at a nearby stand, wondering if the passion fruit semifreddo I’m planning to serve for dessert at Travaasa Hana will wow like I hope. It’s two weeks until my first solo dinner service, and I want to blow everyone away.
My phone buzzing in my pocket pulls my mind back to the present and away from imaginary meal planning. An alert from Instagram. When I see it’s a message from Madeline, I let out a squeal so giddy that the people next to me gawk like I’ve grown another head.
Nikki! Oh my gosh, you have NO idea how happy I am to hear from you! Please, don’t apologize. I’m beyond thrilled you got in touch with me! How are you? Have you filmed your commercial yet? What else have you been up to? Sorry I didn’t message you back sooner; things have been so busy! But now I’m all good! OMG OMG OMG Tell me everything!
The smile on my face won’t budge. Even after all this time, Madeline is happy to hear from me. And she still wants to be my friend.
I start to type a response answering all of her questions, but stop when I realize I want to call her. I want to actually speak to my friend. So I tell her.
ME: SO happy to hear from you, Madeline! I have so much to tell you!! Can I call you sometime?
MADELINE: Um, hell yes! Are you free tonight? I can call you after I get done with my shift at the restaurant
Just the mention of my old restaurant sends a jolt through my chest. I want to hear about Madeline, about the restaurant, about absolutely everything.
I tell her that I’m open for a chat this evening and can’t wait to catch up. She responds with a half dozen smiley face emojis.
A squeal pulls my attention to the crowd behind me. I slide my phone back in my pocket and watch as a crowd of market goers slowly forms to watch a couple standing in the scenic grassy area several feet away. A handsome Thor look-alike with short curly hair is down on one knee, ring box in hand, smiling up at a pretty hapa woman. She’s late twenties and beaming, tears in her eyes, blinking like she can’t believe the sight in front of her.
It’s all the telltale signs of a proposal: her cupping her mouth with both hands, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, nonstop nodding before he can even get the question out. Everyone—even those in the nosebleed section in the back of the crowd—knows what he’s about to say.
“Will you marry me?” he asks.
“Tate! Of course I will!” she sob-laughs.
The entire crowd bursts into applause at her answer. Her fiancé slides the dazzling ring on her finger before popping to his feet and pulling her into a hug. There’s a kiss that I suspect is more passionate than those two would usually indulge in publicly due to the occasion. Because they’re seconds into their engagement and basking in one of the happiest, most romantic moments of their lives.
The blissed-out couple finally turns to the cheering crowd around them, their faces displaying twin gigantic smiles. Even I join in on the clapping. I may be navigating a romantic low at the moment, but their joy is contagious. This couple is insanely in love, and any decent person should acknowledge that.
The man standing in front of me lets out an enthusiastic “whoop” while clapping, then spins around. My smile drops. It’s Finn.
The stunned expression on his face when he sees me lasts only a second. He softens to a polite smile. “Exciting times at the farmer’s market.”
I don’t say anything. It’s not possible with my tongue at the back of my throat. Finn, the brother of the man I love—the man I lost—is standing in front of me. What on earth could I possibly say to him?
When I’m silent for a solid five seconds, he clears his throat. “We need to stop running into each other like this.” He laughs, the stilted sound a giveaway for how uneasy he is. “Because, you know . . . remember the last time we, um, saw each other at the market?”
I let out the breath I’m holding, and all the muscles in my neck loosen. This is clearly just as awkward for him, but he’s making an effort to be pleasant. I should too.
“How have you been, Finn?”
“Good. Busy.”
“How are Lemon and the kittens?” I’m dying to visit them, but