Chapter 2: Why didn’t you tell me
The night air in the West Village was cool, carrying the damp, metallic scent of last night’s rain. Joseph walked with no particular direction, the rhythm of his stride an attempt to settle the low hum of dislocation in his chest. The city fit him differently now. Sharper angles, louder sounds.
He turned a corner and saw it: a café with large, fogged windows and a hand-painted sign that read "Perkatory." Through the glass, he could see the warm glow of hanging bulbs and the steam from an espresso machine. It seemed as good a place as any.
The bell above the door jingled a flat, tinny sound. Inside, the air was thick with the rich, bitter smell of roasted beans and something sweeter, like lavender and burnt sugar. Mismatched china clattered on wooden tables. A girl with blue hair laughed too loudly at something on her laptop. An older man argued softly with a newspaper. It was the kind of carefully curated chaos Monica would love.
He ordered a black coffee, the simplicity of it a small anchor. As he turned from the counter, the heavy ceramic mug warm in his hand, he took a single step forward and collided with someone.
Coffee sloshed over the rim, a dark arc searing the back of his hand. The other person gasped, stumbling back.
Instinct took over. His free hand shot out, landing firmly on her waist to steady her. The wool of her coat was soft under his palm. He registered the slender curve, the familiar give of her body against his hand, in the half-second before he looked down.
Her green eyes were wide, startled, already looking up at him. Rachel.
His hand was still on her waist. He could feel the faint tremor that ran through her, or maybe it was his own. The noise of the café—the grinder’s scream, the chatter—seemed to drop away, muffled by a thick, sudden silence that existed only between them.
He jerked his hand back. The heat from the coffee on his skin was nothing compared to the electric memory of touch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— I wasn’t looking.”
She took a shaky step back, her own hands fluttering to her own, unspilled latte. “I- It’s okay.” She stammered. Her voice was higher than he remembered it being yesterday. She glanced down at the small brown puddle on the scuffed floorboards between them. “No harm done.”
An awkward beat stretched, filled only by the hiss of the steam wand.
“You come here often?” he asked, immediately regretting it. It sounded like a bad line.
“Sometimes.” She adjusted the strap of her leather bag on her shoulder. “Monica gets her pastries here. The lavender scones.” She gestured vaguely toward a glass case, as if providing evidence.
He nodded, having no idea what to say next. The silence rebuilt itself, heavier this time.
Rachel’s eyes dropped to the stain on his hand. “You’re burned.” Her words were quiet, almost swallowed by the café’s noise.
“It’s nothing.” He wiped his hand on his jeans. The brief pain was a welcome distraction from the static filling his head.
She shifted her weight, her boot scuffing the floor. “I heard you’re staying with Monica.” The words hung there.
“For now.” He took a small sip of his coffee, the bitterness grounding him. “Just until I find my own place.”
Joseph caught the clock on the wall. The bold red numbers announced the time like an accusation.
“I’ve gotta go.” He said, the words coming out rougher than intended.
Rachel kept her eyes on him, her expression unreadable. A hundred unsaid things flickered in the space between their glances. “Yeah,” she said, her voice barely above the café’s din. “So do I.”
He gave a final, stiff nod, a gesture that felt entirely inadequate. Turning, he wove through the cramped tables, the weight of her gaze a palpable pressure between his shoulder blades.
Joseph walked out of the coffee shop. The bell jingled once, a flat, closing sound.
The cool air hit him, cooler and sharper now. He didn’t look back through the fogged glass. He just started walking, his coffee cooling rapidly in his hand, the ghost of her waist still burning against his palm.
He walked through the neighbourhood changing from boutique stores to quieter, tree-lined streets, finally circling back to Monica’s building.
The climb up the five flights was slower this time. He let himself into the silent apartment, the lingering scent of garlic and cinnamon now feeling strangely hollow. He set his keys on the counter with a sharp click.
Joseph stripped off his shirt, the faint smell of spilled coffee clinging to the fabric. The shower hissed to life, steam quickly fogging the small mirror.
Under the hot water, he braced his hands against the tiles, letting the heat pummel his shoulders. He replayed the collision in the café on a loop—the soft wool of her coat, the way her breath had caught. It was an accident. It meant nothing. He turned the water to cold, gripping the shuddering tension in his jaw until it passed.
He emerged, towel around his waist, the apartment still quiet. “Mon?” he called out, his voice echoing slightly. No answer. He’d thought she’d be back by now, but she wasn’t.
Dressed in tracks and a grey t-shirt, he sank onto the couch. The late afternoon sun was gone, replaced by the deep blue haze of evening. The monk’s lamp on the side table, a quirky ceramic figure holding a light bulb, cast a soft, warm glow across the room, painting long shadows on the far wall.
He stared at the seahorse-shaped crack in the ceiling plaster, his mind blissfully empty for a few seconds.
His phone rang, a harsh, vibration against his thigh. He pulled it from his pocket, staring at the number. His brows furrowed.
He answered. “Hello?”
A breath. Soft. Familiar. It traveled down the line and wrapped around his ribs, tightening them.
“Hey.” Rachel’s voice came, soft. Quiet.
Joseph sat up slowly, the worn cushions of Monica’s couch groaning under his shift. He pushed a hand through his damp hair. “Hey,” he said quietly.
He could hear her breathing, a shallow rhythm he once knew as well as his own.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” The words were a whisper, frayed at the edges, leaving her lips like a secret she hadn't meant to let out.
He let out a breath, a long, slow exhalation that emptied his lungs.
“I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me,” he said. The truth of it was simple and terribly heavy.
On her end, in her own apartment, Rachel put her hand on her chest. Of course I wanted to hear from you, she thought. The pressure behind her sternum was a tangible, aching thing. She stared at a rough sketch on her table, the lines blurring.
“Why?” she asked.
The word was small, cracked open. It hung in the digital space between them, charged and fragile.
She heard his breath, a slow intake over the line. It was the sound of a man steeling himself. “You know why,” he said.
His voice was low, graveled with a honesty that felt like a shove. She did know. It was the same reason she hadn’t called him in three years.
Her chest felt tight. Her eyes watered. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, the quick, angry motion of someone ashamed of the reaction. A sniffle escaped her, wet and unmistakable.
“Rach.” He said, hearing her sniffle. His voice softened, curling around the old nickname. It was a balm and a brand.
She held back a sob, pressing her fist against her mouth. The pressure built behind her ribs, a wave threatening to break her careful composure. “I have to go,” she said. The words were rushed, a desperate plea for escape.
“Wait, don’t—”
She ended the call.
The sudden silence was a physical void. She dropped the phone onto the sketchpad as if it had burned her. It clattered against the wooden table. She stared at it, her vision swimming, the jagged lines of her design melting into meaningless shapes.
A full minute passed. The apartment didn’t breathe. She stood up too quickly, her chair scraping the floor with a jarring shriek. She needed air, movement, anything to outrun the feeling. She paced to the window, looking down at the night traffic, the red and white streaks of light that meant nothing.
Her own reflection ghosted back at her in the dark glass—pale, stricken. She looked away from the window, her breath fogging a small circle on the cool glass.
Rachel grabbed her phone from the table, the screen still dark from the ended call. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through her contacts, landing on Monica’s name. She pressed call, lifting it to her ear with both hands to steady it.
It rang twice.
Monica answered. “Hey.” She said, her voice bright with its usual energy, though it softened when Rachel didn’t immediately reply.
Rachel sniffled, swallowing hard against the tightness in her throat. She composed herself, forcing her voice into something level. “Can you come over?” she asked.
There was a brief pause on the line, a beat of understanding. “I’m on my way,” Monica said, no questions asked.
Ten minutes later, a firm knock echoed through the quiet apartment. Rachel opened the door. Monica stood there looking at her, her coat buttoned crookedly, concern etching lines around her eyes.
Rachel let out a sob, a raw, ragged sound that broke the last of her composure. Monica stepped inside, closed the door, and wrapped her in a hug.
Rachel crumpled into it, her body shaking. She buried her face in the soft wool of Monica’s sweater, smelling lavender detergent and the faint, perpetual trace of cinnamon. The tears were hot and silent at first, just heaving shoulders, but then a sound escaped—a choked, guttural thing.
Monica just held on. She didn’t shush her or pat her back. She just stood there in the dim hallway, an anchor.
“He’s back.” Rachel said crying, the words dissolving into a wet sob against Monica’s shoulder.
Monica held her. She didn’t say anything.
They stood like that until Rachel’s breathing began to hitch, the sharp edges of the panic slowly wearing down to a dull, aching throb. Monica guided her to the sofa, a worn grey thing draped with a knitted blanket. Rachel sat, pulling her knees up to her chest.
Monica disappeared into the small kitchen. Rachel heard the familiar clink of a glass, the tap running, the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She returned with water, placing it on the coffee table next to a scattered pile of fabric swatches.
Monica settled onto the cushion beside her.
Rachel wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I ran into him. Literally. He was there and I was there and…” She trailed off, staring at the window. “He steadied me. His hand was on my waist. It was just a second.”
She looked at Monica, her green eyes wide and wrecked. “Three years, Mon. I finally stop dreaming about his voice. I finally go a whole week without wondering what he’s doing. I let Mike leave a toothbrush here.” Her laugh was a sharp, broken sound.
“What did Mike say?” Monica asked carefully.
“I haven’t told him.” Rachel picked up the glass of water, her fingers leaving smudges on the cool surface. She took a sip, the water doing nothing to ease the tightness in her throat. “What do I say? ‘Hey, the love of my life just materialised, hope that’s okay?’”
“He’s not the love of your life,” Monica said, but it lacked conviction. It was just something you were supposed to say.
Rachel gave her a look that was pure exhaustion. “Please.”
Monica sighed, conceding the point with a slight nod. “Okay. Fine. But you’re different now. He’s different.”
“Is it?” Rachel’s voice was small. She thought of the phone call, the way his voice had softened around her nickname. “He said he didn’t think I wanted to hear from him why. I asked why he never told me he was coming back. We just…
She set the glass down too hard. “And now he’s here. In your apartment.” She wrapped her arms tighter around her knees. “What am I supposed to do?”
Monica was quiet for a long moment. She picked at a loose thread on the knitted blanket. “I don’t know,” she said, finally. It was the only honest answer. “You feel whatever you feel. You see what happens.”
Rachel rested her forehead on her knees. The pressure was a dull relief. The apartment was so quiet she could hear the low buzz of the streetlight outside her window. “I’m so tired,” she whispered.
“Then sleep.” Monica stood up, her joints cracking. “I’ll stay on your couch tonight.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Shut up.” Monica was already pulling cushions onto the floor, grabbing the blanket. “I’m not leaving you alone. He’s my brother. I feel weirdly responsible.”
Rachel managed a weak smile. It felt strange on her face. She stood, her body heavy. “Thank you, Mon.”
Rachel walked to her bedroom door. She slipped into the dark and closed the door. She didn’t get undressed. She just lay down on top of the covers, still in her jeans and sweater, and stared at the ceiling.
The memory of his hand on her waist was a brand. It tingled. Outside, a siren wailed, climbing then fading into the Manhattan night. She closed her eyes and saw his, that startled, electric blue, looking down at her in the crowded café.
She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow. It offered no answers. Down the hall, she heard Monica sigh and settle on the couch. The distant, rhythmic sound of her snoring began soon after.