Chapter 24
Leo
I don’t sleep the night before Saturday.
I lie to myself about it. I dim the lights. I silence notifications. I even drink chamomile tea, which tastes like damp hay and false hope. I stretch out on my bed like someone who expects rest to show up when politely invited.
It doesn’t.
My brain refuses. My body vibrates with a low, anxious hum that feels a lot like waiting for a verdict.
Because tomorrow, she might not show up. And I deserve that uncertainty the way a bruise deserves pressure.
I end up back on the sofa eventually, the same ten-thousand-dollar slab of Italian regret that looks incredible and feels like it was designed by someone who hates the human spine.
The city outside my windows glitters like a dare.
A thousand feet below, people are living.
Eating dinner. Laughing. Arguing about nothing and buying bread without knowing the supply chain logistics behind it.
I flip my phone face down on the table.
Still nothing.
No yes.
No no.
No, don’t ever speak to me again.
Just silence.
Which is worse, somehow. Silence is neutral. Silence means the story isn’t finished. Silence leaves room for hope, and hope is dangerous when you’ve already proven you can’t be trusted with it.
I stand. Pace. Stop. Pace again.
My apartment is spotless, like a hotel room. No fingerprints. No warmth. No evidence of life. I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge out of habit.
Water. Blueberries. Condiments that have never been opened.
I shut it again and press my forehead against the stainless steel.
God, I miss the bakery. I miss the noise. The heat. The way exhaustion there feels earned, not hollow. I miss the smell of yeast and sugar and burnt edges. I miss being told what to do, doing it badly, and getting better at it.
I miss Tess.
That thought lands harder than the rest, sharp and bright and unwelcome.
I don’t let myself linger on it. Missing her doesn’t entitle me to anything. Missing her is just a consequence.
My phone buzzes.
I don’t look at it immediately, because I don’t trust my heart not to break something if I do.
Eventually, I flip it over.
ZANE: u alive, or did gluten finally kill you?
I huff out something that might almost be a laugh.
ME: Alive. Though I should be asking you after last night’s game.
Three dots appear instantly.
ZANE: I’m fine. Nothing a warm bath couldn’t fix.
ZANE: Julian says ur spiraling
I glance at the time. Late. Too late for Julian to be sober and correct at the same time.
ME: I’m fine.
The lie tastes thin.
ZANE: Leo
ZANE: don’t do rich guy panic things tonight
I close my eyes.
ME: I know.
A beat.
ZANE: do u though
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again, this time a call.
Julian.
I answer before he can hang up.
“Julian?”
“Hey,” he says, and he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. That alone puts me on edge. “You need help.”
It’s not a question.
“I’m…”
“…not fine,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. I know.”
I swallow. “I didn’t ask…”
“You didn’t have to,” he says. “I’m coming over. I’ll bring Zane. Don’t argue.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a long second. Then I drop it onto the couch and rub both hands over my face.
Ten minutes later, my doorbell rings.
Julian doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He walks in like the world has always belonged to him. Zane follows, hoodie on, camera bag slung over his shoulder like he’s ready for a documentary called The Fall of a Rich Idiot.
They both stop short when they see me.
Zane blinks. “Wow.”
Julian’s eyes scan my face, my posture, the way I’m standing like I’m bracing for impact. “Ok,” he says carefully. “So that livestream look wasn’t performative.”
“No,” I say.
Something in Julian’s expression softens. Not pity. Recognition.
“Have you eaten?” he asks.
“No.”
“Of course you haven’t,” he mutters, already walking into my kitchen. He opens the fridge, recoils. “You have the food storage of a vampire.”
“I forgot.”
Julian makes a disgusted sound and orders delivery without asking me what I want. Zane drops his bag on the coffee table and looks around.
“So,” Zane says, casually. “Tomorrow.”
My stomach knots.
Julian turns. “Before tomorrow, you’re eating.”
“And before eating,” Zane adds, “you’re not allowed to spiral.”
I snort weakly. “Good luck with that.”
They don’t laugh.
Julian sets his phone down and looks at me like he’s negotiating a ceasefire. “Tell us the plan.”
I hesitate.
That’s new. The hesitation.
“I asked her for ten minutes,” I say. “No bakery. Public place. The Saturday market.”
“And?” Zane asks.
“And she hasn’t answered.”
Julian nods slowly. “Ok. That means you prepare for both outcomes.”
“If she doesn’t show,” Zane says, “you leave. No hovering. No waiting around like a kicked puppy.”
“I know.”
Julian points at me. “Say it.”
“I will leave.”
“Good.” Zane squints. “And no going live.”
“I’m not…”
“No accidental lives,” Zane says. “No, someone else filmed it. No, I forgot.”
“I won’t.”
Julian relaxes a fraction. “Good. Now eat.”
The takeout they ordered arrives. Real food. Warm. Greasy. Alive.
We sit on the floor because Julian declares my furniture “emotionally hostile.” I eat because my body is shaking slightly, and that seems like a bad sign.
Halfway through, I say, “I’ve been thinking about her apprenticeship program.”
Julian pauses mid-bite. Zane looks up.
“Careful,” Julian says.
“I know,” I say quickly. “Not ownership. Not control.”
Zane studies me. “Then what?”
I take a breath. “A foundation. Independent. Board-governed. Money, I can’t pull back. No branding. No press.”
Julian stares. “You want to lock yourself out of your own money.”
“Yes.”
Zane whistles. “That’s… growth.”
Julian still looks skeptical. “And what do you get?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Silence.
Julian leans back. “Ok. That’s real.”
Zane nods. “But you can’t sell it like a martyr.”
“I know.”
“Good,” Julian says. “Because Tess would hate that.”
The mention of her name lands heavy but clean.
Then, because my brain apparently hates peace, I stand.
“I want to try something,” I say.
Zane squints. “Why do I feel threatened?”
I walk into the kitchen and pull out a bag of flour I bought earlier and forgot about. It sits pristine on the counter, unopened, like it’s judging me.
Julian stares. “What is happening?”
“I’m making bread,” I say.
Zane laughs. “Absolutely not.”
“I want to try teaching,” I say, quieter. “Like she did.”
Julian folds his arms. “You are not emotionally stable enough for yeast.”
“Please,” I say, and hate how much I mean it.
They exchange a look.
Zane sighs. “If this ends in a fire, I’m filming.”
We stand around the island. I dump flour onto the counter. It goes everywhere.
Julian jumps back. “Oh my God.”
“Relax,” I say. “It’s supposed to.”
“It’s absolutely not,” Julian argues.
I try to explain hydration ratios. I mess it up. Zane asks if yeast is alive. Julian insists the dough is staring at him.
I over knead.
Then under knead.
Then, panic and add more flour, which Tess would absolutely scold me for.
The dough is wrong. Obviously wrong.
Julian pokes it. “This feels like stress.”
“It needs time,” I say, breathless. “Rest.”
Zane raises an eyebrow. “You’re projecting.”
We wait.
The dough barely rises.
Julian pats my shoulder. “You tried.”
“I didn’t listen,” I say quietly. “I rushed.”
The words hang there.
Zane nods once. “Yeah.”
We bake it anyway.
The result is dense. Edible. Sad. We eat it with butter because butter fixes most things.
Julian chews thoughtfully. “This is… aggressively fine.”
Zane nods. “I’ve had worse.”
I stare at the loaf.
“She was right,” I say. “About everything.”
Neither of them argues.
Eventually, they leave. Julian makes me promise, again, not to go feral. Zane makes me swear on the camera case.
When the door closes, the apartment is quiet again.
But it’s different now.
Messy counter. Flour on the floor. A failed loaf is cooling on the rack. Evidence of effort.
I lie down fully clothed on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
Still no message.
I don’t draft another apology. I don’t send a reminder. I don’t reach.
I wait.
Because this awful, quiet, uncertain waiting is the work.
And tomorrow, whether she comes or not, I will not grab.
I will listen.
Or I will leave.
And for the first time in my life, I will mean it.