Echos In The Steam

Isabella woke before sunrise, the notebook Jason returned tucked carefully beneath her pillow. Its leather spine still smelled faintly of him—wood and ink, nostalgia. Her body felt like a terrain divided: one half longing for the thrill of midnight secrets, the other rooted in her carefully cultivated life with Marco and their children.

Morning sunlight caught dust motes spiraling over the coffee shop tables as she unlocked The Mocha Mist. She shivered, not from the cold, but from lines of poetry she’d read again in bed—lines that breathed life into memories she never fully faced. She tucked the notebook aside, tucking it behind the register where no one would see. Even Rosa, her loyal barista, didn’t question why Isabella appeared distracted. There was a soft storm behind her green eyes.

Marco showed up ten minutes later, pressing a kiss to her forehead before nose-deep into his phone again. She offered a reassuring smile and steered him toward the espresso machine.

He hesitated, eyes scanning the café. “Everything okay?” he asked, concern latent within the curve of his brow. He didn’t yet know.

“Just… tired,” she said and closed the lid on the kettle. She swallowed a flicker of guilt; tired from what, exactly?

The day’s rhythm began: customers stepped in, morning routines played out, the hiss of the steam wand answered by mumbled orders. Marco kissed Luca’s forehead as he picked him up from school at midday, warmth clouding his features for a brief, perfect moment.

Yet Isabella’s relief twisted inside her. Marco’s tenderness only highlighted her emptiness. At the break-of-day lull, she wandered to the back room, Jason’s notebook burning in her apron pocket. She opened it: smudged writing, doodles in margins, buried lines—

“I remember how your laughter trembled when the light hit just right.”

Her fingertips trembled. She traced the words like a promise. She wasn’t seeking to hurt anyone, but reading them, she almost believed she could feel that laughter again.

Rosa interrupted. “Boss, your lunch. With an extra shot.” She scooped up Isabella’s usual: turkey and provolone on ciabatta.

Isabella forced a smile. “Thanks, Rosa.”

Rosa studied her. “Firsts seem to unsettle you.” She gestured at the notebook. “Makes sense—this one’s a doozy.”

Isabella folded her arms. “Just… reminding myself of who I was.”

Rosa nodded, but didn’t press further—a testament to years of loyalty and knowing when to stay silent.

Afternoon turned toward evening. The last customer left. Isabella locked the front door and flipped off neon signs. Silence settled like fresh cream, putting her heart more on edge than any silence had in years.

She paced behind the counter. Fishing for change, wiping down tables, but mostly waiting—waiting for what she couldn’t name.

Then the bell chimed. Nobody else had a key. She swallowed.

Jason stepped in. Evening light washed over him, quiet but intense. His presence was a wave rolling up her spine.

“Did you read it?” he asked, voice softer than she remembered.

She nodded. He walked over, sliding into the shadow closest to her. No other entry, no other light—just them and the scent of mocha lingering in the air.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, voice hitching over a half-truth.

She looked away. “It… it made things feel possible.”

Jason’s hand brushed hers on the counter. Her breath quickened.

“I wasn’t sure you’d accept me after—you know,” he added, emotion tangled with regret. He gestured toward the notebook. “After I disappeared.”

She held his gaze. “You left without an explanation. You broke my trust.”

He swallowed. “A mistake. My mother died my senior year. I didn’t know how to grieve. I felt hollow and ashamed. I thought distance would fix it. Instead, I lost everything—to my own silence.”

She remembered his perfection: the boy who spoke in printed essays, the guy whose touch felt like home. And here he was—small, vulnerable, closer than any man had been in years.

Their eyes locked. She saw longing and history, felt her own heart tremble with a question she wasn’t ready to ask.

He leaned in slowly. Their lips brushed. A promise waited in that cautious movement.

Isabella pulled away. “I can’t do this… I can’t.” Panic fluttered. She dropped her voice. “I’m married. I have children.”

Jason stilled. His eyes darkened. “I know.”

She turned away, head bowed. Her apron got tangled around her waist. She reached up to undo it, but hesitated. She was holding onto security as she leaned toward danger.

She placed the notebook flat on the counter. “You left me empty once. What makes me think you won’t—again?”

Jason closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Because this time, I stayed.” He picked up the notebook. “I kept it. All of it. And I came back. Because I couldn’t stop missing you.”

Her pulse thundered. She closed her eyes willing to shut out the ache—but it broke through, like white light.

“Isabella?” Jason asked. She could feel his heart echoing beneath his chest.

She met his gaze. “I need to find myself first.” Her voice caught. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Jason nodded. His fingers brushed the notebook across the countertop. “I’ll wait.”

Silence slid between them. The café lights hummed overhead, streetlamps flickered, cars passed in the distance. They were alone yet teetering on possibility’s edge.

Footsteps rattled behind them. Isabella froze. Through the back corridor stepped Marco. He’d come early hoping to surprise her.

His expression turned as he took in Isabella’s sideways stance and Jason’s half-hidden figure behind the notebook.

Marco’s eyes darted from the notebook to Jason’s face.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Isabella’s voice trembled. “I… Marco…” Words fractured. She looked at Jason, then back at her husband, her heart splitting open.

Marco’s question lingers: “What’s going on?” And in that moment, the Mocha Mistress must choose silence, truth, or a confession that could shatter everything.