Royce

*The Coffee and the Quiet* I didn’t plan on crying in Maya’s living room at 1 AM. But there he was, on my phone screen through the restaurant window: my boyfriend, Jake, with his hands on a girl who wasn’t me. Not the first time. Just the first time I caught him. Maya didn’t ask questions. She just grabbed my jacket, said “You’re sleeping on my couch,” and drove. What I didn’t know was that her brother Royce was home. Royce. 41, 6’4”, big rig driver who lived on the road more than he lived in Maya’s spare room. He showed up for birthdays, for Fourth of July BBQs, for the five minutes before he had to leave again. Muscles from years of hauling, a voice rough from radio static and too much black coffee. I didn’t see him that night. He was already out cold in his room after a 14-hour run from Amarillo. I slept in patches, curled up on Maya’s couch with a blanket and a headache. When I woke up, the house was quiet except for the drip of the coffee maker. Sunlight cut through the kitchen blinds. And there was Royce. Baseball cap, backwards, hair messy from sleep. White t-shirt stretched over his shoulders, old blue jeans hanging low on his hips. He looked like he’d just stepped off the truck and hadn’t had time to wash the road off yet. In his hand, a chipped mug that said _World’s Okayest Driver_—Maya’s joke gift from two Christmases ago. He saw me before I could pretend I wasn’t standing there, a mess with red eyes and yesterday’s mascara. “Hey,” he said, voice low, like he was afraid to startle me. “You okay?” I almost lied. Habit. Instead I shook my head and it all spilled out in one breath: “He was kissing her. Again. And I’m tired of being the girl who waits.” Royce didn’t say anything for a second. He just set his coffee down, pulled out the chair next to him, and nodded at it. “Sit,” he said. “Coffee’s hot. And it’s stronger than Maya’s. You’ll need it.”