The customer waved me over like I was staff. "More napkins, please."
I'd just watched my ex-fiancé walk out of his kitchen. Seven years since I stood in this parking lot and told him he'd be a line cook forever. Seven years since I drove away and never looked back.
Now his restaurant was written up in every magazine. Now he had a woman named Mira in every photograph. Now he saw me, smirked, and said to the laughing table: "Her? Wish I was that lucky."
I brought the customer napkins.
Didn't correct her.
Didn't tell her I was the one who left.
Didn't tell her I was the reason he built any of this.
I just stood there, holding napkins, watching him through the kitchen window, and wondered if seven years was long enough to become someone different.
Or if I'd always be the woman who leaves.
1
The customer waved me over like I was staff. "More napkins, please."
I stood there for half a second too long. The table of eight stared up at me, waiting. Polished wood, empty wine glasses, half-eaten bread. The woman who spoke had perfect highlights and an expectant smile.
"Sure," I said. "I'll grab some."
My sister was in the bathroom. My mother was on her third cocktail. I was the one standing closest to the kitchen door when the customer needed something. That's how it worked in my family. You stand still long enough, you get volunteered.
I turned toward the kitchen. Bad move. Should've walked around. Should've gone to the host stand. Should've done literally anything except push open that swinging door.
The kitchen hit me first. Hot, loud, smells like garlic and sweat and something burning that probably wasn't supposed to burn. Six line cooks moving fast. Plates up. Tickets hanging. A dishwasher yelling in Spanish.
And him.
Damian Croft stood at the pass, wiping his hands on a towel, checking plates before they went out. He looked exactly like himself but wrong. Older. Broader. Confident in a way he never used to be. The guy I left seven years ago would've been the one burning something. This guy owned the room.
He looked up.
I stopped breathing.
For three seconds, neither of us moved. The kitchen kept going around us. Someone called his name. He ignored it.
Then he smiled. Not the smile I used to know. Something smaller. Sharper.
"You need something?"
My voice didn't work. I pointed vaguely toward the dining room. "Napkins."
"Napkins." He said it like it was the funniest word he'd ever heard. "Table six?"
"I don't know. Maybe. The woman with the highlights."
"That's table six." He grabbed a stack from a shelf, handed them over. Our fingers didn't touch. "Here you go."
I took them. "Thanks."
"Sure." He turned back to his tickets. Dismissed. Like I was literally anyone. Like I hadn't spent three years of my life next to him. Like I hadn't stood in the parking lot outside this very building and told him he was wasting my time.
I pushed back through the door.
The table got their napkins. My sister came back from the bathroom. My mother ordered another drink. I sat there and stared at the kitchen door and felt something crack open in my chest that I'd spent seven years trying to seal shut.
When the check came, I grabbed it. Two hundred forty-seven dollars for four people. I put my card in the folder. My sister raised her eyebrows.
"What?" I said.
"Nothing. Just weird seeing you pay."
"I make good money."
"I know. Just weird."
That's the thing about family. They remember who you used to be. They don't see the updates.
The server took the folder. Came back two minutes later. "The check's been comped. Mr. Croft took care of it."
My mother lit up. "You know the owner?"
"No," I said.
"He comped our whole table. He must know you."
"He doesn't."
My sister looked at me. Looked at the kitchen door. Looked back at me. "Elara."
"Don't."
"Is that--"
"Don't."
We left. In the parking lot, I stopped. Same asphalt. Same lights. Same spot where I'd stood seven years ago with my car running and my bags packed and Damian on the curb in his chef coat that smelled like fry oil.
"You'll never make it," I'd told him. "Line cooks don't become chefs. Not guys like you."
He'd just stood there. Didn't fight. Didn't beg. Didn't do any of the things I wanted him to do so I could feel justified.
"You're probably right," he'd said.
I drove away.
Now I stood in that same spot and looked up at his name on the building. Harvest. Three words underneath: Damian Croft, Owner.
"You okay?" My sister touched my arm.
"Fine."
"That was him, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"He seems... different."
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
I looked at the building. The warm light through the windows. The people inside laughing. The life he built without me.
"Fine," I said. "Let's go home."
She let it go. That's what sisters do. They know when to push and when to pretend they believe you.
I didn't sleep that night.
2
Three AM and I was still awake, phone in my hand, screen too bright, typing his name into Google like some kind of masochist.
Damian Croft Harvest restaurant.
Forty-seven thousand results.
I started reading.
Article from three years ago: local chef opens farm-to-table in converted warehouse space. Named one of the top ten new restaurants in the state. Damian quoted saying something about blueberries and his grandmother's farm and how he'd wanted to build something honest.
I didn't know he had a grandmother with a farm.
Article from two years ago: expansion. Second location opening. Damian quoted again: "We're not just serving food. We're serving stories."
I didn't know he told stories.
Article from last year: chef of the year. Photograph of him accepting an award. And next to him, a woman. Dark hair. Sharp cheekbones. Smiling at him like he hung the moon.
Mira Chen. Creative partner. Four years.
I read that line four times. Four years. She'd been there four years. Standing next to him in photographs. Smiling. Partner.
I put the phone down. Picked it up again. Scrolled more.
More articles. More photos. Mira in every one. At the farmer's market. At the opening of the second location. At some charity thing where they both wore black and looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine.
I googled her separately. Mira Chen interior designer. Thirty-four. Graduated from the same program Damian had dropped out of. Worked for three firms before starting her own. Now she did all his restaurant designs.
Four years.
I did the math. He opened Harvest three years after I left. That meant she was there almost from the beginning. She believed in him when no one else did. She showed up.
I threw the phone across the bed.
It landed face-up. Screen still glowing. A new notification.
Text from unknown number: "You look good, El. Different. But good. --D"
I stared at it for five minutes.
Didn't reply.
Didn't sleep.
At seven AM, I texted back: "How'd you get my number?"
His reply came immediately. Like he'd been waiting. "Your sister. Years ago. She gave it to me in case of emergency. I guess this counts."
"What counts?"
"You being in my restaurant. Me not saying anything real. I figured I owed you more than napkins."
I typed three different responses. Deleted all of them. Finally sent: "You don't owe me anything."
"I know. That's why I'm texting."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It does. If I owed you something, I'd have a reason to reach out. This way, I'm just... checking on someone I used to know. You okay?"
I laughed. Actually laughed out loud in my mother's guest room at seven in the morning. He was checking on me. The guy I left in a parking lot was checking on me.
"I'm fine," I typed.
"Good."
"Your restaurant's nice."
"Thanks. Took a while."
"I saw."
"You read about it?"
"Yeah."
"Read about me?"
"Maybe."
"Read about Mira?"
I stopped typing. Stared at the screen. The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
"That was unfair," he wrote. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
"It's not. I shouldn't have--look, can we talk? Really talk? Not over text?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Today then. Coffee. There's a place near the market. I'll be there at ten. If you want to come, come. If not, that's fine too. No pressure. No expectations. Just... coffee."
I didn't answer.
At nine forty-five, I got dressed. At ten, I walked into the coffee shop. He was already there, two cups on the table, watching the door.
He stood when I walked in. That was new. The Damian I used to know didn't stand for anyone.
"You came," he said.
"You bought coffee."
"I did." He pushed a cup toward me. "Black, right?"
"I drink lattes now."
"Oh." He almost smiled. "Seven years."
"Seven years."
I sat down. He sat down. The coffee sat between us like a negotiation.
"You look good," he said. "I meant that. Not just different. Good."
"You too. Successful."
"Sometimes. Most days I just feel like I'm faking it."
"You own three restaurants."
"Four now. The fourth opens next month."
"Four." I picked up my latte. "That's a lot of faking."
He laughed. Genuine. Warm. Not the sharp smile from the restaurant. This was the laugh I used to know. "Yeah. I'm a good faker."
We talked for an hour. About nothing. About everything. He asked about my job. I told him about Portland, about the design firm, about the projects I actually cared about. He listened like he actually wanted to know.
Then he asked about the rest. About why I came back. About my sister's engagement. About how long I was staying.
"I leave tomorrow," I said.
"Oh." He looked down at his empty cup. "That's soon."
"I have work."
"Right. Work." He nodded too many times. "Well. I'm glad you came today."
"Me too."
We stood up. Walked outside. The farmer's market was setting up across the street. Tents going up. Boxes of produce. People with coffee and dogs and kids.
"I should go," I said.
"Yeah. Me too." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "Elara--"
"Damian--"
We both stopped. Both almost laughed.
"You first," he said.
"I don't know what I was going to say."
"Me neither."
We stood there for a second. Then he moved. Just slightly. Like he might hug me. Like he might not.
A voice cut through. "Damian! You're early!"
We both turned. Mira Chen crossed the street toward us, carrying a bag of pastries, smiling. She saw me. Kept smiling. But her eyes changed.
"Hey," she said. "You must be--"
"Elara," Damian said. "An old friend."
Old friend. Right.
"Nice to meet you," Mira said. She shifted the bag to her other hand, moved closer to Damian. Not possessive. Just... present. "We're doing a tasting today. For the new place. You should come."
"I can't," I said. "I have to--"
"She's leaving tomorrow," Damian said. "Back to Portland."
"Oh." Mira nodded. "Well. Safe travels."
"Thanks."
I walked away. Didn't look back. But I heard her kiss his cheek. Heard him say something quiet. Heard her laugh.
I kept walking.
3
I was supposed to leave Sunday morning. Instead, I changed my flight to Tuesday and told my boss my sister needed me.
My sister didn't need me. My sister was engaged and happy and busy planning a wedding I'd probably fly back for and pretend to enjoy. She didn't ask why I stayed. She just said okay and went back to her life.
I spent Sunday in my mother's guest room, staring at my phone, googling Damian and Mira and trying to figure out why I cared.
I spent Monday at the farmer's market.
Not his booth. I told myself not his booth. I walked the perimeter, looked at vegetables, bought a pastry I didn't eat. Then I circled back and there he was, arranging blueberries in little baskets, talking to an older woman about pie recipes.
He looked up. Saw me. Didn't smile.
"You're still here."
"Flight got changed."
"Uh huh."
"What?"
"Nothing." He handed a basket of blueberries to the woman. "Here. Try these. They're from my grandmother's farm."
"The one you told the article about?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You read that."
"I read a lot."
"Clearly." He wiped his hands on his apron. "You want a tour? Of the farm? It's not far."
"Now?"
"Unless you have somewhere to be."
I didn't.
We drove in his truck. Old, beat up, smelled like dirt and produce. He caught me looking at it.
"Not very chef-owner, huh?"
"It's fine."
"It's a piece of shit. But it runs. And it's good for hauling."
"Hauling what?"
"Whatever needs hauling."
The farm was thirty minutes outside town. Small. Perfect rows of blueberry bushes. A house that looked like it had been there a hundred years. An old barn converted into something else.
"My grandmother's place," he said. "She died five years ago. Left it to me."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She lived exactly how she wanted. Right up to the end." He got out, walked toward the barn. I followed.
Inside: a kitchen. Not a restaurant kitchen. A home kitchen. Big windows. Wood stove. A table in the center covered with notebooks.
"This is where I started," he said. "After you left. I came here. Slept on her couch. Worked the farm during the day. Cooked at night. She'd sit at that table and watch me and tell me I was doing it wrong."
"Were you?"
"Always. But she ate it anyway." He picked up one of the notebooks. Opened it. Recipes in messy handwriting. "These are hers. Everything I know about food came from her."
I looked around the space. Felt something shift in my chest. "You built all of this because of her?"
"Partially." He set the notebook down. "Partially because of you."
I didn't say anything.
"Not in a weird way," he added. "Not like I was trying to prove you wrong. Well. Maybe a little. But mostly..." He trailed off. "Mostly I just needed to build something. And you leaving gave me the space to do it."
"That's generous."
"It's honest." He moved closer. "I'm not angry, Elara. I was. For a long time. But I'm not anymore."
"You should be."
"Why?"
"Because I was cruel. Because I didn't believe in you. Because I stood in that parking lot and told you you'd never be anything."
"You were scared."
"That's not an excuse."
"No. But it's a reason." He leaned against the table. "I was scared too. Scared I'd fail. Scared you were right. Scared I'd spend my whole life as a line cook who couldn't provide for the person he loved."
"You loved me?"
"You know I did."
I did know. That was the worst part. I'd known then. I just didn't think love was enough.
"I have something," he said. "Wait here."
He left. I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by his grandmother's notebooks, and tried to breathe.
He came back with a box. Old. Beat up. Held together with tape.
"Open it."
I opened it.
Letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to me. All unopened. All dated.
"I wrote to you," he said. "Every time something happened. Every time I wanted to tell you something. Every time I missed you or hated you or didn't know what I felt. I wrote it down."
"You never sent them."
"What was the point? You left. You made it clear you didn't want to hear from me." He sat down across from me. "But I couldn't stop talking to you. So I wrote."
I pulled one out. Dated four years ago. The day he opened Harvest.
"Elara," it read. "It's open. It's real. I stood in the dining room this morning and cried like an idiot. The staff pretended not to notice. I kept thinking about how you used to say I'd never make it. I kept thinking about how you'd probably be happy for me anyway, because that's who you were underneath all that fear. I don't know why I'm writing this. I guess because you're the only person who knew me before. You're the only person who knows the difference."
I put it down. Pulled out another. Another. Another.
Each one was a piece of his life. The hard days. The good days. The days he wished I was there. The days he was glad I wasn't.
"I don't understand," I said. "Why keep these?"
"Because they're real. Because I couldn't pretend you never existed. Because--" He stopped. Looked at me. "Because I loved you. And love doesn't just stop because someone leaves. It changes. It turns into something else. But it doesn't stop."
I held the box. Felt the weight of seven years.
"What do you want me to do with these?"
"Nothing. I just wanted you to know they exist. I wanted you to know that you mattered. Even after. Even when I didn't want you to."
"Damian--"
"You don't have to say anything." He stood up. "I'm not asking for anything. I'm not trying to get you back. I just... I needed you to know."
"What about Mira?"
He went still. "What about her?"
"She's been here. Four years. She believes in you."
"I know."
"Have you--"
"Once." He said it quietly. "Years ago. Before she worked for me. It was a mistake."
"Does she think it was a mistake?"
"I don't know. We don't talk about it."
"You should."
"Probably." He looked at me. "Is that why you stayed? To ask about Mira?"
"I don't know why I stayed."
"Okay."
"I mean it. I don't know."
"Okay."
We stood there. The box between us. Seven years between us.
"I should go," I said.
"Yeah."
"Can I take these?"
He hesitated. Then nodded.
I carried the box to my rental car. Drove back to my mother's house. Sat on the bed and read every single letter.
By the time I finished, it was morning. My flight was in six hours.
I called my boss and quit.
4
I spent three days in my mother's guest room reading those letters over and over.
Each one was a photograph I never got to see. Damian learning to cure meat. Damian fighting with health inspectors. Damian sleeping in his truck because he couldn't afford rent and the farm was too far. Damian standing in an empty restaurant at 3 AM, convinced he'd made a mistake.
In the fifth letter, dated two years after I left: "Some days I hate you so much I can't breathe. Some days I understand. Most days I just miss having someone who knew me before all this."
In the twelfth: "I met someone today. Her name's Mira. She's an interior designer. She thinks my ideas are good. I keep waiting for her to realize they're not."
In the twenty-third: "Mira kissed me. I didn't stop her. I don't know what that means."
In the twenty-fourth: "It meant nothing. We both knew it. She's too good for me and I'm too broken for her and we're both pretending otherwise."
I put that one down and picked up my phone.
"Can we meet?"
Damian replied in seconds. "Farm. Now."
I drove with the windows down. Forty minutes of trying not to think. The box sat on my passenger seat like a third person in the car.
He was in the barn kitchen when I arrived. Standing at the stove. Stirring something that smelled like berries and sugar.
"You're making jam?"
"Trying to." He didn't turn around. "My grandmother's recipe. I've never gotten it right."
I set the box on the table. "I read them. All of them."
"Okay."
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." He kept stirring. "I told you that."
"You told me a lot of things. Seven years of things."
"Yeah." He finally turned. His face was careful. Closed. "Does it change anything?"
"I don't know. Does it need to?"
"I don't know either." He wiped his hands on a towel. "That's the problem, isn't it? We're both just standing here not knowing."
"I quit my job."
He stopped. "What?"
"My boss. The firm. I called and quit."
"Why?"
"Because I couldn't go back to Portland and pretend I didn't read those. Couldn't pretend I didn't come here. Couldn't pretend you weren't--" I stopped. "I don't know what I'm doing, Damian. I just know I couldn't leave."
He stared at me for a long time. Then he crossed the kitchen and kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was seven years of words we hadn't said, pressed into one moment. His hands in my hair. My back against the table. The jam burning on the stove.
He pulled back first. "I shouldn't have--"
"Don't."
"Elara--"
"Don't apologize. Not for that."
He rested his forehead against mine. Breathed. "I don't know what this is."
"Me neither."
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"That you'll leave again. That I'll wake up tomorrow and you'll be gone and I'll have to write another twenty letters you never read."
"I'm here now."
"For how long?"
I didn't have an answer.
He stepped back. Turned off the burner. The jam was ruined. Blackened sugar at the bottom of the pot.
"I need to tell you about Mira," he said.
"I don't--"
"You need to hear it." He leaned against the counter. "Four years ago, she came to me with a design proposal. I didn't have money to pay her. She said she'd do it for free if I let her be part of the process. I said yes."
I waited.
"We spent months together. Late nights. Early mornings. She believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. One night, after too much wine, she kissed me. I kissed her back. It lasted three weeks. Then I ended it."
"Why?"
"Because she deserved someone who could actually love her. And I couldn't. Not the way she needed."
"Because of me?"
"Because of me. Because I was still writing letters to a woman who left. Because every time Mira looked at me, I saw her waiting for something I couldn't give." He met my eyes. "I hurt her. I didn't mean to. But I did."
"Does she know about the letters?"
"No."
"Does she know I'm here?"
"She knows you're in town. She doesn't know about any of this." He gestured between us. "Whatever this is."
"You need to tell her."
"I know."
"When?"
"Today." He straightened. "Come with me."
"That's a terrible idea."
"Probably." He grabbed his keys. "Come anyway."
We drove to the city in silence. His truck. My rental following behind because I didn't know if I'd need to leave fast. At a light, I watched him check his phone. Text someone. Put it down.
The second location was smaller than Harvest. More intimate. Dark wood and warm light and Mira Chen's fingerprints everywhere. She was standing at the bar when we walked in, talking to a contractor about tile samples.
She saw us together. Her face didn't change. But something behind her eyes did.
"Damian." She set down the tile. "Elara. This is unexpected."
"We need to talk," Damian said. "All three of us."
Mira looked at me. Looked at him. Nodded once. "There's an office in back."
The office was small. A desk. Two chairs. Mira sat in one. Damian leaned against the wall. I stood by the door like I might run.
"She read them," Damian said. "The letters. All of them."
Mira's expression stayed neutral. "What letters?"
"The ones I wrote. For seven years. To her."
Silence.
"You've been writing to her for seven years?" Mira's voice was calm. Too calm. "While you were with me? While you were kissing me? While you were telling me you couldn't love anyone?"
"I wasn't with you. We had three weeks. Four years ago."
"Don't." She held up a hand. "Don't minimize it. I've been here. Four years of being here. Four years of watching you build something and hoping you'd eventually see me. And all that time, you were writing letters to her."
"Mira--"
"Did you write about me?" She looked at me now. "In those letters. Did he write about me?"
"Yes," I said.
"What did he say?"
"That you were too good for him. That he was broken. That he didn't know what he was doing."
She laughed. Not a happy laugh. "Broken. Right." She stood up. "You know what I did for him? I designed three restaurants for free. I slept on that farm floor when the heat broke. I held him when he cried about his grandmother. I believed in him when everyone else thought he was crazy. And he was writing letters to you."
"I'm sorry," Damian said.
"Sorry doesn't fix four years." Mira walked to the door. Stopped next to me. "You want to know the worst part? I knew. I always knew. Every time he looked past me. Every time he went quiet. I knew there was someone else. I just didn't know it was a ghost."
She left.
The door closed behind her.
Damian didn't move.
"Go after her," I said.
"What?"
"Go. Talk to her. She deserves more than an office and an apology."
"What about you?"
"I'll be here. Or I won't." I opened the door. "But you need to do this without me."
5
I waited in the dining room for forty-five minutes.
The contractor left. The tile samples stayed. I sat at the bar and stared at Mira's design choices--the way light hit the wood, the curves of the banquettes, the careful placement of everything. She was good. Really good. And she'd spent four years building this for a man who was writing letters to me.
When Damian came back, he was alone.
"She's gone," he said. "Told me not to follow."
"Are you going to?"
"No. She's right. I've been unfair to her for years. The least I can do is respect what she wants now." He sat next to me. "She said something before she left."
"What?"
"She said I wasn't broken. I was just waiting. And waiting isn't the same as being unable to love. It's just... slower."
"That's generous."
"She's generous. She's also gone. Probably for good." He looked at me. "This is what you do, Elara. You show up and things fall apart."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? I had a life here. A business. A partner. A person who actually showed up every day. And now she's gone because you read some letters."
"I didn't ask you to kiss me."
"No. You just stood there. Being you. Being the person I spent seven years writing to." He ran his hands through his hair. "I'm not blaming you. I'm blaming me. I'm the one who couldn't let go. I'm the one who kept writing. I'm the one who kissed you instead of fixing things with her."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know." He stood up. "I need to think. I need to figure out who I am without a ghost in the room."
"Damian--"
"Stay. Go. Do whatever you need to do. But I can't be responsible for you right now. I can't be responsible for anyone."
He walked out.
I sat at the bar for another hour. Then I drove back to my mother's house and packed my bag.
My sister found me stuffing clothes into a suitcase. "You're leaving?"
"Yeah."
"What happened?"
"I happened. Same as always."
She sat on the bed. "Talk to me."
"I came back. I read his letters. I kissed him. His business partner left because of it. Now he doesn't know what he wants. And I'm standing here packing like I always do."
"You're running."
"I'm leaving. There's a difference."
"Is there?" She picked up one of the letters from the box. "You read these. You know what he went through. You know he built something without you. And now you're just going to walk away again?"
"He asked me to. Not in words. But he did."
"Did he say 'leave'?"
"No."
"Did he say 'go away'?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
I stopped packing. Looked at the suitcase. Looked at her.
"I don't know how to stay," I said. "I never learned."
"Then learn." She stood up. "You're not twenty-five anymore. You're not scared and broke and trying to survive. You're thirty-two with a career and savings and a choice. So choose."
"What if I choose wrong?"
"Then you'll survive. Like you always do. But at least you'll have chosen."
She left.
I sat on the bed for a long time. Then I picked up my phone.
"I'm not leaving. Not yet. If you want to talk, I'm here. If you don't, I'll wait anyway. Because I'm done running. --E"
His reply came three hours later.
"Farm. Tomorrow. 8 AM."
I was there at 7:45.
The barn kitchen was clean. No burned jam. No letters on the table. Damian stood at the stove with coffee, looking like he hadn't slept.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
"People say things."
"I'm not most people."
He almost smiled. Handed me a cup. "I spent all night thinking. About Mira. About you. About the last seven years."
"And?"
"And I realized something." He leaned against the counter. "I wasn't waiting for you. I was waiting for myself. For the version of me that could look at you and not fall apart."
"Did you find him?"
"I don't know. Maybe." He set down his coffee. "When you left, I spent years being angry. Then I spent years being sad. Then I spent years just... building. Putting one brick on top of another until I had something solid."
"I read about that part."
"The thing I never wrote in those letters is that building saved me. Not because I was proving you wrong. But because I needed to make something that would outlast the pain."
"And now?"
"Now you're here. And the building's done. And I don't know what comes next." He moved closer. "I'm not asking you to stay forever. I'm not asking you to fix anything. I just... I want to know you. The real you. Not the person I wrote about. Not the person who left. Just you."
"That's a lot."
"I know." He waited. "But you're still here."
"I am."
"Why?"
I thought about my sister's question. About all the years of leaving. About the box of letters in my mother's guest room.
"Because I'm tired of being the woman who runs," I said. "Because I read what you wrote and I saw someone who kept going. Someone who hurt and stayed hurt and built anyway. I want to know that person."
"He's right here."
"I know."
We stood there. The coffee cooled. The sun came through the windows.
"What now?" I asked.
"Now we make breakfast." He turned back to the stove. "And we talk. And we figure out if there's something here worth building."
"That's it?"
"That's everything."
6
Three weeks later, I was still there.
I rented an apartment above a bookstore in town. Small. One bedroom. Windows that faced the street. My mother thought I was crazy. My sister thought I was brave. I didn't know which was true.
Damian and I saw each other almost every day. Not romance--not yet. Just presence. Coffee in the morning. Walks through the farmer's market. Long conversations in the barn kitchen about food and design and the years we'd spent apart.
He told me about Mira. She'd taken a job in Seattle. A restaurant group there had been trying to hire her for years. She finally said yes.
"She texted me," he said one afternoon. "Said she was grateful. Said she should've left years ago."
"That's good."
"It is." He looked at me. "She also said I was an idiot. But she said it nicely."
"You are an idiot."
"I know."