Letting Go

“The man says to the salesman, ‘I just need bottoms,’ and the woman says, ‘I just need a top.’ They look at each other, and that’s the meet-cute.” —Arthur Abbott, The Holiday

NOELLE

The café buzzed with the low hum of conversation. It was the kind of place that felt like a well-kept secret. A narrow, brick-walled spot tucked between a bodega and a record store, where the lighting was warm and golden no matter the time of day. Mismatched chairs crowded around honey-toned wood tables, their surfaces etched with years of coffee rings and quiet confessions. Shelves lined the back wall, filled with weathered paperbacks and faded Polaroids of regulars pinned between the pages. Plants hung from the ceiling in old macramé holders, trailing vines brushing against the chalkboard menu that listed seasonal lattes in loopy, joyful handwriting. A jazz record crackled softly from behind the counter, mixing with the clink of ceramic cups and the occasional laugh that rose like steam. It smelled like brown sugar, burnt orange peel, and something Noelle couldn’t name—only feel. Like memory. Like home, if home had ever been this soft.

Noelle, her skin a warm cinnamon bronze, caught the light like something sacred. Dark, voluminous curls framed her face, pulled half-up in an artfully undone knot, with a few strands left loose—deliberate, like the rest of her. Her eyes were deep brown, framed by bold brows and thick lashes, and there was a knowing in her gaze, something both playful and impenetrable. She wore a soft ivory tank that hugged her curves beneath a worn, oversized jacket, its sleeves rolled to reveal patterned cuffs—subtle hints of earth-toned rebellion. Her denim overalls were vintage-washed and slightly slouched, the kind that said she lived in textures and stories, not trends.

Around her neck, a delicate gold pendant rested just below her collarbone—simple, but full of quiet significance. Rings adorned her fingers, purposeful, like she remembered exactly who gave her each one and why she still wore them. Her lips, full and dark, looked like they’d tasted poems and survived. She didn’t just walk into a room, she lingered in it—a painting in motion, a woman mid-story.

She scanned the cozy space as she waited, her gaze snagging on a Mommy-and-me group nestled in the corner, all in matching hoodies and buttery-soft yoga pants. They giggled with lattes in hand; their designer strollers lined up like show ponies. Picture-perfect gentrifiers, she thought to herself. I get it. It’s hard to truly enjoy the art when you know nothing of the pain, the joy, the love, the culture. Instead of immersing yourself, you overspend on new “vintage,” try to mimic our tongue, and reduce us to caricatures. But, is nowhere sacred? “Noelle! Caramel Macchiato with whip!” the barista called out. She weaved through the crowd to retrieve it, dodging elbows and laptop bags. “Right here! Thank you,” she chimed, reaching for the cup and inhaling the caramel steam with a contented hum. She turned, ready to find a table, and slammed directly into a wall of muscle. Her drink splashed hot and sticky down her front.

“Hhhuup!”

“Oh shit. My apologies!” the man blurted, already reaching for napkins, his hands darting out like a panicked waiter. “Are you alright? I’m so sorry.” Noelle can’t help but laugh at the sight of him, this ridiculously handsome man, flustered and desperately trying to fix the situation.He continued blotting at her top without thinking, then froze when he realized justwherehis hand had landed. They both looked down, his palm hovering at the slope of her chest. They both jumped back.

“I’m so—”

“No, really, it’s fine. I wasn’t paying atten—”

“Did I burn you?” His voice cut through her deflections, rich with concern.

“I-I’m fine.” Noelle hesitated, tugging the steamy, damp fabric away from her skin. “Okay, maybe I’m not fine, but I’ll live.” A soft chuckle escaped her.

“Let me buy you another,” he said without hesitation.

She started to protest, dabbing her reddened chest with napkins. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Please,” his voice dripping with sincerity.

“...Alright. Thank you,” she relented, now blotting at her top with a handful of napkins.

“Junie, let me get another...” he turned to her, waiting. She looked up. It was the first time she looked at him; caught in his kind brown eyes—impossibly warm—she lost her train of thought. “Ma’am?” Junie, the barista, called impatiently. The tone of her voice snapped Noelle out of her trance. “Right, sorry. Caramel macchiato, please.” Noelle tucked her hair behind her ear, curling a strand around her finger.

He extended a hand, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “I’m Adrian.”

“Noelle,” she replied, placing her hand in his. His touch was warm, steady. It jolted something deep in her chest.

“Noelle.” He echoed it like a promise, eyes lingering. “I haven’t seen you here before. Visiting?”

“Just moved here for work.”

His expression was that of a fox, tugging at one side of his full lips like he was holding back something clever. “I wish I’d given you a warmer welcome.” There was a softness in the way he looked at her, a playful flicker that made the air between them shift. His laugh was smooth, relaxed, like it lived in his chest more than his throat.

“Oh, it was piping hot. Believe me,” she teased, laughing softly.

That got him. He blinked, caught off guard, and let out a low laugh as if he didn’t know where to place her just yet. “Shall we?” he asked, nodding toward the tables. He already had their drinks in hand. As they walked, Noelle counted three stolen glances and what looked suspiciously like a blush climbing his cheekbones. She bit her lip, giggling under her breath as their eyes met again. Remember this moment, she told herself. One day, when someone asked how they met, she’d tell them how his curls had fallen perfectly into his face; one singular lock against a sea of thick, dark waves like a Latino Superman. Intentionally unruly and damn, it worked.

His golden-brown complexion glowed under the café lights, warm against the soft amber of his eyes. The light stubble of his beard suited him—mature, confident, and gave her an unobstructed view of that jawline. She imagined saying, “While I don’t usually go for goatees, I must admit, he pulled it off. Like, really pulled it off.” He set their drinks down, pulled her chair out like a gentleman, and waited for her to sit before taking his seat. She caught him smiling, and her mind froze.

Can he hear me?

No, idiot. You’re thinking, not speaking.

He sat back with his drink, one ankle crossed over his knee, watching her like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t mind getting lost in. She stared down at her mug, noticing for the first time the delicate leaf pattern in the foam. “Whipped cream,” she murmured.

His brow lifted as he set his cup down, licking his bottom lip in thought. “Would you like some?” He gestured toward the barista station, already rising.

“No! No. I was...thinking aloud. I’ve never noticed the art before...because of the whipped cream.” He squinted at her. The amusement playing on his lips, bringing his crow’s feet to life, brushing the corners of his eyes. They aged him in the best way. Without them, he might’ve looked like a young college kid. A very attractive one, she thought. “Nice to look at,” she added, then cringed inwardly at how that sounded. If this were a romcom, he’d say something cheesy like Me or the coffee? He chuckled, and her eyes widened.

Oh my God, he can hear me.

She probably looked ridiculous, grinning into her cup like a schoolgirl with a crush. But he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked...pleased. The forest green cashmere sweater he wore clung in all the right places: broad chest, sculpted arms, taut waist. Noelle fought the mental image of what might be under it—failing terribly.

“So what do you do?” he asked, sipping.

You. I’d like to do you.

“I’m an artist.” She harrumphed. “Well, I used to be. I teach now.”

He cocked a brow curiously. “Are you no longer an artist?”

“I mean...not really. It’s like they say: ‘those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’” She shrugged, watching the Mommy-and-me crew gather their things.

“And why is it you can’t?”

She blinked, startled by the directness. “I don’t know. It just never... happened for me.”

“I have a feeling your apartment is full of your work, tucked away, out of sight.”

She squinted. “Why would you say that?”

“There’s no room left. It’s already covered in your students’ work,” he said, grinning over his mug.

“And why wouldn’t I make room for mine?”

“You seem like someone who takes more pride in what you inspire than what you create.”

She tilted her head, unsure if she should thank him or deflect. Silence settled over them like a soft curtain. He leaned in slightly, his cologne—Bleu de Chanel, maybe?—drifting into her space. “Inspiring others to see beauty in the world? That’s no small thing,” he murmured, lips resting against his fist, his grin half-hidden. Her stomach fluttered.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’m a chef.”

“An artist in your own right,” she said, smiling. “Food is your medium.”

He chuckled. “I like that. What’s yours?”

“Depends,” she said quickly. “Sometimes pencils, sometimes charcoal. Or oil paint. Acrylic for more textured pieces and water color when I’m feeli—” She clamped her mouth shut. Ugh. Why did she always nervously overshare?

“Impressive,” he said, grinning again, his eyes never leaving hers. Then his phone lit up. Rose, it read. “Excuse me.” He sighed, stepping away, taking the call just outside. A few minutes passed, then he was back. “Where were we?”

“Art.” Noelle rested her cheek in her hand, her elbow pressed firmly on the table. “We were talking about—”

His phone buzzed again. More texts, a second call.

He mouthed sorry before walking outside once more. Noelle watched him through the window. He paced slowly, combing a hand through those curls. The fade on the sides made the texture up top even more tempting. The sunlight caught him just right as he turned and smirked through the glass—at her? Those dimples. She melted.

He returned with the same soft, apologetic expression. “I feel like I’ve been apologizing this entire time,” he said. “And now... I have to again. I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta run.” She stood with him. “No, please—sit. Enjoy your coffee.” He repositioned her chair gently. With one last sip of his drink, he set the mug down, placing a napkin over it with those big, capable hands, gently. Noelle shifted in her seat, the image that sprang to mind triggering an all too familiar longing. Those same hands roaming her body, gripping her hips, holding her in place for the kind of brutal, beautiful—a flash of gold on his left hand snapped her out of it. A ring—no, a wedding band. Her heart sank.

Just a friendly stranger.

“It was lovely meeting you, Noelle,” he said.

“Likewise,” she replied softly, and then he was gone.