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"I'll make it better."
That was his first promise, the one that's lingered in her dusty heart since he moved back to England with his family all those years ago.
It was raining, and she slipped and fell at the playground, crying quietly as she sat on the pavement with her leg drawn up, watching the blood dribble downward and mix with the rain. No one noticed, and the teachers were busy trying to mediate a kickball game.
But there he was - Robin - moving quickly towards her and kneeling next to her.
"I'll make it better," he said with a smile, kissing her knee and then helping her up.
Boys didn't do that kind of thing. Boys didn't like girls, they didn't care; but he did, for some reason, his arm around her shoulders as he helped her up and led her to the nurse's office. They remained friends after that, up until the day he had to leave because his dad got a good job overseas. It seemed impossible then that they might ever see each other again.
But his letters were always laced with promises: It'll be okay; We'll see each other again; You're my best friend, I'll make it back to you somehow.
Her heart is pounding now as she tugs an assortment of clothes out of her dresser, trying to figure out what she'll be most comfortable wearing when she meets him for coffee. She hasn't seen him since they were thirteen, and her mind is cluttered now with self-doubt, thoughts like daggers shattering her tenuous grasp on hope. She could be overthinking this, could be setting herself up for failure by believing that everything will work itself out.
No matter what, she needs to see him.
With a soft sigh and a shake of her head to try and disperse the heavy thoughts, Regina decides on a dark yellow cable knit sweater, jeans, and a scarf threaded loosely around her neck.
She's early at the cafe, making her way through an entire cup of coffee before he even gets there, and she's just pouring sugar into her second cup when his voice both uplifts and disquiets her, steamrolling through her thoughts.
"Regina?"
Her spoon clangs against the side of the coffee cup, and she lets it go uselessly, standing up with an abrupt swiftness she hadn't intended on. Her hands are held out in front of her only a few inches apart, unsure what they should do, so she interlaces her fingers, palms pressed together to rest in front of her as she takes him in.
"Robin," she smiles, slightly shaky.
Those dimples are more prominent now, his hair grown out and parted to the side. He's taller, of course, more muscular, a kindness to his eyes that hugs her soul just to look at him.
He is, somehow, a bundle of contrasts: the sharpest edge of a lonely dream, and hope. Emotions clash fitfully inside of her as he takes a step forward, his hands apparently struggling as well to figure out where and how to touch her, if at all.
Trying to help, Regina holds out her hand as if to shake his, but he takes that offering as an invitation to simply hug her, apparently, his arms wrapping around her tightly. For a moment, she does nothing, simply too stunned to react, but then her arms loop around him in return as they linger together, trying to decide how this works, how they fit.
When they've both pulled back and are sitting across from one another, Robin takes a deep breath.
"It's incredible to see you again. I wasn't sure I would."
You promised, she says silently, quelling to urge to let those words loose.
Just nodding with a soft smile, Regina tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, sitting up straight as she asks, "How did you find me? Why did you…look for me now?"
His folded hands come to rest atop the table, and a lopsided smile precedes his answer: "Why? That's the easier question. I missed you, quite simply. I always have. How - well, it took longer than I'd hoped. I wasn't sure I even should, but about a year ago, I thought…what have I got to lose? Either you still want nothing to do with me, or there's a chance we could reconcile, perhaps start anew. Google is amazingly helpful these days, as are old friends from the neighborhood."
It takes her mind a moment to catch up to what he's said. "Why…why would you think I wanted nothing to do with you?"
His head cants slightly to the side, lips pursing in confusion. "The letter you wrote. You said you were going off to college, and it was probably best we part ways, in a manner of speaking. You were starting a new life."
His eyes drift downward as his thumb strokes back and forth across the knuckle of his opposing index finger.
"I never wrote a letter like that, Robin. I - Mother," she practically growls beneath her breath. And suddenly, her elbows come up to rest heavily on the table, her hands cradling her head as she groans.
"Your mother? Dammit, I should have known. I should have known better. I did know you better…" His left hand rakes through his hair with a jerky grip as he sighs.
She's about to say she can't believe this, but she can. That's the way her mother has always been, and always will be. The vitriol one might expect her to have is absent in her voice as she speaks, a weariness intertwined with her words: "That's what my mother does. She ruins everything that makes me happy if it doesn't conform to what she wants. She was glad when you left. Of course."
Picking her head up from her hands to look at him, she manages to reach out, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. "This wasn't your fault."
Almost urgently, he cups his other hand to hers, his touch so tender and desperate. "Nor is it yours, Regina. We've found each other again, at least, and I don't intend to lose you again."
You promise?
She's afraid to ask, so afraid. She's almost thirty, they've both lived such separate lives for so long. They're not young, naive children anymore, they don't even know if they like each other as adults. His favorite movies when he was thirteen were Star Wars and Groundhog Day. He liked The Beatles and modern pop music, and spent an entire month eating almost nothing but pepperoni pizza. She doesn't know who he is now, and that scares her. She wants to just freeze this moment, where he's looking at her with a hopeful smile; she wants it to stay like this, she doesn't want to exist in moments where they don't like who the other has become, where they wish they didn't know how much they'd changed.
But he's cradling her hand, and he promises her again: "I'll make it better."
And she can't say no when he asks her to dinner tomorrow night.