“To Lila,” he says, lifting his glass.
“To Lila,” I echo, clinking mine against his.
The first sip burns, then settles warm. Courage in liquid form.
He watches me over the rim of his glass. “She was really happy you came.”
“I was really happy to come,” I say, then wince. “That sounded… you know what I mean.”
His mouth curves. “Yeah. I do.”
Silence folds between us. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy with everything we aren’t saying.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner,” I blurt. “I wanted to. I kept thinking about it and then talking myself out of it and then talking myself back into it and then… panicking. Which, fun fact, is not a productive cycle.”
He nods. “I get panic cycles.”
“I hated the thought of Lila thinking I forgot her,” I add. “I know what that feels like. To be forgotten. Or pushed aside. I never wanted to make her feel that way.”
“You fixed it,” he says simply. “You showed up. That counts.”
I stare down at my glass. “I’m trying to be better at that. Showing up.”
“How’s that going?” he asks gently.
I huff a humorless laugh. “You’re looking at the work in progress.”
He tilts his head, studying me, reading a file he’s had open for years and just found a new page.
“How’s Charlotte?”
I smile, softer. “Good. Back at school. She fills entire rooms with energy and then just exits, and it’s like someone turned the lights off. I miss her.”
“You could call her,” he says. “FaceTime. Whatever the kids are doing these days.”
“I do. But it’s not the same.” I sigh. “She’s forward. She has this clear sense of what she wants. Fashion design. Moving to New York, maybe. She has a path. And I’m wandering around in the dark with a busted flashlight.”
His mouth twitches. “You always liked a metaphor.”
“I always liked dramatic metaphors,” I correct. “Big difference.”
He taps the rim of his glass with one finger. “Did you ever have a path? Before all this?”
I think back.
“I thought I did,” I say. “When I first followed my dad to the city, it was like stepping into this huge, shiny machine. He got me a job with his friend’s company, in event planning. Weddings, corporate parties, charity galas. I told myself I liked it because I was good at it. I could make things look perfect. Perfect place settings, perfect lighting, perfect backdrops for perfect Instagram photos.”
I pause, remembering the endless checklists. The “fix this, Faith,” emails at 2 a.m.
“But?” he prompts softly.
“But it was all for other people’s stories,” I say. “Other people’s versions of special. I was just arranging things. Making sure the champagne bottles all turned the same way, and thecenterpieces matched the client’s brand aesthetic.” I make a face. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard the phrase ‘on brand’ in the last two years? My soul evaporated and didn’t even leave a note.”
He smiles, small and real. “Yeah. Sounds like you.”
“What, sad and dramatic?”
“Creative and underappreciated,” he corrects.
