Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Paul
The mango crepe ingredients from my Boston friend arrived.
Late night in the rental, I tore open the box.
The mangoes were vacuum-sealed, the crepe mix and coconut milk neatly stacked.
The kitchen was tiny. I could barely turn around.
The stove could only fit one pan. I propped my phone on the spice rack and pulled up a tutorial.
The chef moved fast. I watched it three times before I started.
"Damn it..."
Pancake number twelve, ruined. The temperature was impossible to nail. Either too thin to hold the batter, or too hot—edges curling up, burned black in seconds.
I used to think money could buy anything. Now, trying to make something for Casey with my own hands, I realized these fingers that had signed multi-million dollar deals were as clumsy as a toddler learning to walk when it came to holding a silicone spatula.
A sharp pain shot through my fingertip. Lost in thought, I'd pressed my hand against the scorching rim of the pan.
The skin swelled instantly, a small blister forming.
I didn't run it under cold water. Just stared at the wound, feeling something almost masochistic.
This pain—what was it compared to the despair she must have felt when she left alone all those years ago?
Besides the mango crepes, I kept practicing Hawaiian coconut rice balls from a YouTube channel.
That was the taste I remembered Casey loving most. Rolling the sticky rice, my head filled with images of her back then—curled up on the couch with a bowl of dessert, eyes bright as she looked at me.
I remembered she liked it sweet but not cloying, so I cut back the sugar and added a pinch of sea salt.
By five in the morning, the first decent batch of coconut rice balls finally took shape. I arranged them carefully in a bento box—the white rice soaked in coconut milk, smelling exactly like memory.
The horizon just starting to pale gray, I drove to Casey's block.
These past few days, while Tommy was out, I'd been working nights in the backyard of the old place I'd rented next to her apartment, installing a children's safety fence.
All solid wood. I'd sanded every corner over and over, making sure there wouldn't be a single splinter to hurt Tommy.
I'd also put in a bright yellow slide. The space wasn't big, but when the sun hit it, the place looked like a little sanctuary. I hauled in boxes of picture books and Legos, moving quietly, afraid of waking the neighbors upstairs. More afraid of waking her.
At Casey's door, I set down the bento box. A pale blue Post-it stuck to the lid: Good morning. Keep your chin up today.
The first three days, the boxes I left ended up in the trash bin at the end of the hall.
Food untouched. But today, when I came back in the evening, my heart skipped.
No bento box by the door. Just the corner of the doormat slightly lifted.
I held my breath and found the plastic container behind the fire hydrant nearby.
It had been washed clean, water spots dried, sitting there quietly.
She'd accepted it. I picked up the box with trembling hands. This kind of joy surpassed any business win I'd ever had.
From that day on, my Post-its multiplied.
Does Tommy like coconut pudding? I'll try making some tomorrow.
It rained last night—remember your umbrella.
The bluebells on the roadside bloomed today.
I wrote each note slowly, weighing every word, terrified of saying something that might scare her off again.
That evening, the sunset stained the alley a heavy orange-red. I sat in my car, window half down, watching the corner Casey had to pass on her way home from work. I wanted to see her. Talk to her.
But a gray sedan beat me to it, pulling up below her building. The door opened. A man in a dark gray coat stepped out. He looked refined, wire-rimmed glasses, carrying a familiar thermos.
Mark. I watched him press the buzzer like he'd done it a thousand times, that natural ease cutting deep.
"Mark!"
The door opened. Tommy's young, bright voice spilled through the crack.
I saw that small figure throw himself into Mark's arms. Mark laughed and lifted him high—that intimacy only fathers and sons shared.
Casey appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a smile on her face I'd never seen before.
Calm. Peaceful. The kind you only showed someone you completely trusted.
I hid behind the steering wheel in shadow, jealous to the point of madness. That should have been my spot. The one who grew up with Tommy, the one who made Casey feel safe—that should have been me.
An hour later, Mark came out. I didn't hide. Just pushed open the car door and stood at the stairwell exit. He walked over and stopped a few meters away. I looked at him. He really was gentle. The kind of person nobody ever disliked.
"You're Paul Vincent?" he asked.
"Yes. You're Dr. Mark?"
He nodded, sizing me up. "I've seen you. At the community center meal service."
"Right."
He went quiet for a moment, choosing his words. "Mr. Vincent, Ella's had a tough six years. She's finally built a new life. You know what I'm getting at."
"Her name's Casey."
He paused. "Sorry. She told me her name was Ella."
"She's used that name for six years. But her real name is Casey."
He looked at me but didn't take the bait. Just kept going. "I don't know what you're trying to do by showing up now, but her life is stable. Tommy's adjusted. You suddenly appearing—it doesn't help her at all."
"You think I'm bothering her?"
"Aren't you?"
I met his eyes. "I just want her to know I'm still here."
"What's the point of that? Six years ago, you vanished completely. Now you come back saying you're still here—what do you think she'll think?"
I clenched my fists, then released them. "I know six years ago was my fault. I'm not trying to justify anything. I've spent these six years looking for her. Never gave up. I'm not here to bother her. Just to let her know I still love her."
He watched me, eyes complicated. "Do you know how much pain she was in when she gave birth alone?
Do you know she worked three jobs to afford formula and collapsed one day outside a convenience store?
Do you know she carried Tommy to the hospital in the middle of the night by herself, with no one to help? "
"Mr. Vincent, not all mistakes can be forgiven. Some damage lasts a lifetime. You understand?"
I felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my heart, the pain almost suffocating.
"I know what I owe her." I lowered my head, voice hoarse, barely audible even to myself.
"That's why I'll spend the rest of my life making it right.
Dr. Mark, I'm grateful for the care you've given them these six years.
I respect your feelings for Casey. But understand this—I love her.
I've looked for her for six years. Never thought about giving up. This time, I'm not letting go."
He looked at me. Something complex flickered in his eyes, finally settling into cold indifference.
"Then we'll see what Ella chooses." He walked past me and drove off.
The engine started. Taillights blinked twice at the corner, then disappeared completely into the night.
I didn't move. The streetlight stretched my shadow long, all the way to the building's wall.
I looked up at that third-floor window. The light was still on, curtains drawn, shadows occasionally passing.
That man had just walked out of there, carrying that air of ease, carrying all the familiarity he'd built up with her over all this time.
He could openly press that buzzer. He could laugh while lifting Tommy overhead. He could sit at her dining table, eat her food, listen to her talk, and watch her smile. And I could only stand here, where the streetlight didn't reach, like a thief.
I thought about what Mark said. She gave birth alone. Worked three jobs until she collapsed. Held Tommy and went to the hospital in the middle of the night. Those images surfaced one after another. Those six years I wasn't there, she'd shouldered all of it alone.
I opened my eyes and looked at that window again. Light still on. No one visible. I didn't know what she was doing right now. Didn't know what she was thinking.
Mark was right. Not all mistakes can be forgiven.
I didn't know if she'd forgive me. Didn't know if she'd possibly give me another chance.
That man had things I didn't—steady companionship, Tommy's affection, that relaxed smile on her face.
He was better suited for her than I was.
Could give her the life she wanted. He hadn't done anything wrong. And I'd missed everything.
I leaned against the wall for a long time.
Long enough that my legs went numb. I shoved my hands in my pockets and felt the corner of a Post-it.
I'd forgotten to leave it tonight. Still in my pocket.
I thought about the beach days ago—me teaching Tommy to surf, her watching from a distance without stopping us.
I thought about those empty bento boxes lately.
That's right. She hadn't chosen yet. If she really liked Mark, she would have chosen already. If she wanted me gone, she had a thousand ways to let me know. But she hadn't.
I gripped that Post-it and looked up at the window again. I didn't know who she'd choose in the end. Didn't know if she'd forgive me. But I knew—if I walked away tonight, if I gave up because I thought I couldn't measure up to him, I'd regret it for the rest of my life.