Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

She had been strong for so long that she’d forgotten it wasn’t her natural state.

Strong after her mother’s diagnosis. Strong during the treatment. Strong at the funeral when she held her brothers together because someone had to. Strong through the sale of the house, the sorting of the things, the particular violence of an estate.

Eighteen months of strong.

She was at a conference in Edinburgh — back at work, doing it right — and she was fine all day, competent and present, and then someone played a song in the hotel bar that her mother had loved, something old and soft, and she sat down in a chair in the corner and quietly, systematically, fell apart.

The man who sat beside her didn’t know her. He’d been at the same conference, same badge, different company. He sat down and he didn’t say: are you okay? He just said: “Can I sit here for a bit?”

She nodded.

He didn’t look at her. He looked at the bar. She appreciated this enormously.

After a while she said: “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he said.

“You’re sitting next to a crying stranger.”

“I’ve had worse evenings.” He passed her a clean folded handkerchief from his jacket, which was so old-fashioned it almost made her cry harder. “Is it a song-grief or a broader grief?”

“Broader. The song just opened the door.”

He nodded. He understood the mechanism.

His name was Sam. His father, two years ago. He understood the mechanism because he’d built the same one — strong, functional, waterproof until a song or a smell or a particular quality of light did what it did.

“The strength wears you out,” she said.

“It does.” He looked at her. “You’re allowed to put it down sometimes.”

“There’s nobody to pick it up.”

“There could be,” he said quietly.

She looked at him in the bar light. He wasn’t saying anything she needed to be alarmed about. He was just — offering. The general possibility of someone.

She took a breath. She let it out slowly.

“I’m Cara,” she said.

“Sam.” He picked up his glass. “Do you want to talk about her?”

She did. She hadn’t been able to talk about her mother in months — people changed the subject too quickly, too uncomfortable with grief — but he leaned back and asked good questions and laughed in the right places, because her mother had been funny, had been the source of half Cara’s good material, and for an hour she was not sad but telling the truth.

She flew home the next day feeling lighter than she had in eighteen months.

He called that evening. He had more questions. She had more stories.

It turned out to be a very good trade.

So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee ☕. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.