Chapter 2

18-year-old Jake looked at us with even more confusion.

In his eyes, we must have looked like a loving couple.

Not long after 28-year-old Jake left, I gathered my things and got ready to go out.

As I was leaving, I told 18-year-old Jake, "Come with me."

18-year-old Jake and I ended up at a coffee shop.

I led him, as if I’d done it a million times before, to a secluded table. It was tucked away behind a large potted plant that provided good cover.

Then, I waved over a server and ordered two black coffees.

The server asked politely, "Miss, are you waiting for a friend?"

I was taken aback, realizing that the server probably couldn't see 18-year-old Jake.

So, was 18-year-old Jake a traveler who’d suddenly warped from ten years in the past, or a ghost roaming in my memories?

18-year-old Jake had been a bit out of it since he sat down.

He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced at the bitterness. I was amused by his reaction.

"What's wrong? This is your favorite drink now."

I pushed the coffee closer to him, propping my chin on my hand as I looked at him.

"You were always telling me that you were over the girly stuff."

"That's him. I still like milk tea," he pushed the coffee aside, as if it was a threat.

I knew he really did like milk tea.

When we were 16, we worked together at a milk tea shop to help support our family.

I was at the counter, and he was in the back making the drinks.

When we closed up for the night, the staff could take the leftover milk tea home. Jake would fill a big cup with all the toppings and then another big cup with milk tea for me. We'd walk home, and I'd sip the milk tea that didn't have a lid. Jake would take the cup of toppings and add them to my drink as I went.

If I couldn’t drink anymore, he'd take the milk tea and drink it himself.

He loved sweet drinks, but he always made mine low-sugar to suit my tastes.

The coffee shop door opened again.

This time, 28-year-old Jake walked in.

And there was a very pregnant woman, who he was carefully guiding to a table.

I watched as 18-year-old Jake’s eyes widened, an angry expression spreading across his face, his fists clenching.

I smiled even more.

How ironic.

We were truly childhood sweethearts, we had the exact same reaction when we saw this scene.

28-year-old Jake helped the woman sit down at the counter, ordered a sweet milk tea for her, specifically asking that it be lukewarm, not too hot or cold.

He didn’t order any coffee for himself. Instead, he grabbed another straw and shared the same drink with the woman.

"Looks like your taste hasn't changed."

I lost my smile and said to 18-year-old Jake,

"It’s just changed when it comes to me."

"That’s not me!"

18-year-old Jake trembled with anger, but he didn't go over there and drive off the people who were hurting me, like he used to. He also didn't grab my hand and frantically explain, either.

He just sat there, helplessly wringing the hem of his shirt under the table.

"Are you still wondering why I want a divorce?"

I set down my coffee, too.

The bitterness of the coffee was doing its best to keep the sadness down, but it was rising up, threatening to drown me.

"Amy, just give me another chance..."

"Why don’t you go ask him? There might be some misunderstanding..."

A wet, smacking sound interrupted us.

We both looked toward the counter.

Those two were kissing, oblivious to the world.

18-year-old Jake was silent. There wasn't anything left to explain.

He finally looked at me, wanting to reach out to hold my hand, to tell me not to cry, not to feel bad.

But in the end, 18-year-old Jake didn’t reach out.