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He leaned back in his chair. “That was the plan, initially. Then the fire happened and I decided I’m also going to stay on at the bakery. I’ll do both.”
I’d noticed a change in him after the fire but wanted to know more. “Why the change after the fire?”
He blew out a breath. “The fire kind of knocked the wind out of me. When I got the call, I pictured the worst, and I wasdevastated. I’ve been taking the bakery for granted my whole life, fighting against following in my parents’ footsteps. After the fire, I realized how many footstepsI’vetaken in that bakery. It’s a part of me as well. I don’t know why I was rebelling. Because, to paraphrase something you said, sometimes it’s important to hold on. All this clarity lately.” He laughed, then stood. He picked up our bowls and carried them to the sink. “It’s almost too much to handle.”
It had taken him almost losing the bakery to realize how important it was to him—and had steered him in an unexpected direction. I understood that perfectly. Loss had been a guidepost most of my life.
I followed him to the sink with our cornbread plates and tried to lighten the mood a little. “Well, if you ever want another job, just let me know. There will always be a spot for you at the coffee shop. You have quite a fan club.”
“Wehave quite the fan club. But I don’t know how well that’d work out. I’d drink your profits and distract you with my wholesome good looks.”
I laughed. “Just like the summer you were seventeen.”
“It’s good to see you laugh,” Donovan said.
“It feels good to laugh. Thanks for asking me over.”
“Thanks for accepting.”
“I wash, you dry?” I nodded to the dishes piling up in the sink.
“I wash, you dry.”
“Deal.”
Working together, we got through the dishes quickly. Iglanced at my watch and sighed, thinking about my early morning wakeup. “I should get going. But before I do”—I grabbed the gift bag—“I have something for you.”
“A curiosity?” he asked, eyes alight.
“Not a curiosity, but I loved it the minute I saw it and thought of you.”
Humor shined in his eyes. “Did you just admit that you think about me?”
“Focus,” I prompted.
He dug into the tissue paper, making a show of it by throwing each piece over his shoulder. He lifted out a bronze octopus. The ends of each tentacle curled up to form a hook.
He laughed. “Is this because of that one time…”
“Of course.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I think you were hoping I’d forget.”
“I can’t argue with that. What was I? Ten? Eleven?”
He’d been fifteen, but I was willing to play his game and pretend otherwise. “Give or take.”
We’d been shelling. When he’d picked up a conch shell, he’d been taken by surprise when an octopus slid out of the shell onto his arm. He’d let out a startled squeak and jumped back, as if it were a deadly snake. I’d laughed myself silly. The boy who aspired to be a brave coastguardsman had been startled by a tiny octopus.
“I love it,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I walked toward the door, reluctant to leave, but knowing it was time to go.
He followed me and leaned against the doorjamb, still holding the octopus key holder. “You know, it’s funny. This reminds you of me, but it reminds me of you.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
