Reminds me of the poppies back home.
I think I am obsessed with her.
And on April 28, his birthday, the Day Gala, he’d only written three words—
I love her.
My head swims, a tingly lightness wrapping around my wrists, spreading through my fingers. I imagine him getting out of bed after I’d fallen asleep, writing that. Not telling me, because—because I had told him not to, in so many words. Hadn’t I? I’d said I wouldn’t date him, and he’s so self-sacrificing that he’d taken me at my word. He’d always waited for me to speak first, to follow my lead. Like he’d helped Maisie without telling me because she’d asked him not to, I’d said that he couldn’t be with me and he’d listened.
Intensely devoted.
But he’d still written his feelings, right here. This was his secret. Faust, letting himself have whathewants.
I close the journal. I don’t need to read the rest.
Tonight is going to be for my family. But tomorrow, I’ll find him. I want to know what else he wants, everything he wants, from the world and, hopefully, from me.
Samantha picks me up in her Hyundai, and I marvel at her playlist on the ride to Maisie’s place: Queen, David Bowie, PinkPantheress, Bad Bunny, Mitski. “What? I’m not just volleyball,” she says with a grin. “I’ll make you a playlist. You need more than seventies stuff, dude.”
She parks around back, waving me toward the restaurant while she grabs another box of glasses from her trunk. I wait a moment, biting my lip. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“I’m like ten times stronger than you. Go.”
But this—this is hard. This, I might not be ready for. I have to be, though. The past few weeks, I’ve gotten to taste test the final versions of Maisie’s recipes, watch her bloom into a chef and a business owner. Half of Waterfield will be here later tonight, and the other half will be vague-posting about it online, passive-aggressively mad that they weren’t invited to a “family-only soft launch.”
Now is when I can feel this stuff, before the cavalry.
And my heart does thump at the first sight of the restaurant. It’s squat, blue, with big windows at the front and candy-striped letters painted on the door:Arcadia.The bell jingles as I step inside, and my fingers nearly slip from the handle. It’s the same exact bell as Grandma’s restaurant—how did Maisie get the same bell? I hold my breath, taking it in. The red vinyl booths. The cozy coffee counter with whirly barstools overlooking the kitchen window. Already, you can imagine life happening in here. Breakfasts, family meals, late-night dates. Tourists will eat here and leave feeling like they know Waterfield a little bit better. Our food. Our little life.
And…
I wish he were here, too.
The thought sneaks up on me, and by the time I realize it’s here, pressed against the back of my ribs, I feel like the tiles sway beneath my feet. Because my first wish shouldn’t be forFaustto be here, at Maisie’s restaurant. Tonight is about my family. I should’ve thought about Grandma first, or Mom.
But I didn’t.
I think… I think I’m moving on.
I’ll never be over their deaths, but I’m starting to grow past how death cut into my life. Their absence can be part of me like roots on a tree, their memory no longer keeping me from seeking out the sun. I don’t need to stay awake forever, staring at the past.
I miss him. Faust. And maybe that’s enough.
Phone. I have to get my bag. Then I could call him or—or find out where Formula 1 is this weekend, at least. Pulse racing, I turn toward the door again, only to stop dead in my tracks. Somehow, I missed Maisie sneaking in; she gives me an ever-so-slightly guilty smile. “Hi, hi.”
“How did you silence the doorbell?”
She wiggles her fingers. “Gotta grab it right when you come in. Grandma taught me that trick.”
“She did?” I bite my lip. “Sorry. Sometimes I still get surprised to learn things about her. But she was yours, too.”
“Yeah.” She shrugs, taking a small step away from the door. “She was like that, though. I think she gave each of us a part of her. Or maybe—she saw what each of us needed from her. You were always louder than me, and she encouraged that. And with me, I guess, she encouraged the sneaking around.”
I laugh. “Like a good grandma does.”
Maisie doesn’t join in, though. “There’s kind of another reason I wanted you to meet me out here.”
My eyes fly to the door. It’s a clear afternoon, sunny. Days like this used to make me nervous; when you need to escape into a crowd, clear days don’t make it easy.
