Page 35 of Brewing Up My Fresh Start

“Visual aids are crucial for effective communication. Miranda always said my presentations were very thorough and professionally formatted.”

“And completely missing the point of being married to someone instead of managing them like a business acquisition.”

“Well... yes. That too.”

We fall into comfortable silence, but it’s charged with an awareness that wasn’t there before. The sugar granules catch the lamplight between our still-connected hands like tiny stars, and I realize we haven’t moved apart. If anything, we’ve somehow shifted closer, drawn together by gravitational forces beyond our control.

Outside, autumn wind whispers through the trees, and the coffee shop feels intimate—amber lamplight reflecting off copper accents, the lingering scent of cinnamon creating an atmosphere that could make anyone confess their deepest secrets or commit their most beautiful sins.

“Can I ask you something?” Michelle says, her voice softer now but no less dangerous.

“Shoot.”

“What made you realize Miranda was right? About the emotional unavailability situation.”

I think about it, trying to pinpoint the exact moment I understood how completely I’d failed, all while trying to ignore how Michelle’s thumb is still moving across my knuckles in hypnotic patterns. “She left me a note.”

“A note?”

“Taped to the bathroom mirror. Said she’d been trying to have a real conversation with me for three years, but I was always distracted by work or tired from work or stressed about work. Said she felt married to my career instead of me.”

“That must have hurt.” Her voice is gentle now, and she squeezes my hand in comfort—a gesture that shouldn’t be as intimate as it feels.

“The worst part was that I couldn’t argue with her assessment. I read that note and realized I couldn’t remember the last time we’d talked about anything besides schedules and logistics. I knew more about my subcontractors’ personal lives than my wife’s dreams or fears or hopes for our future.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m sitting here telling a woman I thought I barely knew more about myself than I ever told Miranda.” The admission hangs between us, loaded with implications I’m not ready to examine.

“Maybe because Miranda was trying to change you, and I’m just trying to understand you.”

The observation lands like a physical blow, true and devastating. Our hands are still connected over the scattered sugar, and I can feel her pulse beating against my palm like a secret message.

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“I don’t know.” Her honesty is brutal and beautiful. “Maybe I’m trying to figure out how a person can be so good at caringfor an entire community and so terrible at caring for the people closest to him.”

“You’ve been looking out for this town’s economy and infrastructure for years, but you couldn’t look out for your own marriage for three.”

“When you phrase it that way, it sounds pathologically dysfunctional and borderline sociopathic.”

“Not pathological. Just... complicated. Like you understand love in theory but not in practice.” Her fingers tighten around mine. “Like you’re fluent in the language but have never had a real conversation.”

“Miranda said the same thing. That I treated love exactly like a construction project—lots of planning and preparation, but never actually building anything real or lasting.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think she was right. I think I was so afraid of doing it wrong that I never really tried to do it at all.”

Michelle sets down her coffee with her free hand and looks at me with an expression that makes my pulse stutter. There’s something almost predatory in her gaze, like she’s seeing straight through every defense I’ve ever constructed.

“What would it look like if you tried?”

The question hits me like a challenge, and suddenly the air between us is so charged I can barely breathe. Her hand is still in mine, warm and soft and anchoring me to this moment that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.

“I have absolutely no idea. Probably a spectacular disaster of epic proportions. Miranda got three years of me attempting to be a good husband, and that ended with her running off with a man who remembered her birthday without digital reminders and smartphone alerts.”

“Maybe Miranda wasn’t the right person to try with.”