Her Secret| ✓

01

Break My Heart Again by Finneas. Welcome, enjoy my Madness

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Present

IT WAS THE RIGHT building on the right street and in the right town, finally. He looked up at the folded piece of damp paper in his hands, level with his gaze. It should have been a text message or an email on his mobile, in the modern-day and age when every little thing seemed to be associated with technology, but he took pleasure in the simple things like pen and paper.

"Never thought I would be back here," He said under his breath, stowing the folded paper in the breast pocket of his coat, taking in all the changes to the refurbished cafe-noting that nothing had really changed in his absence. It was still the safe haven he remembered it being. He grunted, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.

Foreboding storm clouds thwarted the Sun, rain drizzled effortlessly, the OPEN sign of the cafe, La Balise, shone like a beacon in the eye of a storm-a sign of humbled humanity in a senseless world. Yes, he hummed with satisfaction, it was the perfect neutral territory to meet this reporter-what was her name? Sweet gal, he thought. Clouds and thunder were brewing, they were in for a doozy.

Laying a folded ten-dollar bill beside his mug, he thanked the waiter for the fresh pot of coffee and checked the time; he had some time to spare and tipped his hat brim as he laid it on the empty seat beside him. As he poured the steaming black brew, he remembered a time when he shared latte dates with someone, bitterly reminding himself that he poured for one. He lost himself in the rising steam tornado, letting the warmth seep into him, he turned to look through the torrential rain drenching the streets of Seattle.

"Mr. Laurence," The waiter re-emerged with a small plate, a blueberry scone offering, and placed it beside the full carafe. Mr. Laurence smirked, a satisfied grunt. "Compliments of the owner," With that, the waiter returned behind the bar.

Mr. Laurence checked his wristwatch compulsively, he still had the time and pulled his mobile from his pocket, he briefly checked for any news and laid it beside his empty mug. A whiff of doubt hit him, and he frantically began patting the pockets of his coat, anxiety rising to an all-new high until his fingers felt the bulge through the inside pocket of his coat. The journal, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply. It was safe.

Exhaling with relief, he went over his mental checklist of the things he was prepared to tell her, of the story that had been half crafted-like an unfinished basement. Exposed beams and unrefined cement. He did not want to tell the journalist anything, he had argued with his legal team for far too many days about it, finally concluding he would talk to her, give his side of the story-on his terms. He had the right to withhold anything from the press that he fancied.

He did not recall at what point exactly it had been when he had gotten to the breaking point; since the first stage of failure, his mobile had been on a constant ring. Reporters camped outside of his home, daily incessant reminders on the radio, eager onlookers.

I still cannot forget the taste of burnt coffee, honey, and a little bit of rum, he thought as his mind roamed to a place in time he had locked up.

The slight creak of wood as the rain pitter-pattered its way down the windowsill reminded him of how much he had missed the city he called home. He was a grown man, hiding in the shadows of his twisted past, what was the use in pretending it had never happened?

Mr. Laurence flicked his eyes in the direction of the entrance, a petite woman scanned the place sceptically, narrowed her line of sight on him, and approached. She had done her research, knowing what he must look like, he did not know whether to be impressed or unnerved. He shoved himself out of the booth and stood to greet her, offering his assistance with her heavy raincoat.