the anxiety of knowing that at any moment, he'd run into her or someone that knew her, or worse, knew of him, was always tangled around his nerves. it was his entirely his fault for being brave enough, or as some of his friends had argued, stupid enough to move to the hometown of his ex-wife. it was to be expected, after all.

his heart hammered in his chest as he stood in a buzzing line of people all wanting the same thing — something for breakfast and a good cup of coffee to wash it all down with. he studied the menu like there was an exam after the fact, but it was hard to focus on anything when panic rattled deep in his bones.

after a beat, the new yorker turned and started to give an apology to the person directly behind him, but he fell quiet as he took in the familiar face before him. how many years had it been? or was he mistaking her for someone else? "maika?" it was a half question, half statement, but it lacked the usual confidence that dripped off his tongue.

"art therapy," she exhaled, hands at her hips as she looked at the blank canvas' spread out for their taking. "i'm glad we did the tastings before." the wine had warmed her from the inside out, had eased her nerves too. it was as if the man behind the bottle had known she needed more than the typical tiny pour he gave everyone else. "i can't remember the last time i painted something."

it was a lie, one she sold well, even to herself. she remembered, she just didn't want to. "no laughing when it's finished either." after a beat, pru stepped forward, her shoulders dropping in defeat. it was all good fun, wasn't it? the painting, the wine tastings, the festival? "thanks, by the way. for doing this with me."