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“Yes.”

“This is terrible.”

“Thank you, Marco.”

“No, listen. This is terrible. What he did, what his firm did, what his signature facilitated, all of it is terrible. I’m not going to minimize it. I’m not going to tell you to see it from his perspective. I’m not going to say, ‘He didn’t know.’ You’re allowed to be devastated. Be devastated.”

“I am.”

“Good. Now hear the other part.” Marco turned to face her. His eyes were serious, stripped of the observational humor he usually wore. “That man sat in this bakery every Tuesday for four months and ate your food and argued about your budget and memorized your coffee temperature and doubled your catering estimate and left a card that said you were underpriced. He walked to Park Slope at midnight because he couldn’t sleep. He stayed after everyone left because he could tell you needed someone to sit with the question instead of answer it. He took you to his father’s grave.”

“Marco.”

“He did those things before he knew. He was those things before he knew. The secret doesn’t cancel the man. It complicates him. And you, Lucy Wang, have never been afraid of complicated.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and smeared powdered sugar on his apron.

“The building is sold,” she said.

“I know.”

“Thirty days.”

“I know that, too.”

“I’m losing everything at once.”

“You’re not. I know it feels that way. But you’re not.”

“The building. Knox. In the same week.”

“The building is a lease. Knox is a person. One of those you can replace. The other one you need to think about.”

“I don’t want to think about him.”

“Then don’t. Not today. Today we sit on this floor and drink bad coffee and tomorrow we think.”

“I told Devney the same thing.”

“Great minds. Terrible coping strategies.” Marco picked up a powdered donut and inspected it. “These are deeply mediocre.”

“They’re from the bodega.”

“The bodega has lowered its standards. Or my standards have risen. Either way.” He ate it anyway. “You’re losing a building and a boyfriend. You’re not losing everything. You have a head baker who makes excellent emergency croissants. You have Mrs. Hadley next door, who has never once minded her own business where you’re concerned and isn’t about to start. You have a family in Queens that will drive to Brooklyn with dumplings and opinions. You have Devney, Tessa, Gabriel, Ronan.” He paused. “You have a community that showed up with wine and Thai food and a drill when your display shelf was crooked. That’s not everything lost.”

Lucy closed her eyes. The bakery was quiet. The ovens were cold. The morning light was beginning to push through the front windows.

She wouldn’t open today. She’d sit on this floor with Marco and drink bad coffee and eat terrible donuts and allow the devastation.

Tomorrow she would stand up.

Mrs. Hadley knocked at seven. She stood on the sidewalk in her pressed blouse and her cardigan and her sensible shoes, holding a broom in one hand and a set of keys in the other. She held out the keys. “Three blocks west. Corner unit. Twelve hundred square feet. Better natural light. The plumbing needs work and the previous tenant left the walls a color I can only describe as regrettable. But the floors are original. You can’t fake that. The bones are good.”

Lucy stared at the keys. “It’s just the commercial space?”

“Just the commercial space.” Mrs. Hadley’s voice softened, a fraction. “You’ll need to find a new apartment. I know someone with a rental on Eighth Avenue. Two bedrooms. Good light. I’ll make a call.”

“Mrs. Hadley. I can’t⁠—”