He’s been on me to get that repaired for months now. “I’ve been busy.”
Darin takes the box of glass from me and starts to pick up the remaining pieces. “You should go work on that before they come back. Heck, they might even try to hit up Corrigan’s tonight since Bib’s was such an easy target.”
“Corrigan’s has working security. And I doubt whoever it was will vandalize my new restaurant. It was a matter of convenience, not a targeted break-in.”
“You hope,” Darin says.
I open my mouth to respond, but I’m interrupted by an incoming text message. I don’t think I’ve ever reached for my phone faster. When I see the text isn’t from Lily, I deflate a little.
I ran into her this morning while I was running errands. It was the first time we’ve seen each other in a year and a half, but she was late for work and I had just received the text from Darin informing me we had a break-in. We parted somewhat awkwardly on the promise that she would text me once she got to work.
It’s been an hour and a half since then, and I still haven’t heard from her. An hour and a half is nothing, but I can’t ignore the nagging in my chest that’s trying to convince me she’s having doubts about everything that was said between us in that five-minute exchange on the sidewalk.
I’m definitely not having doubts about what I said. I might have gotten caught up in the moment—in seeing how happy she looked and finding out she’s no longer married. But I meant every word I said to her.
I’m ready for this. More than ready.
I pull up her contact info in my phone. I’ve wanted to text her so many times over the last year and a half, but the last time I spoke to her, I left the ball in her court. She had so much going on, I didn’t want to complicate her life even more.
She’s single now, though, and she made it sound like she was finally ready to give whatever could be between us a chance. However, she’s had an hour and a half to think about our conversation, and an hour and a half is plenty of time to form regrets. Every minute that passes without a text is going to feel like a whole damn day.
She’s still listed as Lily Kincaid in my phone, so I edit her contact info and change her last name back to Bloom.
I feel Darin hovering, looking over my shoulder at my phone screen. “Is that our Lily?”
Brad perks up. “He’s texting Lily?”
“ ‘Our Lily’?” I ask, confused. “You guys met her once.”
“Is she still married?” Darin asks.
I shake my head.
“Good for her,” he says. “She was pregnant, right? What did she end up having? A boy or a girl?”
I don’t want to discuss Lily because there’s nothing to discuss yet. I don’t want to make it more than what it might be. “A girl, and that’s the last question I’m answering.” I focus on Brad. “Theo coming in today?”
“It’s Thursday. He’ll be here.”
I head inside the restaurant. If I’m going to discuss Lily with anyone, it’ll be Theo.
Chapter Two Lily
My hands are still shaking, even though it’s been almost two hours since I ran into Atlas. I can’t tell if I’m shaking because I’m flustered or because I’ve been too busy to eat since I walked in the door. I’ve barely had five seconds of peace to process what happened this morning, much less eat the breakfast I brought with me.
Did that actually just happen? Did I really ask Atlas a series of questions so awkward, I’ll be mortified well into next year?
He didn’t seem awkward, though. He seemed very happy to see me, and then when he hugged me, it felt like a part of me that had been dormant suddenly sprang to life.
But this is the first moment I’ve had to even take a bathroom break, and after looking at myself in the mirror just now, I kind of want to cry. I’m splotchy, I have carrots smeared across my shirt, my nail polish has been chipped since, like, January.
Not that Atlas expects or wants perfection. It’s just that I’ve imagined running into him so many times, but not one of those fantasies starred me bumping into him in the middle of a hectic morning, half an hour after being the target of an eleven-month-old with a handful of baby food.
He looked so good. He smelled so good.
I probably smell like breast milk.
I’m so rattled by what our chance encounter might mean, it took me twice as long to organize everything for the delivery driver this morning. I haven’t even checked our website for new orders today. I give myself one last look in the mirror, but all I see is an exhausted, overworked single mom.
I make my way out of the bathroom and back to the register. I pull an order from the printer and begin making out the card. My mind has never been more in need of a distraction, so I’m glad it’s been a busy morning.
The order is for a bouquet of roses for someone named Greta from someone named Jonathan. The message reads, I’m sorry about last night. Forgive me?
I groan. Apology flowers are my least-favorite kind of bouquets to assemble. I always end up obsessing over what they’re apologizing for. Did he miss their date? Did he come home late? Did they fight?
Did he hit her?
Sometimes I want to write the number for the local domestic violence shelter on the cards, but I have to remind myself that not every apology is attached to something as awful as the things that were attached to the apologies I used to receive. Maybe Jonathan is Greta’s friend and he’s trying to cheer her up. Maybe he’s her husband and he took a prank a little too far.
Whatever the reason for the flowers, I hope they mean something good. I tuck the card into the envelope and stick it into the bouquet of roses. I set them on the delivery shelf and am pulling up the next order when I receive a text.
I lunge for my phone as if the text is about to self-destruct and I only have three seconds to read it. I shrink when I look at the screen. It’s not from Atlas, but rather from Ryle.
Can she eat French fries?
I shoot a quick response. Soft ones.
I drop my phone onto the counter with a thud. I don’t like for her to have French fries too often, but Ryle only has her one to two days a week, so I try to make sure she gets more nutritious foods when she’s with me.
