unknown / nth — a.h.b.
cw: this is more author's note but this is sort of an au to what i usually write, an au in which reader and andrew have been divorced for a year but still live in the same town
“is this seat taken?” a familiar voice takes me out of my spiral of thoughts. i look up at him—a face i haven’t seen in close to a year. he smiles, toying a little with the ring on his little finger.
a small curl escapes his bun. he looks like he’s just stepped out—grey jumper, black jeans, black converse. i stare for longer than i should, a little taken aback.
“you still come here,” the surprise in my voice is clear, palpable.
he smiles, eyes crinkling in a way that reminds me of all the times i’d traced my fingers over it. “whenever i’m back home, yes.”
home. yes. it saddens me a little that it’s a luxury for him most days.
“you never answered my question, darling,” he lingers near my table, hip bumping into the chair opposite mine.
“you still call me that,” i smile like it’s a secret between us.
he returns my smile, and when i don’t object to it, settles into the chair opposite mine.
“what are you having?”
“mocha with enough caramel in it to make you shudder.” i give my drink another swirl, subtly inhaling the scent of caramel wafting from it. “too sweet for you.”
he simply stares at the drink first, then at me, playing with the ring on his finger again.
“what?”
he shrugs, turning around to signal for a barista. “‘s nice being known is all.”
i take a sip of my coffee, the sweetness melting over my tongue while he places his order. (coffee. black.)
“why are you here?” the question is a little blunt. inwardly, i wince. perhaps i shouldn’t come across so hostile outright.
“saw you from that window, thought i’d come in and say hi.”
i scrutinise him a little. he’s older now, a little tired with crow’s feet around his eyes. the lines on his face look deeper than the last time i’d seen him. his eyes look a little flat too, although i decide to chalk that up to post-tour exhaustion.
“that’s all?”
he nods, “that’s all.”
in spite of myself, there’s a small pang in my chest.
“you’ve been…well?” i cringe a little the moment it leaves my mouth. the question sounds so formal and and painfully awkward—like talking to a skittish animal.
“sure,” he nods, turning to thank the barista who arrives with his coffee just then. steam wafts from the dark liquid. i already know just how bitter it will taste compared to my sweet drink. and still i smile when he takes a sip and sighs. “i’ve travelled the world and—”
“—haven’t found coffee as good as this,” i finish his sentence, smiling, cheesing at his dramatics. “you always say that. it’s just black coffee. not the hardest thing in the world to make.”
he brightens a little, shaking his head at me in mock disapproval. the silence that settles over us after is much kinder, friendlier. he sips on his drink and i take the time to watch him—a strand or two of grey in his hair now, his beard’s a bit longer too. it suits him better like this, so much so that i almost reach out and touch, thinking better of it at the last moment.
something else catches my eye then, the ring on his little finger, closer to me now. glinting in the sunlight.
“you’re wearing my ring,” i point out. he looks down at his hand and then back up at me. the smile on his face turns crooked.
“you left it on my dining table, so that makes it mine now. besides,” he points a finger at me, eyes softening a little, “you’re wearing my jumper.”
i gasp, look down at myself. “i hadn’t…i’m so…”
“‘s alright,” he takes another sip of his coffee, “i bought it so you could steal it anyway.”
a strange sort of warmth settles into my bones. when i pick up my mug again, it’s empty, its contents already consumed. his smile turns a little sad.
“do you need to go?” the plea in his voice squeezes like a fist around my heart. but my phone blinks at me, a messenger of father time.
“i do, i…” i swallow, gathering my bag in my arms, “it was lovely seeing you, angel.”
his eyes twinkle, much like mine had before. “you still call me that too…”
“old habits,” i shrug. then i stand, lifting my hand up into an awkward wave.
but i linger. unable to simply just… go.
“will you at least text me when you get home safely?” he asks, voice a little hoarse then, and fidgets with his ring again, something i’ve now realised is an anxious habit. i stare at his hands a little longer than necessary—beautiful, familiar hands, hands that held mine and traced shapes on my body and showed me stars.
home, i think to myself, some cold, expensive flat in the complete opposite side of town. white and beige, full of flat, steely surfaces and perfectly made beds. just one toothbrush in the bathroom, though, just one towel.
“i’ll text you when i get back home,” i nod. it’s not illegal for exes to care about each other’s basic safety, is it?
“and will you?” he raises an eyebrow, “go home?”
so this is what it has come to… thinly veiled questions that mean something else entirely, and none of us can bring ourselves to say what we really want to.
“i will,” i smile at him one last time, finally taking a step towards the door, “i’ll find my way home eventually. someday.”
