We started talking in pieces after that. At first just gym small talk. Then longer conversations near the coffee bar downstairs. Then a Saturday morning walk to a farmer’s market that somehow turned into three hours and lunch and the easiest silence I had experienced in years.
He knew pieces of my story because gossip travels, especially when there is a Vegas wedding and a courthouse coffee fight involved. But he never asked for the full spectacle. He let me tell it only in fragments, only when I wanted to. He did not treat my past like entertainment or trauma currency or a thing to solve. He simply listened when I spoke and remained himself when I stopped.
One morning, after I had mentioned Ethan’s name only once in two weeks and mostly in the context of joking about how peaceful it was to live without unexplained sneaker piles in the entryway, Jacob handed me a coffee as I arrived.
On the cup, written in black marker, were two words.
Not Ethan.
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled it down my front.
He grinned. “Thought you could use the reminder.”