I look at the horizon, lined with gray clouds. “Might rain.”
“He’d like that.”
We walk along the edge of town, where ramshackle houses sit smushed against condo complexes. The donut shop is the only business open this early. The air smells like sugar and cinnamon and frying oil. Kiara takes my hand, suddenly, her fingers clinging to mine like a vise.
“Ki.”
She shakes her head, lips pressed together. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine.”
“I just miss him.” Despite the emotion in her voice, it doesn’t waver. “It’s hard to think about the things he loved and know he’ll never get to experience them again.”
Fifteen minutes later, donuts and coffees in tow—I guess she does drink coffee now—we head to Hutchinson Island. Aside from a few solitary people out for an early walk or surf, we’re alone. I help Kiara spread out a blanket, then take a fortifying sip of coffee.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember,” she says eventually.
I look at her sidelong. “His birthday?”
“Or the tradition.” There’s no vitriol in her voice. “I’m glad you did, though.”
“Do you still have birthday cupcakes?”
“Always. What about you?”
“I’d stop by a bakery on the way to work, grab a box or two of croissants to share with the crew.”
She smiles. “How is Poppy feeling about the pop-up?”
“She’s fine.” She’s been pushing herself the last few days, working out any lingering details for the event and developing the dessert concept, but it’s not like I’ve been taking any breaks either. Owen,Hazel, Herman, and I have been in the kitchen late each night, doing practice runs, working out a rhythm that will allow for maximum efficiency. I know the menu for the pop-up so well, I could pull it off in my sleep.
“Good. I’m glad.” She rests her chin on her knees. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“We have to make every moment count, that’s all.”
Her mouth tilts in a half-smile. “Oh, that’s all.”
“Do you ever get into a zone that’s just... so pure, nothing can touch it?”
“Sometimes, when I’m performing surgery.” She pulls a donut out of the box between us. She passes half of it to me. “That takes up all of my concentration.”
“But is it...” I trail off, frustrated the right words aren’t coming to the forefront. I take a bite of the still-warm donut. It practically melts on my tongue. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. Is it what?”
“Joyful.”
It feels silly to say aloud. Like something a kid might wish for, not an adult.
“No,” she says thoughtfully. “It’s satisfying, to help a living thing in need, but I don’t feel like that at work.” She finishes her half of the donut before continuing. “I feel it when I’m riding, though. When I’m on Charger, and she’s practically flying. That’s joyful.”
“That’s how service feels to me. I love food and what you can make with it on its own, but working as a chef...”
“Nothing better?”
