At the Blue Ridge Writers Conference last week in North Carolina, the following short story received a second place award. Enjoy the read.

The mug is there, on the shelf above the kitchen counter, untouched since the last time we had coffee together. I reach for it but hesitate, my hand suspended in midair. It was my father’s favorite mug, the one he always used when he visited me. I had no idea that the last time we had coffee together would be the last time. My hand drops to my side. The jade-colored mug will remain on the shelf as it has since my father’s heart attack. Life goes on.

I rest my hands on the counter and look out of the dingy window in front of me. Gray clouds above match my mood. As I glance at my watch, deep dread washes over me. Soon I’ll  leave for my weekly coffee with my dear friend Marcella. In the six months I have known her, I have realized that she is becoming more than a friend. Weekly coffee is slipping into dinner dates, daily texts, and even phone calls. I know I can’t hold back much longer. How can I explain my past life? It’s time to tell her the truth, the awful truth about what I did.

But how can I put it into words? 

I never expected someone like Marcella to enter my life. It was totally unexpected. One day at my favorite coffee shop, I grabbed my usual coffee from the counter, turned to leave and accidentally knocked her coffee out of her hand. It hit the floor and splattered coffee on her brown loafers and dress pants. Then she smiled at me with her deep blue eyes and said, “It’s okay. I’ll get another one.” She paused, then asked me to join her at a booth by the window. The glow on her face and her long brunette hair captivated me as she spoke. At that moment, I could tell she was different. I accepted her invitation.

Before I knew what was happening, a barista was mopping up the spilled coffee and I was sitting with her in a booth. We ended up talking for almost two hours. Later, she admitted that she purposely ran into me and dropped her coffee so that she could meet me. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I won the lottery of life…

If only my past didn’t threaten to take it all away. 

So many others had abandoned me when they learned what I did so many years ago. I had become a meme for failure, an example of how not to succeed in life.

I turn away from the window and lean against the counter as I look down at the worn linoleum with its fake wood print. The old fluorescent light on the ceiling hums above me. I feel a chill as thunder rumbles outside. The vacant table is still there, pressed against the wall in my tiny kitchen. It’s just big enough to seat two people. A month has passed since hepassed away and I can’t bring myself to sit at that table. There’s still a dried coffee ring stain on the table from my dad’s mug, marking the place where he always sat. I can’t bring myself to wipe it away. 

“Just tell her the truth,” my father told me the last time we had coffee together. It was the last piece of advice I received from him. He made it sound so easy.

My father left my studio apartment that day, and then, without warning, left my life. That day, I became an orphan in a world I had yet to fully understand. My father had a way with words, a way of explaining things. He spoke wisdom into my broken life, trying to mend me, piece by shattered piece. He knew everything about me, all the horrible things I had done to him and others, and yet he still showed up each week to have coffee with me, to counsel me.

Why he forgave me after all I did to him remains a mystery. There was something different about his life in those later years. I once asked him if he found religion, but he said he found forgiveness. He had a content look about him. I could see it each week when he sat across from me at the table with his Americano. He would sip his coffee, smile at me, and say, “Perfect. Just the way I like it.”

Of course I knew the way he liked his Americano. He was the one who taught me how to make it using a hand press espresso maker. “Hand-crafted is the best,” he would tell me. Now it was the way I liked it. I turn to look at his mug on the shelf next to the kitchen sink. My eyes trace the dried drip of coffee on the side of the mug. We connected with hands wrapped around warm mugs and the aroma of freshly ground espresso. Somewhere in all those lingering conversations, he tried to encourage me to forgive myself, but I never found the courage to do so.

My dad once told me about drinking watered-down espresso in Europe after World War II. I shared this story with Marcella a few months ago, explaining that he had passed on his love of Americanos to me. She was touched. It wasn’t just that he’d shared his love for this unique drink with me. It was the whole story about how I would fix my dad an Americano each week when he visited me until the day before he died.

I step next to the table and move my fingertips across the worn oak surface, feeling the nicks and scratches. Marcella has become my lifeline to hope. She was there for me in the days after my dad’s death. I can’t afford to lose her too, yet I know I can no longer hide my past from her. I glance at my watch and take a deep breath. Time to go.

The elevator buzzes and shakes as I ride it down to the street level. I look at my distorted reflection in the dented and scratched metal walls. I question myself as my father would… 

“Why do you think it’s important to tell Marcella?” He would say.

“Because she needs to know.”

“Why?” He would continue with the questions.

I’m not exactly sure why I need to tell her. I just know I care deeply for her. This is the first time I’ve had a real relationship with someone. I feel convicted to tell her the truth. The elevator doors open. I hesitate for a few seconds, not taking a step, then thrust my hand out to stop the doors from closing. I exit the elevator. 

Outside on the sidewalk, I look up at the gray sky. Drops of rain hit my face. Maybe Marcella will cancel our meeting. I lower my head, sigh, and start walking toward our favorite coffee shop. The phone in my pocket chimes. I hunch over and pull the phone out of my pocket. It’s a text from Marcella.

“Looking forward to seeing you soon,” the text reads, followed by several heart emojis.

“See you soon,” I respond with a heart and coffee cup emoji.

I sigh and slip the phone back in my pocket. I imagine her sending me broken heart and crying emojis after our meeting.

Pulling my jacket closer as the rain falls, I step around puddles on the sidewalk as I approach the coffeehouse. This is the first place we talked to each other and now our preferred place for deep conversation. With each passing month, each cup of coffee, we have peeled back more and more layers of our lives. The problem now was the one layer I did not want to peel back. It was a history I preferred not to reveal. Yet here I stood in front of the coffee shop. If I valued this relationship, I would have to tell her.

The conversation inside my head tells me there’s no way she’ll understand. How could she accept me if she knew what I did so many years ago? If I kept it a secret, she would never know. Yet I was drawn to her. I had never experienced this kind of deep connection with someone. 

My hand slips around the door pull as my fingers grip the cold brass. If I open the door, I know that this last layer of my life will not remain a secret. I release the handle, take a step back, and stare at my reflection in the glass door. Who is this stranger gazing back at me? I thought I knew him once, but now I am not so sure who will step through the door.

If I turn around and disappear from her life, she will never need to know about my past. But there’s this tug inside. We feel comfortable with each other. When we talk, the words flow between us in an easy rhythm; an orchestrated melody that soothes our weary souls. In my stumbling through life, somehow I had fallen into her. If I leave now with this last layer of my unrevealed past…well, either way I would break her heart. 

I start  to walk away when I hear knocking on one of the windows of the coffeehouse. There she was, her face pressed against the glass, wearing a bright smile. Rain streams down the glass pane, making her look like an old impressionist painting of a woman in a Paris café, preserved with oil paints on canvas. The image of her face framed behind the glass will be forever preserved in my mind, regardless of how this goes. 

With a smile, I wave and step back in front of the door. I pause a moment and stare at the lit neon sign next to the entrance with the name, “The Buzz.” The deep blue, cursive lettering reflects on the wet sidewalk and my polished leather shoes. As I step inside, a barista greets       me. I spot Marcella sitting in our usual booth. I wave to her as I walk to the counter and order an Americano. 

“Bryce!” Marcella calls. 

I pick up my Americano and join her at our usual booth by the window. I acknowledge her with a heartfelt greeting and a hug. She always looks so happy. Her smile calms me. I dread unearthing this last unknown piece of my past and tossing a shovelful of dirt on top of our deepening relationship. I curl my fingers around the warm mug, trying to fight off the cold anticipation I feel deep inside. 

Marcella picks up her mug, takes a sip, then lowers it so it hovers over the table. She narrows her eyes. “What’s going on?”

I trace a long scratch on the table with my finger, holding my mug in my other hand. “Stressful week at work.” I mumble.

Setting her mug down, eyes focused on me, she sits quietly for a moment, her head tilted as she reads me like an algorithm that knows what should appear next in my news feed. 

“I don’t think this is about work. I can tell there’s something deeper going on.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s pretty clear to me.”

I nod, take a sip of my coffee, and hold the fluid in my mouth long enough to let the espresso flavor linger before swallowing it. It seems the caffeine isn’t kicking in fast enough to give me the courage to speak the words circling in my mind. Three shots of espresso might have been better than two. It would’ve been stronger–enough of a kick to have the conversation with her that I’ve been replaying in my mind for weeks.

I sigh.

“It’s okay Bryce. You can tell me.”

I look into her eyes, hearing the words that her silence speaks to me. Without saying a word, her face tells me that I can trust her. This person who had been a stranger to me just over six months ago; this person who kept choosing to meet with me; this person who freely invited me into her life; this person with whom I was now sharing so much…

I find myself searching for an excuse not to go any deeper.

She reaches across the table and takes hold of my hand. The warmth of her grip radiates deep inside me like no mug of hot coffee could ever do. It feels real, alive, and profound. Her blue eyes pierce me with a feeling of kindness like I’ve never experienced before.

I struggle to part my lips, now pressed tight against each other. I blink to fight back the tears.

“You’re forgiven,” Marcella says as she squeezes my hand.

“How can you say that? You don’t even know what it is.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does. You don’t know what I did.”

She looks at me, not with scorn or contempt like so many others do who know my whole story. So many others have labeled me and never forgiven me for what I did. Here was someone who had not done an internet search to check my past. She accepts me for who I am now. Could I now come clean with full disclosure?

“Tell me, Bryce.”

There was no reason not to trust her. When I look at her, I see only a tender heart inviting me in. I feel vulnerable as I nod, take a deep breath, and slowly let the words come out. First as a halted, jumbled torrent of words, then more easily as I release the hidden story of my past. I tell her every last morsel of truth about what I did; every detail about the horrible things I let happen; every poor choice I made that led up to that awful day. I told her I would change history if I could, but it was part of my history, a part of my past; a part of who I was, but no longer who I am. 

As I speak, she never removes her eyes from mine and never once flinches. She keeps that gentle, empathetic look on her face as she listens to me. I am still fearful as I finish my story. I wait for her to abruptly leave in tears. Instead, she remains seated with both corners of her mouth raised. Her face radiates warmth and understanding. For the first time in my life, I think I finally understand the meaning of grace.

I peer into the mug in my hand and finally accept what my father had told me so many times as we shared Americanos. My cup was not empty, but was actually overflowing. I could now finally forgive myself.