Wednesday morning, he asked me to weigh in on the bar construction. I declined.
Thursday I didn’t hear from him. It was both a relief and a letdown. But Friday afternoon he texted about getting my opinion on tabletops as I pulled in from work. Clearly, he’d been watching for my arrival, timing the text so I couldn’t make an excuse of not having time to look.
I didn’t answer, letting myself into my apartment. “Chloe?”
“Present,” she called from her bedroom.
“Let’s go out. You in?”
“Perfect timing,” she said, walking out. “Because I have something to celebrate.” Her eyes practically danced with excitement.
“Tell me.”
“The Kitchen Saint got her first sponsor!”
“What? Yay!” I squealed. “Tell me who. I want to know all about it.”
“I’ll tell you at dinner which should be somewhere excellent that I’ve already reviewed so I don’t have to work while I eat.”
“Deal! Let me change, and we’ll do this.”
She glanced down at her watch. “It’s not even five-thirty yet.”
“Yeah, but we won’t even get anywhere until six, and we can enjoy some drinks first.”
“It’s a date.”
Relieved that I had an actual plausible excuse, I texted Miles. Sorry, plans tonight. Go with your gut.
Saturday I spent doing some cleaning and laundry, then catching up on paperwork. But Sunday...Sundays were for me. I lived for Sundays, and I needed this Sunday more than ever.
On Sundays, I slept late, greeted the day with some coffee and yoga whenever I woke up sometime mid-morning, and if I felt like it, I drove out to see my parents for dinner.
When I rolled out of bed close to ten, I pulled on my oldest, comfiest sundress, threw my hair up in a messy bun, and slid into my flipflops to trek over to Bywater Bakery for my coffee. I only allowed myself the smallest twinge as I reached for my door that I couldn’t nip down to Miss Mary’s. Maybe one day I wouldn’t feel that missing in my routine, but today wasn’t that day.
I opened the door to find Miles there, his hand raised and ready to knock, a surprised look on his face to match the tiny gasp I’d made.
“Whoa, hey,” he said. He was in a worn Tulane T-shirt and jeans, both doing his hard planes and angles a lot of unfair favors.
“Hey.” I resisted the urge to reach up and smooth my hair. I wanted him to see me like this. Mainly so I would remember that I wasn’t an Instagram model or rising starlet and quit thinking there was some sort of chance here. “Is there something wrong downstairs?”
“No,” he said, almost sharply, and I looked at him, startled. “Sorry, no.” He said it softly that time. “Or yes, but it’s not a landlord thing. Um, could we...” He ran his fingers through his hair and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before taking a deep breath and meeting my eyes. “Could we talk? Maybe get some coffee?”
“Sure.” He looked so stressed that the word was out before I could second guess myself. “I was heading over to Bywater Bakery.”
“I already went. And I have coffee and sticky buns downstairs if you’re up for it.”
“Miles...”
“I promise not to hold you hostage.”
I sighed.
“Please?” His eyes were soft and hopeful.
He was making it impossible to say no. “All right. I’ll come down for coffee.”
I followed him down and through the kitchen, the first time I’d come in that way since sneaking in the week before. Nothing had changed back here, but the progress was obvious when we stepped into the club space. Almost all the new ceiling tiles were in. Scaffolding rested against two of the walls, and plastic tarps and piles of tools lay everywhere. It was organized chaos.
In the middle sat a card table and two chairs with two cups of coffee in Bywater Bakery sleeves and a paper bag, the top rolled down.
“If that’s not for me, I’m leaving and probably burning this place down.”
“Wow, you really don’t do well until you get caffeine, huh?”
“This is about the sticky buns, dude.”
“It’s for you,” he confirmed. He pulled out a chair for me then took the other.
I opened the coffee and doctored it with cream as an excuse not to meet his eyes. “So what did you want to talk about?”
“The thing is...I feel like a total idiot here, like I’m my sister having friend drama in high school, but I’ll jump in.” He hesitated then groaned and rubbed his hands