Page 133 of Wells

Cera studies me. The pause stretches long enough to register what it costs her, the visible work of deciding whether to let me back in even this far.

Then she nods.

"Okay."

Relief moves through me, quiet and sharp.

We step through the gate and onto the street. The noise from the yard fades behind us. The air is cooler here, away from the lights and the lingering warmth of the crowd.

Cera rolls her bike between us. The soft tick of the chain turning fills the silence.

We walk side by side. Close, but not touching. The bike sits in the space where our hands might otherwise be.

I don't try to fill the quiet. I don't ask her where she went or what she thought when she left or whether she forgives me.

Those thoughts belong to her. Maybe one day she'll want to share them. Maybe not.

THIRTY-ONE

Cera

The Easter Parade: New Orleans answers Lent with a parade of open carriages and bonnets, faces lifted bare in the daylight, a procession with nothing hidden. She chooses slowly, in the light, with her eyes open and his face plain in front of her.

My phone beeps while I'm cross-legged on my apartment floor, sorting the Sol House invoices into piles. I look toward the sound but don't see it.

It beeps again, so I stand and walk to the kitchen and spot it on the counter by the sink. I pick it up to see two texts from Wells.

Hey. Great seeing you the other night at the opening.

No pressure at all. If you're ever up for coffee, I'd love to catch up.

I read them twice. If he'd pushed, asked outright for a second chance, leaned on what he built for me, I could have shut it down without blinking. A low-pressure ask with no hook in it is what gets under my guard before I can set it.

I type back before I can talk myself out of it, because the longer I sit on this, the less sure I'll become.

Great seeing you, too. I don't think that's a great idea, Wells. Wish you the best.

I hit send, and my stomach drops the second it's gone. My thumb hovers like I can pull it back out of the air, like once I move it, it's too late.

Declining him is the opposite of everything I want. I want to know how he became the man I keep catching pieces of, the one who stood in front of a crowd and talked about giving kids a place to land, who quit smoking and shows up to yoga and doesn't carry himself like a man hiding anymore. I want to know how a gutted building behind a chain-link fence turned into rooms full of kids and light.

And I want to tell him about India, about the dark mornings before the sun came up and the one where I woke and didn't hate myself, about the kids on the other side of the world who giggled through tree pose.

The words crowd up in my chest. I don't send them. I set the phone facedown back on the counter and walk back over to the floor.

I know this pull. I know the hunger to believe someone who has hurt me, to believe this time will be different. Wanting to be loved has never once kept me safe. That's why I sent it. I press my palms flat to my thighs and breathe through the ache like India taught me to.

Lin taps his pen on his notebook and looks down the table. "Youth programming. Cera, how are the classes landing? You've been here a month, now, so what kind of feedback can you give?"

"Things are really good. Better than good." The early afternoon light off the tall windows catches the rim of my water glass. I turn my notebook around to my own scrawl.

"Monday and Wednesday after-school are full. Thursday's close. I've got regulars now, kids who come early to claim the same square of floor every week. One of them, Kelly, walked in last Tuesday and dropped straight into tree pose before I'd said a word. She's been practicing at home and is so proud to show me."

Lin grins. "That's the whole point."

"The little ones giggle through every balance pose and fall over and get back up."

He makes a note and asks if I need anything. A few more blocks for the older kids, nothing urgent. The meeting rolls on around me, paint supplies and a basketball league and parent feedback that runs mostly warm, and I sit in it taking notes, part of the machine that makes the place run.