CHAPTER 53
Cole
Ipull up outside Avellana one last time before I leave for Paris, the first stop on a journey I wish I were taking with her.
I’ve been crashing at Quinn’s place since she left, holding on to the foolish hope she’d walk back through the door.
Night after night, I sat by my phone, thumbs hovering over half-written messages, waiting for a reply that never came.
In the end, I promised her space. So I gave it.
Outside, the line’s already out the door, even though we’ve only been open two weeks. That should make me proud. Instead, it just feels hollow.
I slide into a seat at the new bar, her bar—the one she designed and sketched, the one that turned my vision into something real.
Every surface carries a piece of her. The brass fixtures she argued over, the tile samples we once spread across the once dusty floors, the paint colours she swore would warm the space.
Sitting here, I can almost hear her laugh spilling across the counter, teasing me for how little I knew about design.
The section’s quieter, tucked away from the noise, just how she envisioned it. Every seat’s full, people lingering over drinks, but I can’t settle. My thoughts are too loud.
Dan, our manager and long-time bartender, walks over. He’s been here since I worked behind this bar myself. Built like a retired rugby player, with a mostly grey beard now. Gruff voice. Kind eyes.
“What can I get you?” he asks, wiping down the bar.
“Just a beer. Thanks,” I say, trying to keep the sadness out of my voice.
He slides it across. I take a sip and breathe deep. I can do this. Maybe she’ll come tonight. Maybe she’ll look for me here, since I’m not at her place anymore.
“Thanks,” I say again, forcing a smile.
“Hey, Cole?”
“Yeah?”
“Markus said to give you this. Sorry I didn’t sooner, bars’ kept me flat out.”
I frown. I already received everything from the will. What else could there be?
He sets an envelope on the bar between us, its flap sealed with a blot of red wax. My fingers hover, then slide it closer. I run my thumb over the seal, feeling every ridge, before breaking it open with a snap. The faint scent of ink and old paper rises as I unfold the letter inside.
Cole,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. I’ve never been the sentimental type, but I didn’t want to leave without saying a few things.
I left you this bar because you earned it.
You’ve always been the one who showed up, who did the work without expecting anything handed to you.
You’re not my blood, but you’re my son in every way that mattered.
And I wanted you to know, I met your mum here.
Right here at this bar, and that night changed everything for me.
Dan told me something before I passed. He said he saw a girl you served one night.
Said he’s watched you behind the bar for years.
He mentioned that he’d seen you look at a thousand people but never like you looked at her.
So I hoped leaving you this bar might give you a chance, if there ever was one, to see her again.
If I’d met her myself, if I’d seen the way you looked at her, I’d be telling you to hold on to her with both hands. And if you already have, I’m happy for you.
But if she got away, or if things didn’t work out, here’s my advice: don’t sit in the loss too long. Life doesn’t wait. If it’s worth it, fight for it. If not, let it go clean. Don’t let it eat at you the way regret ate at me.
You’ve got a good head, Cole, and an even better heart.
Take care of the bar. And take care of yourself.
—Markus
I fold the letter and stare at it. Grief crawls up my throat, raw and unexpected. For a moment I can almost hear Markus’s gravelly laugh, the rasp softened by age.
I take another sip of beer, but it tastes different now.
This place was never just a business. It’s where Markus first laid eyes on my mum, where their story began.
It’s where I learned what it meant to show up, standing behind this same bar.
And now, it’s where I met Quinn; her presence still lingers in every detail, even as she’s gone.
For a moment, I catch myself glancing toward the booth we were at in the night we officially opened, half expecting her to be sitting in there waiting for me.
I know I’ll likely never see her again. Still, I sit, nursing my beer, dragging out the time until the very last second before I have to leave for the airport, hoping against reason she might walk through the door.
Somehow, we both ended up here, tied together in these walls. And now I’m sitting in them alone.
I check my phone one last time. No text.
No call. Just empty space where her name should be.
With a hollow breath, I slide the letter into my pocket, push back from the stool, and step out into the warm night air.
Markus left me this bar, but tonight I can’t sit in it any longer. Not with the clock running down.
My flight won’t wait.