As I make my exit from the building, that’s when the nerves really begin to take over. I’m not entirely sure what to expect from Rachael. She could be understanding. She could be disgusted. She could be furious. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do, about both Tyler and Dean. Based on the tone of her messages earlier this morning, I get the impression that she’s not very impressed with the decisions I’ve been making.
Breathing deeply as I turn onto Lexington Avenue, I try to remain as calm as I possibly can be right now. Joe Coffee is just ahead, but I halt and press a hand against the window of a clothing store to steady myself. It takes me at least a minute or so to slow down my breathing and for the knots in my stomach to loosen. I just want all of this to be over already. I just want everyone to know the truth and to accept it. I just want to skip this part entirely, the part where we explain ourselves. Frowning, I realize the next people who are going to find out the truth are our parents.
By the time I reach Joe Coffee, it’s just after 11:30. I head inside. It’s rather small, with only a few tables. I join the line and pull out a five-dollar bill from the back pocket of my jeans. Glancing down at it, I heave a sigh. It’s not that bill, but still, it’s enough to remind me of it. Am I supposed to keep the five-dollar bill I’ve shared with Dean for the past two years? The bill that he recklessly wrote all over? Am I supposed to just spend it? Throw it in the trash? Donate it to some homeless guy out on the street? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind that the bill is a little wrecked.
The line edges forward, and as I continue to wait I end up staring at the jars of cookies lining the counter. I wonder what Dean’s doing right now. How he’s feeling. If he’s okay. I doubt that he is. Last night, he looked destroyed. I could hear the devastation in his voice and I could see it in his eyes. There’s no way he’s okay.
My throat feels dry by the time the barista gets to me, so I croak out my order. I skip my usual extra shot of caramel. Too fattening. Swallowing hard, I drum the tips of my fingers along the counter as I wait, stepping to the side. I wish I could ignore the thoughts in my head. I don’t want to think about Dean. I don’t want to think about how despicable I am and how dreadful I feel.
It doesn’t take too long for my latte to be served, steaming hot as requested, and I make my way over to the empty table against the front windows. I set down my coffee and pull out a chair, slowly slumping down into it as my eyes scan the avenue outside. Right now, I could be in the Refinery. I could be staring out at Santa Monica Boulevard. I could be back home, back in Santa Monica. At least it feels that way for a moment. But then I remember that I’m not in the Refinery and that I’m not in Santa Monica; I’m still in New York. Part of me feels homesick. Part of me feels glad.
Joe Coffee has a relaxed ambience, yet I feel anything but. My heart feels like it’s throbbing against my chest as my gaze rests on the faint reflection of myself in the window. Right now, I’m not proud of myself. For two years, I’ve been doing everything wrong. I’ve messed up, and now I’m wondering if it’s even worth it.
Without thinking, I wrap my hands so tightly around my mug that I end up scorching my palms, and I recoil, snapping out of the trance I’m in. Feeling slightly empty, I stare down at my hands for a while, studying the creases of my palms.
“Eden.” My eyes drift up to discover Rachael. She’s frowning down at me, her lips pressed into a firm line as she pulls out the other chair and sits down, placing her purse carefully onto the table.
I watch her as she looks out the window for a while. The tension is clear. Neither of us is willing to speak first, and the silence feels strained. My throat feels tight, yet I know I need to say something, so I pick up my mug and take a long sip of my latte. Placing it back down on the table, I part my lips, but Rachael turns her head to face me at the exact same time and, surprisingly, she talks first.
“I can’t believe you,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice low and hushed.
“Rachael . . .” I try to think of what to say, how to explain myself, but she cuts me off before I have the chance to muster up another word.
“No, Eden,” she snaps. “I cannot believe you cheated on Dean. And with Tyler. Tyler!” She scoffs and swallows hard, shaking her head in disgust and angling her body slightly away from me.
“Please just hear me out,” I plead, glancing around us to ensure no one has overheard. I’d much rather the other customers aren’t made aware that I’m a horrible person.