“Don’t we all?” I say and judging by the look on Celine’s face, I know I’ve hit a sore spot.

“Divorces are nasty,” she says. “Ethan was lucky to get out unscathed. Isabella just signed the papers, got her check and left. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky…”

I don’t know what I’m shocked most about. That she’s divorced or that he’s divorced. Wikipedia said he was still married. You can’t trust anything anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know.”

“Not something I want to remember,” she says.

I don’t know what happened, but it obviously still hurts.

It’s maybe ten o’clock when I see Ethan coming in. I feel nervous. He’s here and I can talk to him, but how? How do I do this?

He smiles from the door and waves before going behind the counter and making his own coffee. Then he heads straight for a small table by the window, takes out a laptop, and starts typing.

I look at Celine, she looks at me, and she bursts out into laughter.

“Good morning to you too. By that ruffled hair of yours, I’d say you just woke up,” she says to her brother.

He groans and plasters a barely visible smile on his sleepy face.

His face changes when he smiles. It’s not a full-blown smile; it’s more of a shadow. Just like in the photo. It makes him look less like a manly man and more human. Pleasant, almost.

“He’s not a morning person,” says Celine. “I usually give him a couple of hours before I ask anything that needs an answer longer than one syllable.”

Two hours later, the line isn’t getting shorter, and Ethan hasn’t looked up once. I know, because I watched him. He’s wearing headphones and seems absorbed in whatever he’s writing. Unless it’s solitaire. As long as it’s not another story about me, I couldn’t care less.

I’m cleaning a table next to him—on purpose or not—and looking at him. He must’ve felt my gaze because he raises his eyes from the computer and looks straight at me.

He takes his headphones off with a sudden movement and accidentally pushes the coffee mug with his elbow to the edge of the table. He tries to stop it from falling, fails, but I manage to catch it at the last possible second. Luckily, it’s empty, otherwise, this would’ve been messy. Our hands touch for the briefest of moments; a second, less than that, and he pulls his hand back like I threw boiling water on it. I wish I’d pulled my hand away first. Instead, I just stood there like a rag doll.

What’s with the awkwardness on my part? Just act normal, I tell myself.

“Nice catch,” he says, straight-faced.

“Thanks,” I respond with a smile. “How’s the writing going?”

He stares and doesn’t even answer. OK. Here we go again with the staring.

“Do you want a refill?” I ask.