She grinned. “That’s my favorite.”
“Same for me,” Mark said, and before I had a chance to react, he’d slipped some cash across the counter.
Instead of fighting him on it, I took the gift he’d given me—more than a slice of four-dollar pie on a Wednesday afternoon. A reprieve. A balm for my tender heart.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, squeezing his arm gently in gratitude.
Mark’s eyes were soft when he nodded, concern still lingering around the edges.
We took our slices, neatly arranged on vintage plates, and found a booth next to the window.
Mark waited while I took my first bite, as if to ensure he’d made the right decision bringing me here for carbs and comfort.
I closed my eyes as the cool sweetness flooded my mouth. The flavors blended perfectly as the slightly bitter chocolate swirled in among the creamy peanut butter filling. I may have moaned a little at the taste.
When I opened my eyes, Mark was still watching, his own pie untouched.
His gaze snapped up from my lips, and he quickly cleared his throat. “How is it?”
I smiled. “Amazing. Try it.”
And he did.
We ate our pie at a small booth, where our knees brushed any time we moved. In between bites, Mark told me about finding this place and bringing pies to the holidays and celebrations he spent with my family. I asked him about the occasions I’d missed over the last few years, and he filled me in.
I felt a pang at hearing the moments Mark described. I’d been in a city far away, probably eating bites of takeout in between working or studying. And for what? So the family I loved could say they were proud of my work ethic and my commitment? After all this time—years gone by in sacrifice—I couldn’t say if it was worth it. Actually, I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to think it too loudly.
I pushed my doubts aside for the time being and listened as Mark recounted the time my dad burned a perfect circle in the backyard when he tried to deep-fry a turkey for Thanksgiving.
As we talked and laughed for the next twenty minutes, I couldn’t help but think Mark had done what he set out to do. The encounter with Lo had settled into a fresh bruise, no longer the open wound it had been. I was feeling better, but it hadn’t really been about the pie.
Mark’s thoughtfulness in bringing me here made all the difference.
Now that I considered it, I was a little embarrassed by our conversation over the weekend when I’d said a pie restaurant was what I missed most about my time in New York. I hadn’t been lying or anything, but what did that say about the life I’d left behind or how I’d been living it?
I didn’t have close friends in the city anymore. My friends from college were scattered around the country. I had work colleagues and acquaintances, former professors, and references. There was definitely no one keeping in touch from Blakely Hammond Marketing on the Upper West Side.
Mark was sweet to remember that I had a soft spot for pie, and I appreciated the comfort he’d given me today when I’d needed it, along with the marked lack of judgment.
Of course, I wished things had gone differently with Lo. There was even a part of me that wished I’d just risked the parking ticket and stayed inside Apollo’s with Mark in the first place.
But then another louder and more insistent part argued that I would have missed out on this—the unexpected detour, the conversation, Mark’s sweetness that rivaled the pie, and knowing what it felt like to be in his arms.
eight
MARK
The outdoor space at Firefly Cider was packed when I arrived.
A John Denver cover band played beneath the awning of the open-air stage. Bonfires burned around the perimeter of the space, the glow barely visible as the sun sat low in the evening sky. Nearly every table was full, as were the Adirondack chairs positioned throughout.
Nerves and learned behavior had me glancing at the folks seated and milling about, but I didn’t recognize anyone. That alone made my jaw relax, but it didn’t keep the anxiety at bay entirely.
Candace’s event was starting in thirty minutes, and I caught sight of her at a long table on the back porch. She had several Firefly employees helping to arrange cider flights. The small three-ounce glasses were fitted inside holes in the wooden boards in groups of four, and I imagined there were different cider varieties in each glass.
Prepacked paper bags and bushels of apples were positioned on an adjacent table for sale alongside signage for Judd’s Orchard and framed QR codes for payment.
Candace was busy and didn’t see me approach, so I had a moment to watch her work as I maneuvered my way through the picnic tables and the sea of tourists. She wasn’t wearing her fancy pantsuit tonight; instead, she had on jeans and a white Judd’s Orchard tee shirt covered by an open flannel that looked soft andworn. Her dark hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, but it wasn’t ruthlessly tamed and smoothed down like on her first day back in town. Today it was a bit looser, with a few strands framing her face and tiny wisps misbehaving along her hairline. She looked beautiful. She looked like she fit here, in this space, this town.
