already stuffed red purse that most closely resembles a bulky red sack. 

That’s when the tinkling of the door opening announces the entrance of a new customer. My head snaps up, and my eyes land on the tall, disheveled-looking man ducking through the wooden doorway, animating the bells above the door. 

His hair is darkened by the rain that has soaked it as water drips down his bumpy nose and falls onto his clean sneakers. With one hand, he releases the hood of his alligator-green raincoat, which he had so desperately tried to use as a shield against the rain but to no avail. Running his other hand nervously through his wet hair, the man scans the Freckled Cow, a surprised expression dancing across his features, conveying the same shock I had felt at seeing the café so packed. 

That’s when I realize that I’m staring. Too late. 

His eyes have landed on me, and his gaze locks on mine, making it nearly impossible to tear my eyes away. With great effort, I pry my gaze from the gruff stranger in the doorway and return my attention to gathering my belongings. But my mind hinges on how familiar his figure looks. 

My mind runs through the way he stands, feet slightly apart in a cautious way that makes it seem like he is quick on his feet. His stance, coupled with a high-alert look deep in his eyes, gives the impression that he could catch a falling coffee mug across the room in a split second. 

I recognize how he runs his hand through his thick brown hair, almost stopping halfway through, either trying to gain attention or second-guessing whether he should have reached up to comb his fingers through his hair. 

Finally, I focus on the empty coffee mug before me as I pour through my memory. Why do I recognize this stranger? 

That’s when it hits me.

Harris. 

Oh no.

I should wait. Wait to get up so I don’t accidentally cross paths with him. 

But just then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice that broad, suddenly timid-looking figure, bee-lining towards me. If I look up now and acknowledge his intent of coming toward me, there’s no way I can avoid it. But I also can’t get up. 

I’m frozen, stuck to the dark blue pleather seat beneath me. 

At this point, it seems inevitable. 

Unless he is the unlikely third wheel to the sickly enamored couple beside me and is heading straight for their table instead of mine. Perhaps this is an unfortunate coincidence, running into an old college acquaintance here as he is meeting some friends. Hopefully, he doesn’t recognize me. 

Don’t look up; focus on something, anything, else, I advise myself. I reach for my phone and open my emails, scrolling through one spam email after another, each from a mailing list I didn’t know I was on. All the while, I remain highly aware that he is getting closer and closer to my small corner booth. 

And then, he stops a foot from my table. 

I have to look up. It would be undeniably rude not to. 

I raise my eyes slowly, from my slew of unimportant emails to his gently angled face, wet curls drooping limply onto his forehead. His piercingly brown eyes send a shiver through me. 

Harris lowers his gaze to the side of the booth across from me, as if asking permission to join me with his eyes. 

I stare back at him. 

Hesitantly, he slides into the booth, his slightly raised shoulders conveying that he is ready to get up and leave at my first sign of protest. 

But I’m frozen. My mind is blank, save for one big spinning circle, loading over and over, but getting nowhere. 

I can’t process it. Harris. The same college guy who broke my heart is now sitting before me. Is he the mysterious letter-writer? 

“Hello Elena,” his smooth voice tries shakily. The uncertainty in his tone surprises me. The Harris I knew in college had been all cool conversation and seductive smiles, that unbreakable confidence that I found sickening yet irresistibly attractive. Perhaps it had bothered me so much because I was ashamed to admit that his charming personality, which worked on all the girls, had also worked on me. I'm forced to remember how, all those years ago, that playful smile had coaxed me down a dangerous path and ultimately left me miserable.

“Hello, Harris,” I finally respond, not offering anything more. He asked me to meet him here. Now he needs to explain why.

“It’s been so long,” he tries smoothly. “You look good.”  His easygoing tone is forced and is costing him great effort. I stare back stubbornly, unamused at his attempt at casual conversation.

He runs his hand through his hair. Even all these years later, the mannerism is familiar to me, but I now recognize that it’s a nervous habit, not the charming quirk I always took it to be.

“It’s good to see you,” he tries again. Yeah, I think, because the last time we interacted was a horrific mess.

We stare at each other for a while.

Harris is evidently unsure how to proceed now that he has reached this point. I’m waiting for an explanation.

“Have you been waiting here long?” he asks, trying to strike up a conversation as his eyes wander down to the two empty coffee mugs sitting before me. 

Ignoring his question, I ask bluntly, “Did you send me this note?” I thrust the tattered note at him. He nods. I follow up with a forceful, “Why?” He sighs.

“I did send the note. Elena, I feel awful about how things ended between us. Truly. These last few years, I have spent so much time thinking about how horrible I was, leaving you at the party like that.” He pauses here, studying my face, analyzing my reaction. I keep my face blank, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of reading my expression.

Harris’ soft eyes flash unwillingly towards the couple next to us—who are now holding hands and whispering to each other across their big slice of strawberry cheesecake—before returning his focus to me and continuing, “All this time, I have been racking my brain for how to apologize, how to make it up to you,” his features smooth over with a look of sudden vulnerability. His deep brown curls are beginning to dry off from the heat in the café, and the muscle in his jaw pulses, tightening as the silence between us continues. “Nothing I came up with seemed good enough.”

For some inexplicable reason, I almost feel sorry for Harris. 

No. 

He had determined the fate of our (very short-lived) relationship. One kiss. Then he had freaked out and abandoned me at that awful party. Completely alone and without a ride home.

“I’m not here to make excuses, Elena. I just want to apologize. And maybe straighten some things out between us.” 

I can’t come up with anything new to say. The same single word is all I can utter: “Why?”

“Because it hurts to leave things between us so broken and so misrepresentative of the truth. At least for me.” 

“What?” Another one-syllable word. 

“Elena,” his meaningful gaze wavers as he reaches into an inside pocket of his thick green raincoat that makes him seem bulkier than he is. I catch a glimpse of his toned arms in the scratchy-looking pigeon-gray sweater underneath his jacket and realize that he has lost some muscle since college. At the same time, I notice that the coat gives him exaggeratedly broad shoulders and hides his gentle frame from view. 

When I shift my gaze from how his jacket hangs on his body to his tenderly outstretched hand reaching toward me, I notice the stack of delicate, white envelopes. 

Before accepting them, I study his eyes, my gaze boring into his brown irises as I continue to comprehend everything that is happening. Harris. Here. In the same booth. Across from me. 

Slowly, my right hand extends to meet his. My hand is shaky as it nears his, like I might change my mind at any second and retract my hand. 

I feel Harris’ eyes on me as he watches me examine the envelopes. Each one is addressed to me in careful handwriting. I sense him lightly shudder as I abruptly tear the first one open. It reads:

Elena,

I’ve been wanting to write, to say, to express everything I’ve been thinking these last few years. That night, at that party all those years ago, when you finally spoke to me—and even danced with me—was the best night of my life. I never meant to hurt you, and knowing I did (and in the worst way possible) has given me countless nightmares. You have no reason to forgive me. None whatsoever, but I had to write to you. I have to write this letter to you. Because Elena,

The note ends there. Abruptly. What else had he meant to write?

“All those letters,” Harris supplies, as if reading the question in my mind, “all those letters were attempts I made to explain myself. Explain how I felt and how I still feel. Ten times I tried to write it down, to mail a letter to you. And ten times I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t express what I needed to in a note. I had to speak with you. In-person. I am ashamed to admit that I was too afraid to ask you directly, so I wrote you that note and asked Jenna to give it to you.

“I had assumed that she told you it was from me, but given your reaction, it seems she didn’t. I didn’t mean to spring this on you like this. Really.” He let out a deep breath. I need to have an angry conversation with Jenna when I get home from this wild, mysterious meeting with my betraying college crush.

Anger grips me, and a painful lump rises in my throat, the same lump I get when I cry and try to talk but can’t because it hurts. It hurts too much. 

What makes all of this worse is that at one point, on that hot summer night, at that party, silly on alcohol and the promise of more summer nights ahead, I had let myself fall so easily for Harris. I had thought I could love him if only he would have me. I had watched how, despite his cocky confidence, he had always treated people with kindness and respect. And when he approached me that night so many years ago, it seemed like we had connected beyond words; like we were two puzzle pieces that had finally found each other. 

But I had been so naive back then, and it had only been one night. We were drunk. It couldn’t have been anything serious. 

And yet, that heartbreak, that ache from being abandoned by someone I had only spent one night with, had cut deeper than any other heartache I had experienced before. 

And now, my mind is racing as anger hitches higher in my throat, growing the lump that has taken hold there. 

“All this time, all these years, nothing. You—you said that you had to make a phone call, and you never came back. You left me at the party, that stupid party, without anyone I knew and without a way to get home. 

“Did you know that I had to catch a ride home with Frankie and his friends, who were all insanely drunk? How could you just leave me there like that?” My voice rises, and I'm struggling to keep it at an acceptable volume for a public setting.

I don't know why I admit it, but I continue: “I cried to Jenna for like a week about how I thought you and I had something special that night—some sort of special connection, but I guess it was all just in my head.

“And—and then I hear nothing from you for years, and now you send me a strange letter to meet you here, out of the blue, and you show up with these, these letters and what, I’m supposed to—to listen and say, ‘Okay, okay, you didn’t mean to be a jerk to me all those years ago’ and then you expect me, to what? Forgive you for everything and move on?” I spit the last few words at him, shocked by my anger, which—apparently—has been boiling deep inside me for seven years now. I’m out of breath.

“You’re right, Elena. You’re right.” He sighs, his face falling. “I’m sorry.” I glare at him, still taking angry breaths. 

But, somehow—reluctantly and unwillingly—seeing the look on his face softens something in me. I notice the exhaustion mixed into his face, weighing down his eyes and tugging the corners of his mouth down. I recognize that look from college. It reminds me of the expression that had occupied his face when he returned to class after being mysteriously absent for two weeks. That look, I later found out, was one of grief after Harris lost his brother to leukemia. 

My mind now shifts in a different direction. Perhaps I am jumping to conclusions, letting my emotions get in the way of his carefully planned and detailed explanation. His eyes convey that he has a lot to say, a whole story behind those dark irises that can tell me everything I want to know. 

With a deep breath, I calm my mind and decide to listen to what he has come here to tell me. After all, I still have some unsatisfied curiosity, begging to hear what else he has to say—begging to fully understand how we have gotten to this point here today, sitting across from each other in a crowded cafe on Valentine's Day after not having spoken for over seven years.

“Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll listen to your explanation.”

But instead of the whole story—which includes grieving his brother’s death and consequently being afraid to let me in for fear of losing me, which he would confide in me later—he simply says: “I love you, Elena. I always have.”