17. Emma
Emma
We have been moving from one place to the next most of the morning, a restaurant, a bakery, then a cloud kitchen tucked into the back of a strip mall that turns out to serve an excellent croissant, and Sofia has an app open on her phone the entire time, scrolling through reviews with the concentration of someone planning a military operation.
She has already declared war on three different flans and become emotionally attached to a churro cart that, according to her, had “no business being that good in a parking lot.”
Now she is reading about Basque cheesecake.
“Apparently, this one is life-changing.”
“You said that about the croissant.”
“The croissant was life-improving. Different category.”
I take another sip of third coffee of the day.
Black. No sugar.
The way I have preferred it for years.
“I don’t really do sweets.”
Sofia finally looks up from the phone. “You’re a baker.”
“I bake them. I don’t have to eat them.”
“Blasphemy.”
“Liam got all the sweet tooth in the family. Give me bread, cheese or anything fried and I’m happy.”
She considers me as though this is new and disappointing information, despite knowing me for years.
“I just want to find that one best dessert in Dallas. Your cinnamon rolls don’t count, by the way.”
“My cinnamon rolls are still sweet. If you’d come back to the penthouse with me, I could make you a batch.”
“That defeats the purpose.”
“Which is?”
“The hunt.” She says it as though the answer should be obvious. “I like finding somewhere new, reading the reviews, ordering the thing everyone swears is amazing, and seeing if they got it right. If I already know yours will win, where’s the adventure?”
I cannot argue with that logic because I am fairly certain there is none. So I let her keep scrolling. I glance over my shoulder instead.
Frank and Steven occupy a table far enough away to give us privacy and close enough that I know exactly why they chose it. Neither man appears concerned by the fact that their assignment has turned into escorting two women across Dallas in pursuit of pastry.
Still, guilt nips at me.
“Do you think we’re annoying them?”
Sofia follows my gaze.
“Look at them. Number One has trained his guys to be professional buzzkills, just like him. I’m not convinced either possesses unnecessary facial expressions.”
“They’re working.”
“Danny’s men are the same. I spent half a drive trying to get Rey to smile at me. I would have had better luck negotiating with concrete.”
“Frank smiled at me once,” I add. “Months ago.”
She looks genuinely impressed. “Careful. You will ruin his reputation.”
Frank happens to look over at that exact moment. I turn back to the table before he can decide we are discussing him.
By the time Sofia chooses our next stop, I have stopped counting restaurants. This one is small and bright, with mismatched chairs and a glass case near the entrance that Sofia inspects before we are even seated.
Once we have coffee and a few things between us, she folds her arms on the table and looks at me with the expression she has been saving all morning.
“So. What is happening with you and your boss?”
I should have known the desserts were only camouflage.
“Honestly?”
“Preferably.”
“I don’t know.”
Her eyebrows rise. “That might actually be good.”
“How?”
“Because you haven’t forced it into a box yet. You can work out what it is together instead of deciding what it has to become before either of you knows.”
Together.
Such an easy word.
As though Alex and I are two ordinary people with an ordinary, complicated relationship and enough honesty between us to sit down and decide what comes next.
I think about waking under him this morning.
His mouth against my hair before he left.
The way we keep finding each other in dark rooms while ten years of questions wait outside the door.
Then there is Mel. The clearance. The Accord. Everything Alex still does not know.
“We’re trying,” I say.
It is vague enough to protect the truth and honest enough that I do not feel entirely fraudulent saying it.
Sofia watches me for another second but, mercifully does not dig.
I take advantage of the opening. “What’s happening with you and Danny?”
She groans and leans back.
“I don’t know half the time. One minute he’s making some dry little comment that takes me several seconds to realize was meant to be funny, and the next he has that wall back up like I insulted the Hartley bloodline.”
“You do love a puzzle.”
“Unfortunately.” There is affection beneath the irritation, whether she recognizes it or not.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m going back to Pinehaven, finding somewhere to live and starting work. That’s the plan.”
“You sound happy about that.”
That surprises her, too. She turns the little spoon between her fingers. “I think I am.”
Years ago, Sofia spoke about Pinehaven as though leaving town were a prison break she had engineered since middle school. Every trip home came with complaints about cousins, questions, noise, and the complete absence of privacy.
“I never thought I’d say it,” she admits. “New York just stopped feeling right. I kept thinking I needed a better commission or another gallery or some bigger thing to happen, and then I’d remember why I wanted to be there so badly.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
She looks towards the window. “I still love it. I just don’t want to spend another five years trying to force myself to continue to love the life I have there.
And I miss my family,” she adds, before I can become too thoughtful.
“Although I reserve the right to complain about them constantly, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“But I miss them.” Her mouth curves, then she points at me with the spoon. “I am still not moving back into that house.”
“Fair.”
“Also, the art program is going to be ridiculous this year.”
“How?”
“Danny donated a huge amount through the foundation.”
My hand stops around my coffee. “He did?”
“Apparently. Materials, visiting instructors, studio funding, and, get this, scholarships.”
The warmth in my chest comes before I can stop it. “How many?”
“Enough that we have more scholarship money set aside for art than for athletics.”
I stare at her. “In Pinehaven?”
“Art beating football in Texas. Historic moment.”
I smile. I cannot help it. Some kid who might have been told art was impractical will get supplies now. Someone who could never afford a program might get to go.
Sofia catches something in my face.
Her own expression changes.
“Em.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology comes so abruptly that I do not understand it at first. “For what?”
“I keep talking about the program like I didn’t walk into your job.”
“You didn’t take anything from me.”
“I took the position.”
“You accepted a job.”
“It was your job.”
“It isn’t anymore.”
She shakes her head. “That doesn’t make it nothing. You were the best teacher I ever had, and I went to actual art school after you.”
“That may say more about the art school.”
“I’m serious. You made people want to make things,” she says. “You never made anyone feel stupid because they didn’t know the technique yet. I still don’t understand why they let you go. None of it made sense.”
I look down at my coffee. I could explain. Not all of it, but enough.
I could tell her Alex made one phone call, and the job disappeared because at the time he wanted me isolated, dependent and close enough that every piece of my life passed through him.
It should still make me furious.
Some days it does.
But anger has become harder to hold on to. And I don’t want Sofia to catch some of that anger.
“It was complicated.”
Sofia studies me. I can almost see the next question forming. I change direction before she asks it.
“Would you ever go back?”
“To New York?”
“I might.”
“But sometimes letting go of something that isn’t working anymore is growth. Even if you wanted it badly once. There’s no point holding on to a life just because an older version of you thought she was supposed to want it.”
Her eyes settle on my face. For a moment, I am not entirely certain which one of us I am talking about. Then she smiles.
“That was annoyingly wise.”
“Write it down.”
“No. You’ll get a big head.” She takes a bite of cheesecake. Almost immediately her face changes. She reaches for her napkin and discreetly spits it out.
I frown.
“Bad?”
“My stomach has rejected it.” She pushes the plate aside and drinks some water.
I watch her for a moment.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. Just hungry and my stomach has been bothering me lately.”
She glances toward the pastry case again, but there is more confusion than enthusiasm in it this time.
“Maybe we stop letting an app decide what your body wants.”
“That sounds sensible.”
“I have my moments.”
She takes a small piece from a lemon tart instead. This one does not offend her.
The tiny line between her eyebrows disappears.
“Better?”
“Much.”
I signal for the check.
“Come on. Let’s try the boba place and see if that finally satisfies whatever quest you’ve invented.”
Her face brightens. “I knew eventually you’d understand me.”
“I absolutely do not.”
By the time we step onto the sidewalk, Frank and Steven fall into place behind us.
Sofia is already reading another review aloud when a dark Aston turns onto the block. I recognize the car immediately. Then I see who is driving it.
Danny. Alex sits beside him.
Sofia follows my gaze. Her whole face changes. She lets out a whoop loud enough to turn heads on the sidewalk.
“Yay.” She grins, already waving both arms over her head like she’s flagging down a rescue plane. “I believe our ride has arrived.”
The Aston slows beside the curb.
“You do realize they can see us,” I say.
“I’m making sure.”
Danny pulls in.
Alex crosses the pavement toward me while Danny comes around the other side of the Aston.
Sophia tracks Danny the whole way.
Danny looks at her too.
For all her talk about not understanding him, neither of them seems particularly confused about where to look.
Then Alex reaches me, and the look on his face wipes everything else from my mind.
“Have fun?” he asks.
“Sofia attempted to eat Dallas.”
From behind me, she protests. Danny’s mouth curves.
Alex looks past my shoulder at the collection of pastry bags Frank is carrying, then back at me.
“I can see that.”
His hand settles on my back, warm and easy. We’ve spent so much time hiding in the penthouse that being out here with him in the daylight feels almost strange. Nice, though. For a moment, it feels a little like ten years ago.