Why Are You Actually Breaking Up with Me?

Chapter 2: What I Could Fix

I spent the first ten minutes after Owen left trying to decide whether he had taken his keys.

He had a set to my apartment. I had a set to his. For almost three years, that had meant we didn't need to text before dropping by. It had meant I could leave groceries in his refrigerator and he could come in while I was still working. It had meant we had built a life with doors that opened in both directions.

I checked the hook by the entry. His spare key was gone.

The absence of it felt more final than the words. I set my phone facedown and tried to eat the eggs. They were rubbery now. I managed one bite.

At nine, I was supposed to meet with Celia Hart, the Bellwether Hotel's food and beverage director. The hotel occupied a bluff above Port Alder, a made-up little coastal city with an old whaling pier, a respectable arts district, and the sort of damp wind that found every gap in a winter coat. The building had been closed for renovation for almost four years. It was the most beautiful kitchen I'd ever seen, all green tile and brass fixtures, with a wall of windows overlooking the harbor.

The contract could turn my small pastry business into a real company. It could also bury me if I missed opening day.

I called my assistant, June, and asked her to push the meeting an hour.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

"No."

"You sound like you're trying to lie without using any words."

I sat on the floor beside my table. "Owen broke up with me."

June didn't reply immediately. In the background, I heard a drawer open and close.

"Oh, Mara."

"I don't know what happened."

"Did he say why?"

"He said I made him feel like a receipt."

A pause.

"That sounds like something he's been carrying for a while," she said.

I closed my eyes. "You think I should cancel?"

"I think you should decide about the meeting separately from the breakup."

"I don't know how to do that."

"You can learn. That's not the same as needing to do it in the next hour."

I was grateful she hadn't said I deserved it or that everything would be fine. I got dressed in my black work pants, pinned my hair up, and took the announcement off the table. I wanted to crumple it. I put it into my bag instead.

Celia was waiting in the hotel's temporary conference room when I arrived. She had a stack of schedules spread across the table, and she stood to greet me.

"Congratulations," she said. "I know you've been pushing for this contract for a long time."

"Thank you. We're thrilled."

I heard the plural and hated how natural it sounded.

Celia led me through the final adjustments: staffing, menu testing, the delivery schedule, the dates for the first press preview. I answered as well as I could. When she asked whether I had anyone to help me on the business side, I brought up June and the accountant I'd hired. I didn't mention Owen, although a part of me kept waiting for the opening to do it.

"Your launch breakfast has to feel like Port Alder," Celia said. "But we also need a signature. Something the guests will talk about. What did you have in mind?"

I told her about the pear-and-rye tart I'd been testing, then about a savory biscuit made with aged cheddar and sea herbs from a nearby farm. She made notes.

"Good," she said. "That feels like you."

I didn't know why that almost made me cry.

By the time I got home, my phone had filled with messages. My mother had sent a photo of a champagne bottle. A former customer had written that she always knew I'd make it. Owen hadn't messaged me.

I typed, I'm sorry. I know this is about more than breakfast. Can we talk tonight?

I stared at it for a full minute. Then I deleted it.

I typed, I heard what you said. I won't come over or ask you to explain. I love you. I'm here if you want to talk.

I sent that one. It was the first message I'd ever sent him without asking for anything in return.

He didn't answer.

That night, I reheated the breakfast I'd made for him. I ate standing at the counter, then washed both plates. I put my hands under hot water and scrubbed the skillet until it was clean. By the time I went to bed, I was still certain there was something I could do to make him stay. I was just beginning to suspect that doing more might be the thing he wanted me to stop.