Chapter 25: Coffee and Conversations
Sunday, October 28, 2018 - Groundwork Coffee, 12:47 PM
I arrived thirteen minutes early. Nervous habit.
The coffee shop sat two blocks from St. Vincent Medical Center—Emma's choice, probably so she could respond if the hospital called. Small space, industrial aesthetic, the kind of place that took coffee seriously. Exposed brick, minimal seating, the hiss of an espresso machine cutting through low conversation.
I ordered black coffee. Found a corner table. Pulled out my phone, pretended to check emails.
Don't overthink this. She asked you out. She already likes you. Just be normal.
My recall replayed every interaction. Community event. ER after the shooting. Phone call. Yesterday's texts. Searching for patterns, analyzing tone, looking for—
The door opened. Emma walked in wearing navy scrubs, hair pulled back, exhaustion visible in the shadows under her eyes.
She came straight from shift.
"Sorry," she said, sliding into the chair across from me. "Overnight shift ran long. Trauma case came in at 6 AM."
"You could've rescheduled."
"I could've." She smiled, tired but genuine. "Didn't want to."
My danger sense stayed quiet. No threat. Just nervousness.
She ordered—double shot Americano, extra hot, no room for cream. My recall filed it away automatically.
Oat milk latte, large, caramel, for me. Double Americano extra hot for her. Got it.
"So," Emma said when her coffee arrived. "Tell me about the heist. I saw the news coverage. You guys looked ridiculous."
The tension broke. I laughed, pulled up the video on my phone.
"We were ridiculous. Lucy tried to do a magic trick. Failed spectacularly. Jackson showed her up. And our Captain won by staying at the station the entire time while we ran around LA like idiots."
Emma watched, actually laughed. Not polite. Real.
"That's brilliant. She outsmarted everyone."
"Thirty years of experience versus enthusiasm." I pocketed my phone. "How was your shift?"
Her expression shifted. Professional mask slipping. "Lost a patient. Nineteen-year-old, motorcycle accident. Did everything right surgically, but the damage was too extensive. Called time of death at 5:47 AM."
"I'm sorry."
"It happens." Her fingers tightened around her cup. "Not the first. Won't be the last. But nineteen is young. He had parents in the waiting room. Younger sister. I had to tell them."
My lie detection stayed silent. She was honest. Completely.
"Last week," I said, "domestic violence call. Kid hiding in the corner while his father beat his mother. Seven years old. We arrested the dad. Mother refused to press charges. Said she loved him, he'd change." My recall played it perfectly. Too perfectly. "I'll remember that kid's face forever. Exactly how he looked. What he was wearing. The specific shade of fear in his eyes."
"Photographic memory?"
"Something like that." Careful. "Point is—I can't forget it. Even if I want to."
"That's the cost." Emma's voice was quiet. "You save people. But the ones you can't save, or the ones who won't save themselves—they stay with you."
"How do you handle it?"
"Dark humor. Exercise. Wine on bad nights. Therapy every two weeks." She met my eyes. "And I use deflection. Jokes. Changing the subject. Keeping people at arm's length so they don't see how much it affects me."
My chest tightened. "You just described me."
"I know. I recognize it because I do the same thing." She leaned forward. "You deflect constantly. Humor, stories about your parents, redirecting attention. It's a defense mechanism. Works great until it doesn't."
She sees me. Actually sees me.
"Sometimes," I said, more honest than intended, "I feel like I'm living someone else's life. Trying to make it fit. Like I'm performing being a cop, being a person, and hoping no one notices the act."
Careful. Too close to the truth.
Emma didn't flinch. "Everyone does. Imposter syndrome. I felt it through residency. Still feel it some days when a surgery goes wrong." She paused. "Fake it until it fits. That's what my mentor told me. Pretend you belong until one day you wake up and realize you actually do."
"And if it never fits?"
"Then you find the people who see through the fake and like you anyway." Another pause. Her hand moved closer to mine on the table. Didn't touch. Almost. "I think I'm starting to see through yours. The deflection, the jokes. There's someone real under there. Someone carrying weight you won't talk about."
My recall captured every word. Every micro-expression. The way her fingers almost touched mine.
This is real. She's not scared off by the darkness. She gets it.
My phone buzzed. Her pager went off simultaneously.
"Of course," she muttered, checking it. "Multi-vehicle collision. All hands."
"Go. People need you."
She stood, hesitated. "This was good. Really good. Can we do it again? Actually call it a date this time?"
"Yeah. Definitely."
"Good." She grabbed her coffee. "Don't die before then. I hate losing patients."
Then she was gone. Scrubs and exhaustion and a smile that said she meant the date comment.
I sat alone, coffee cooling, recall playing the conversation on loop.
She sees me. Not the transmigration, not the powers. But the person underneath. The one trying to fit into a life that wasn't originally his.
And she's not scared.
Sunday Afternoon - Ethan's Street, 2:34 PM
Nolan was doing yard work when I got home. Looked up, saw my expression.
"You're smiling at nothing," he observed. "That's either really good or you've had a stroke."
"The date went well."
"Well enough for a second one?"
"Yeah. She asked. Called it a date specifically."
Nolan dropped his rake, actually grinned. "That's great, man! She seems perfect for you. Smart, gets the job, doesn't take your deflection seriously."
"She called me out on it."
"Good. You need someone who won't let you hide." He picked up the rake again. "You deserve this, Ethan. Something good that's just yours. Not about the job, not about proving yourself. Just... happiness."
"Thanks."
"You've been carrying a lot since you got here." He gestured vaguely. "I don't know what, exactly. But I see it. The weight. And I'm glad you found someone who makes it lighter."
If only you knew. Transmigration. Meta-knowledge. Powers. The burden of knowing people will die unless I prevent it.
"She helps," I admitted. "Makes it feel manageable."
"Then don't screw it up."
"I'll try not to."
I went inside, closed the door, let myself smile without performance.
First time since transmigration that I've felt genuinely present. Not surviving. Not pretending. Just... living.
Emma's words echoed through my perfect recall: Fake it until it fits.
Maybe it was finally starting to fit.
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