Lydia clapped once. “She said yes, didn’t she?”
I frowned. “You knew?”
“She felt like the kind of woman who’d say yes.” Lydia smirked.
“It’s a bad idea,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” she countered. “It’s called trying. You two are allergic to simple happiness.”
I scrubbed my hands over my face. “Do you guys hold a family meeting before tag-teaming me like this?”
“Yes,” they said together.
“Great.”
Lydia’s voice softened. “You can’t sit here brooding for thirty days and call that effort. Trying means showing up, even when it’s hard. Even when it’s far.”
“I have a business,” I said automatically.
“We have a business,” Callum corrected. “And guess what? We’ll manage.”
“Tips. Deliveries. Inventory—”
“Done,” he said.
“The fryer—”
“The cook knows how to relight it.”
I glared. “You two rehearsed this, didn’t you?”
“This morning,” Lydia said brightly. “While you were staring into the espresso machine like it held answers.”
I groaned. “You’re both monsters.”
“Loving, well-meaning monsters,” she corrected. “So here’s your deal. Option A: You call her tonight, do your thirty days from here, and stew over every missed chance. Option B: You drive to Seattle for a few days and let her show you her life. No chasing, no proving, just trying.”
The words sat heavy between us. I looked at the door, the same one she’d walked out of, and felt my chest tighten.
“I can’t,” I said quietly.
“Because?” Callum asked.
“Because if I go, I might want to stay.” The truth dropped like a shot glass hitting the bar. “And I can’t. This place…it’s who I am. And Seattle’s who she is.”
Lydia nodded slowly. “Then go see her world. Let her see yours. Maybe you’ll both find something that fits between.”
I laughed, dry. “I can’t believe I’m taking relationship advice from my brother. You got hives the last time you flirted.”
“I did not,” Callum protested. “It was bad shellfish.”
“Sure,” Lydia said. “Shellfish named Tina with the pretty eyes.”
He pointed at her, smiling. “The name was Lydia.”
They bickered like always, and somehow it loosened the tightness in my chest. I looked down at my phone again. The text sat there, steady, simple, waiting.
The bar’s door chimed, letting in a gust of cold and a couple of festival stragglers. I slipped back into motion—poured drinks, cracked jokes, did my job. It was the one thing I knew how to do when my life was shifting: serve people, make them laugh, and pretend I wasn’t terrified.
