say as I drop down on one knee. Mia’s eyes widen. My voice sounds far away, as if I’m listening to someone else. I have a whole speech planned, but my mind is blank. So I say what’s in my heart: “Mia, you are the only girl I’ve ever loved. Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” Mia gasps and jumps into my arms. I hold the ring tight in my right hand and balance her lithe body with my left as we embrace. The perfect seashell drops and is washed away, but Mia doesn’t seem to notice. I gently set her down a few moments later and place the band on her left ring finger. Everyone on the beach is cheering so loudly that Mia insists we take a bow. We bend down and wave our arms wide. Mia is grinning. She’s in her element for sure. But it makes me feel slightly uneasy, as if we’re putting on a show. The thought falls away quickly as the applause fades, and she grabs my waist and pulls me back against her. “We’re going to have a great life,” she whispers, and I kiss her in response, believing every single word.
CHAPTER TWO
TUESDAY, JUNE 9, 2020
TEN YEARS LATER
At first, I’m not sure it’s her.
She reappears in the damnedest of all places—a hipster coffee shop wedged between a refurbished-furniture store and a hemp-purse boutique on Coast Highway in Oceanside, California. Somewhere I would never ordinarily be. But I am. And so is she. I nearly choke on my flat white when I realize the woman with the thick strawberry-tinted hair debating between a hot or iced vanilla–almond milk latte is the one who got away. My biggest regret for the past ten years.
It’s a fluke that I’m at Revolution Roasters today. The man behind the counter with the dark-blue beanie and the handlebar mustache is not my barista. Mine is Diane, a short woman with a shock of white hair and a smile that always makes my morning.
Yet here I am.
And there she is.
Mia.
It took me nearly forty-five minutes to drive to Oceanside from downtown San Diego to meet a source for a possible story. When he’d suggested it, I had balked at the location, but he’d convinced me—something about his college-age daughter working here and the lattes being well worth their eight-dollar price tag. He’s the source, and I’m in desperate need of a story, so of course I said okay. As I nurse my coffee, which is, in fact, quite good, I check the time. My source is late. By almost thirty minutes. I begin to wonder if I should leave. I study the moose taxidermy on the wall, the long wooden oars hanging next to it. I watch the man at the table next to me, who is wearing a baby and studying something on his phone; a plate of half-eaten avocado toast sits in front of him. I can see the side of the child’s cherub cheek, his eyelids, which are closed. Next to the man is a longer table packed with people with their noses deep in their laptops. I start to wonder, as the journalist in me often does, What is everyone’s story? Is the man the baby’s father or manny? Is the woman nearest to me—clad in shorts, a tank top, and Birkenstocks and studying the stock market on her computer—a student? Or the owner of a million-dollar tech company? And what would any of them think of me? A Latin guy with a head of unkempt curls wearing khakis and a button-down, with sleeves I rolled up after feeling firmly out of place? I hope the stories in their heads are better than the actual one—single, thirty-four, a local-news producer who hasn’t found a hard-hitting story since his Daytime Emmy five years ago. Should I add that I have a roommate? Own a leather couch? Probably not.
My phone buzzes, and I quickly swipe up. But it’s not my source.
I’m about to stand up to leave when I hear her voice. Melodic. The tone of it instantly taking me back to years ago, when I last heard it. When she said the words, “I can’t. I’m sorry. You should go.” My stomach flips as I start to swivel my head toward the sound. She’s asking about her latte—Is it better hot or cold? I’m almost afraid to look over. Because it can’t be her. It’s never been her. The hundreds of false alarms over the years have taught