Page 26 of Big Dill

Dammit.

I shake my head to clear it. What she needs from me is a friend. Someone solid. Safe. That’s what I can be. That’s what I’ll give her.

I carry the mugs to the table, the ceramic warm against my palms, and slide one toward her. “Drip with milk.”

She looks up, surprise flickering across her face. “You remembered.”

“I know I’m older than you,” I say, easing into the chair across from her. “But my short-term memory is still hanging in there.” She smirks. I add, “It was only like an hour and a half ago I watched you add milk to your coffee.”

“Right,” she says amused.

I shrug out of my coat, drape it over the back of the chair, and really look at her. The light from the window catches the rim of her cup, shadows settling under her eyes like she didn’t sleep much either. The smile fades, replaced by something quieter. Heavier.

“You okay?” I ask.

She hesitates, just a fraction too long. Her fingers tighten around the mug. And then I see it—fear, maybe, or the beginning of it. The kind that sneaks in when you’re not sure what comes next. For one awful second, she looks like she might cry.

I clear my throat, keep my tone easy. “If you didn’t want milk, I’ll switch cups.”

That does it. The moment passes. She grins, small but real, and lifts the mug to her lips. “This is delicious. Why does everything taste so good here?”

“One,” I say, relieved. “Everything tastes better when you don’t have to make it yourself. And two, I think it’s the fresh air.”

She hums thoughtfully, staring into her coffee like it might offer answers.

Time to be the friend she needs.

“Jami.”

She lifts her gaze. “Yeah?”

“You were talking about your dreams,” I say after a moment. “What were they? If you don’t mind me asking.”

I already know some of it, the broad strokes. But there’s more under the surface. I can feel it.

She exhales slowly, like she’s deciding how much truth to let out. “I wanted… well. I have a childhood education degree, as you know. I did that for my parents.” Her mouth twists. “Then I opened the yoga studio. Started designing my own fitness wear. And I want…”

Her voice trails off, the rest of the sentence dissolving between us.

“What do you want?” I ask gently, lifting my mug but keeping my gaze fixed on the frost-edged window when she looks away. Outside, the world is white and endless, like anything could happen or nothing at all.

She turns back to me. “Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’m dreaming too big.”

I snort into my coffee. “I’m opening a pickleball social in Churchill Falls. You’re talking to the wrong guy if you think dreaming big is a problem.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “Right,” she says. “I wanted to have my own fashion brand someday. You know, like Lulu.” She blinks and looks off into the distance. “I can see it now, my own show in Paris, France, Toronto, New York.”

“What would you call this brand?”

The question stops her cold. She wasn’t ready for it. Not because she doesn’t want it, but because, I suspect no one’s ever treated the idea like it was real. Like it deserved a name.

“I… I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

That gives me pause. Because that’s when I see it, the truth behind her big dream.

“Do you want that for you,” I say slowly. “Or⁠—”

I don’t need to finish. She knows exactly where I’m going.