5
1076 Words
Lily spent the rest of the afternoon pretending the conversation at the pass had never happened. Inventory sheets. Vendor emails.
A quick call to confirm the extra produce order for the weekend. Anything that kept her hands busy and her mind off the way Leo had looked at her when he said We’re good.
They were good. That was the problem. Good had become a cage with soft walls, and she had stopped noticing the bars until Maya pushed.
By five the dining room was filling. Friday nights always did. Mateo held the line with Leo while Lily worked the floor and the bar, moving between tables with the easy rhythm that came from years of knowing every corner of the place.
The open grill threw heat and light across the room. Customers watched Leo the way people always did—fascinated by the controlled chaos, the way he flipped something into a perfect arc and caught it without looking.
She caught herself watching too.
Around eight a familiar face appeared at the end of the bar. Garrett. The man she had canceled on twice already. Tall, polite, steady job at the marina. He smiled when he saw her and ordered a beer.
“Third time’s the charm?” he asked.
Lily managed a smile of her own. “I’m sorry about the other night. Work—”
“I know.” He glanced toward the grill where Leo was plating a steak. “Place looks good. Busy.”
They talked for a few minutes between her other customers. Garrett was easy. No history. No shared building. No years of almosts. When he asked if she wanted to grab a late drink after closing, she almost said yes. The word sat on her tongue, ready. Then Leo’s voice cut across the pass, calling for a runner, and the moment slipped.
“Rain check?” she said instead.
Garrett nodded, paid his tab, and left without pushing. She watched him go and felt nothing except a quiet, tired relief.
Near ten the last of the dinner crowd thinned. Leo stepped away from the grill long enough to drink water and lean on the pass, watching her wipe down the bar.
“Date cancel itself again?” he asked.
She didn’t look up. “He stopped by. I told him another time.”
Leo was quiet for a beat. “You don’t have to keep canceling for this place.”
“I know.”
He stayed there longer than he needed to, then pushed off and went back to the line. The rest of the night passed in the usual blur of closing tasks. Mateo left first. The servers followed. Lily locked the front while Leo shut down the grill. The building settled into its late-night silence—the tick of cooling metal, the distant sound of waves against the harbor wall.
Upstairs she changed into an old T-shirt and soft shorts, then stood in the kitchen of the apartment staring at the open refrigerator like it might offer answers. Leo came up twenty minutes later, still in the black shirt he’d worn under the cut, hair damp at the edges from the kitchen heat. He dropped his keys on the counter and opened a beer.
“Valentine’s menu’s almost locked,” he said. “I’ll run the full tasting tomorrow before service. You free?”
“I’m free.”
He nodded, took a long drink, then leaned against the counter across from her. The space between them felt smaller than usual.
“Maya’s comments got under your skin,” he said.
Lily closed the refrigerator. “She means well.”
“She means to meddle.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” She crossed her arms. “I told her the truth. There’s nothing to figure out. We work. We live. We’re fine.”
Leo’s gray eyes stayed on her face. “You believe that?”
“I have to.”
The words came out quieter than she intended. Something shifted in his expression—something careful and tired and older than the grin he usually wore. He set the bottle down and closed the distance in two steps. His hand settled on the edge of the counter beside her hip, not quite touching.
“I don’t date the way I used to,” he said. “Haven’t in a long time. You know that.”
Her pulse jumped. “Leo—”
“I’m not asking for anything.” His voice stayed low. “I’m telling you so you stop looking at me like I’m still the guy who collected numbers for sport. That version’s gone. Has been since we signed the papers on this building.”
She could smell the faint mix of kitchen smoke and the open road that always clung to him. The same scent that had lived in the back of her mind since she was fifteen and he was the volunteer who taught her how to make s’mores that didn’t taste like charcoal.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because Maya’s not wrong about one thing.” He exhaled. “The distance is getting harder to keep.”
Lily’s breath caught. For a second neither of them moved. The apartment was quiet enough that she could hear the refrigerator hum and the distant roll of a car on the street below.
Then Leo stepped back. The space returned. He picked up his beer and headed toward his room.
“Tasting at three tomorrow,” he said without turning. “Don’t be late.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Lily stayed where she was, hands flat on the counter, heart beating too fast for a conversation that had ended without a single touch. She had spent years learning how to want him quietly. Years of dates that never stuck, of nights spent listening to his bike leave the alley and pretending she didn’t track the sound. Years of telling herself that friendship and a shared business were enough.
Tonight the lie felt thinner than it ever had.
She turned off the kitchen light and walked to her own room. The sheets still held the faint scent of lavender. She slid under them, stared at the ceiling, and tried not to think about the way his voice had dropped when he said the distance was getting harder to keep.
Sleep took a long time to come.
- Writer
