Chapter 19 Open Doors
OPEN DOORS
NORA
The brass bell above Corrigan’s door gives its familiar little chime—the same soft note it’s had since I was twelve and Jake dared me to steal a donut.
I didn’t; he put his allowance on the counter when I froze.
I’m sitting in the window seat, hands wrapped around coffee that went cold long before I admitted it. The clock ticks past noon and he’s three minutes late.
There’s this rational part of me whispering, He’s not coming, but then there’s the other voice—the one that remembers the boy who used to save me the last cinnamon roll even when Lydia swore I’d “ruin my dinner.”
The bell chimes again.
Jake steps inside, and for a heartbeat everything just folds—time, memory, the last seven years. He’s still tall, still lean, still does that thing where he slides a hand across his jaw when he’s nervous. But there’s something new in the set of his shoulders.
A tension that looks bone-deep.
Like he’s arrived ready for a fight he hasn’t admitted to himself.
He spots me immediately and walks over, sliding into the seat across from mine.
“Well,” he says, gesturing around the bakery with a smile that stays miles away from his eyes, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, Nora. When you want to torture someone, you really go all in.”
Right—the location.
The last time we sat here was also the last blowout before everything cracked.
“That’s not why I—” I say, matching his tone but trying to thread some warmth through it, “this place has dozens of good memories too. And, let’s be honest, you can’t get cinnamon rolls half as good anywhere else.”
“At least we can agree on something.”
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable, but it isn’t hostile either. I study him—really study him. The new lines around his eyes. The way he’s sitting like he’s bracing for impact, like he’s already anticipating I’ll hurt him.
When did we end up here?
“How are you?” I ask quietly.
“Fine.”
“Jake.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “Come on.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Runs a hand over his jawline again and takes a breath in.
“I feel like I should be asking you that,” he murmurs.
“You can,” I say, and I smile a little because for a second it feels like us, “after you answer mine first.”
He looks at me like there’s a war happening behind his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, the words tumbling out. “There. That’s the truth.”
The honesty steals my breath and then, immediately, he realizes he’s exposed too much. His face shutters, his posture shifts back, like he’s clawing for distance.
“I hate that,” he mutters.
“Hate what?”
“How easily you get me to talk. Like we’re still…” He trails off but doesn’t have to finish.
“It’s my gift,” I tease softly. “Some people sing. Some people paint. I can make you tell me what you’re actually feeling.”
He huffs a laugh. “Lucky me.”
For a little while, the conversation just flows. Easy and somewhat familiar and for one thin, hopeful second, I think maybe we can find our way back.
That is until I step on a landmine.
“I saw the article,” I say gently. “About your dad’s expansion down there.”
The change is instant—and brutal.
Jake goes rigid, expression slamming shut so fast I can practically feel the air shift.
“Look,” I try again, carefully, “I know I don’t have the right to pry. I just want you to know if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
“Did Nate put you up to this?” His voice has a cold edge now.
“Nate?” I blink. “No, Jake—what—?”
“Just stop, okay.” He shakes his head.
“Jake, I don’t—”
“People don’t understand the bigger picture,” he snaps, frustration simmering. “I just wish people would trust I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m not judging you,” I say softly. “Sometimes it just helps to talk to someone who isn’t—”
“It’s not complicated,” he cuts in, leaning forward. “I’m doing what I need to do. So just leave it alone already.”
“Jake—”
“You want to know your problem?” His voice is sharp now, but not steady. “You always think you understand everything. But you don’t.”
The words sting.
Not because they’re fair—because they aren’t—but because I know he’s bleeding from a place I can’t reach.
For a second all I can do is breathe around the ache.
I reach into my bag and pull out the worn copy of The Chronicles of Narnia. I set it on the table between us and he just stares at it. Something shifts—recognition, grief, maybe both.
“You know what I loved about these books?” My voice is soft, tight. “It wasn't the magic. It was how people found their way back to each other. Even after they’d lost themselves.”
I stand, sling my bag over my shoulder, but before I move toward the door. I pause—not turning back, just letting the words find him.
“You don’t have to let me in, Jake. But I’m not your enemy.”
I don’t look back, instead I walk towards the door and into the sunlight, hearing the familiar bell chime.
Walking down the street, I realize something I wish I’d learned sooner: you can’t pull someone out of a darkness they’ve chosen.
You can only stand at the edge with a light and hope someday they move toward it.