9. Three Weeks Later
THREE WEEKS LATER
Three weeks of long distance felt like three months.
Becca stood in her tiny LA apartment kitchen at two in the morning, surrounded by the aftermath of a stress-baking session.
The counter was dusted with flour. A tray of croissants cooled on the rack.
Her freezer was stuffed with pastries no one had ordered: macarons and danish and three different kinds of scone.
This was how she coped. When she couldn't fix her life, she baked.
The phone calls with Margot were good. Great, even.
They talked every night, sometimes for hours, curled in their respective beds with screens glowing.
They'd done video dates: dinner together over FaceTime, a movie they'd watched simultaneously while texting commentary.
They'd exchanged care packages. Becca had sent cookies; Margot had sent a ridiculously expensive silk pillowcase with a note that said For your hair. Stop using cotton like a peasant.
But it wasn't the same.
Becca missed her in ways that felt disproportionate to the time they'd spent together. Missed her sharp wit and her rare laughs and the way she softened in the middle of the night. Missed the smell of her perfume, the feel of her hands, the specific weight of her body pressed against Becca's.
Twenty-five hundred miles.
The worst part was the goodbyes.
Every video call ended the same way: both of them lingering, neither wanting to be the one to hang up first. Last Tuesday, Margot had fallen asleep on camera, her face soft against the pillow, and Becca had watched her for twenty minutes before finally whispering goodnight and ending the call.
She'd cried afterward, ugly sobbing into her pillow like a teenager, which was ridiculous.
They were adults. This was manageable. People did long distance all the time.
But knowing that didn't stop the ache that lived in her chest now, constant and low-grade, like a bruise that never quite healed.
She slept on one side of the bed now. Margot's side. As if saving space would somehow conjure her there.
She'd Googled it. The exact distance between LA and New York. It took five hours to fly, or forty hours to drive, or approximately forever to bridge with video calls.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Sophie: How are you holding up?
Becca typed back: Fine. Stress-baking at 2am. Normal behavior.
Margot says you've sent her three care packages this week.
She likes my cookies.
She likes YOU. She just doesn't know how to say it without sounding like a corporate memo.
Becca smiled at that. It was accurate. Margot's texts read like legal briefs sometimes: formal and precise, with occasional bursts of unexpected tenderness. I hope you're sleeping adequately meant I'm worried about you. Your baking photos are visually appealing meant I wish I could taste them.
How is she? Becca typed.
Working too much. Not sleeping enough. Missing you without admitting she's missing you. A pause, then: She hasn't laughed since the wedding. That real laugh. I can tell.
An ache bloomed in Becca's chest.
She laughed at my joke last night, she protested. The one about the croissant.
Phone laughs don't count. She needs the real thing. YOU need the real thing.
I know. But I can't exactly fly to New York every weekend.
Can't you?
Becca stared at the message. Her bank account couldn't support constant cross-country flights. Neither could her work schedule. She had orders to fill, a business to run.
But then she thought about Margot in her perfect, empty apartment, working late because she didn't have anyone to come home to. Thought about the way her voice got soft at the end of their calls, like she was trying to hold on as long as possible.
Maybe next month, she typed.
Or maybe sooner. Check your email.
Becca frowned and opened her inbox. There, at the top, was an email from a catering company in New York. Subject line: Corporate Event Inquiry - Dessert Services Needed.
She read it twice.
A three-day corporate event. High-end client. They needed someone to provide custom desserts: pastries, cakes, a full spread for cocktail hours and closing banquet. The budget was substantial. The dates were next week.
Sophie, she typed. Did you have something to do with this?
I may have mentioned your work to someone who mentioned it to someone else. Networking. Very legitimate.
This is in New York.
Wow! What a coincidence!
Becca should be annoyed. Should feel manipulated, managed, handled.
Instead, a bright flare of hope sparked in her chest.
I'd have to find somewhere to stay, she typed.
Margot's apartment has a guest room.
Does she know about this?
Not yet. I wanted you to have the opportunity first. No pressure. But if you happen to accept a catering job that happens to be in the same city as your girlfriend, and you happen to need a place to stay…
Becca looked at the email again. Read through the details, the timeline, the generous budget. It was a real opportunity. A chance to expand her business, get East Coast exposure, build a portfolio.
And it was a chance to see Margot.
She opened a new reply and started typing.
Margot's apartment had never felt emptier.
She stood at her floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the Manhattan skyline, and tried to remember why she'd fought so hard for this view. The corner office. The partnership. The perfectly decorated space that looked like something from an interior design magazine but echoed like a mausoleum.
The wedding had ruined her, she decided. Before Sophie's wedding, she'd been content with her life. Work, sleep, occasional social obligations. A routine that was predictable and manageable and entirely within her control.
Now she knew what she was missing.
Becca texted her photos: of her kitchen disasters, of the sunrise from her balcony, of random things that made her think of Margot. Every photo was a reminder of the gap between them. Every video call ended with the same ache. This isn't enough. I want more.
Three weeks apart had felt both endless and impossible. Margot had checked flight prices to LA more times than she would admit, but deadlines kept swallowing every possible weekend. Twice, she'd made it as far as the checkout screen before a client emergency intervened.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Sophie: Check your email. There's something you should know.
Margot frowned and opened her inbox.
There, forwarded from Sophie, was a string of emails. A catering company inquiry. A portfolio review. An acceptance letter.
And at the bottom, Sophie's note: Becca got hired for a job in NYC next week. Surprise!
Margot read the email chain three times.
Becca. In New York. Next week.
She typed back immediately: Did you orchestrate this?
I facilitated. There's a difference.
Sophie.
You're miserable. She's miserable. I solved a problem. You're welcome.
Margot should be annoyed. She had work obligations next week. Meetings. Deadlines. The brief that had been hanging over her head for a month.
Instead, joy loosened in her chest, unfamiliar and bright.
She opened her text thread with Becca.
I hear you're coming to New York.
The response came seconds later: Sophie has a big mouth.
Sophie is a menace.
A well-intentioned menace.
Margot smiled at her phone. When do you arrive?
Tuesday afternoon. The event runs Wednesday through Friday. I fly back Saturday.
Four days. She could have Becca for four days.
Stay with me, she typed, then deleted it. Too presumptuous. She typed it again: Stay with me.
Are you sure? I don't want to impose—
I'm sure. There's a guest room if you want space, but I'd rather you didn't use it.
A pause. Then: I'd rather I didn't either.
Warmth bloomed in Margot's chest. Four days. Four whole days of waking up next to Becca, of coming home to her, of having her in this empty perfect space.
I'll cook, she offered. Or I'll try. I'm not very good at it.
You're perfect. You're offering to cook. For ME. I'm literally tearing up in my kitchen right now.
Please don't cry in the kitchen. It's unsanitary for baking.
That's the least romantic thing anyone's ever said to me.
I know. I'm working on it.
Another pause. Then: I miss you.
Margot's throat tightened. Three little words, typed on a screen, warm against her sternum.
I miss you too, she typed back. Four more days.
Four more days.
She set down her phone and looked around her apartment.
It was spotless. The cleaning service came twice a week.
But suddenly it felt inadequate. The guest room needed fresh sheets.
The fridge needed food. The entire space needed to be transformed from a place where Margot merely existed to a place where Becca would feel welcome.
For the first time in years, Margot left work early.
She had preparations to make.
Tuesday afternoon, Margot stood at the arrivals gate at JFK, holding a sign that said PASTRY CHEF EXTRAORDINAIRE.
She felt ridiculous. She'd never held a sign at an airport in her life. But Becca had mentioned once, during one of their late-night calls, that she'd always thought it would be romantic to be met with a sign.
So here Margot was. Holding a sign. Feeling ridiculous and hopeful and terrified all at once.
The doors opened, and people streamed out: business travelers and families and exhausted tourists. Margot scanned the crowd, heart pounding.
And then there she was.
Becca emerged through the doors, suitcase rolling behind her, carrying what appeared to be three separate cooler bags. Her hair was wild from the flight, her clothes rumpled, her face tired but bright.
She saw the sign and stopped dead.
Then she laughed, that full, warm laugh that Margot had been dreaming about for three weeks, and abandoned her luggage to run.
They collided in the middle of the arrivals hall. Becca's arms came around Margot's neck, and Margot dropped the sign to wrap her arms around Becca's waist. They just held each other, not speaking, not moving.
"You made a sign," Becca whispered into her shoulder.
"It seemed like the thing to do."