It's Monday morning but it could still be Sunday night for all I know. When Jack came to pick up the kids, he looked at me extra hard and asked, "Did something happen?" I used to be good at hiding things. I don't know that I'm bad at it now. I just don't want to hide anymore.

     Still, I've burdened Jack enough with my Cas problems. Maybe a part of me wants to protect Cas, protect the image of him that Jack has (that I have?), so I shake my head. "No, the kids were great. Been asleep for a couple hours now."

     And just like that I was back to telling lies that sounded like truths.

     Dear Cas,

     You told me not to say sorry. You told me that there's nothing I can say to take back what I did. I know that. I have no intentions of taking it back. I look at you now and there are moments, yes, where you are unrecognizable. But then I think of you in that pool, the way you spread the water like you were planting seeds. You may not always act like you, but you are still you. I know this the same way I know there'll never be a bigger regret than this one. That I made this dual version of you. That this person exists because of me.

     I cannot tell you I'm sorry because I cannot imagine a way in which sorry could encompass everything I feel.

     There are things I want you to know. I hope that there's a day in which I can, a day that'll you want to hear it. In the meantime I'm going to keep trying. But here's the important thing: I don't need your forgiveness, you do (and I don't deserve it). You can't move on until you move past this, until you let go of this anger. I want you to know this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. Everything I did was for you.

     You'll always have me Cas, but maybe you shouldn't.

     Sincerely,

     Dresden

     Tasha comes into the kitchen, says, "There's someone at the front asking to speak to you."

     I think it must be Cas but then I remember that Tasha has met him, would've said it was Cas. I wipe my hands on my apron before I pull it off, setting it on the counter. I glance at the oven where the timer says less than five minutes. "Go, I've got it," Charles says, not lifting his head from the row he's icing.

     Tasha has already walked away. I make my way to the front slowly. There's a man in a deep green button up tucked into beige slacks, looking wildly out of place. He's still wearing sunglasses, even though he's indoors, and he's holding a leather messenger bag across his front like someone in here may attempt to snatch it and run.

      He removes his sunglasses when I walk up, holding out a hand to me before he clears his throat and says, "Dresden Gibson I presume?"

     There's a time where I would've been put off immediately by someone who knows me that I didn't know. I have to swallow back the aching need to put on a bitter face, to close myself off. It's no longer my image at Weston's. I'm the one who saved the day for the Benson's office party when their desserts didn't show up. The one who let Maria host her son's birthday party at Weston's when she couldn't put a deposit on a party room because of flooding repairs after one of our major storms.

     Somehow, in spite of all odds, I built a name for Weston's, and by that, myself, that I never expected. It's not popularity, not in the slightest. I'm not going to win any Most Charismatic superlatives from Aurora. But I did receive a number of fruit baskets for my birthday the past two years and Andy Russ says I can stop by her place anytime for lemonade. While I may hold myself to it, the rest of Aurora doesn't seem to think I ran Cas and his mom out of town.

     So I put on a smile, taking the man's hand as I say, "Yes. And you are?"

     "Luke Doucet, food critic for the New York Times," he answers smiling so that I can see he spends a great deal of money on his teeth.

     "What can I do for you, Mr. Doucet?"

     "Luke, please," he says with a laugh. "It's actually what I can do for you, Dresden. I'd like to write an expose on you, which would accompany the review I'm doing of Weston's After Hours."

     "I see," I say after a moment of Luke beaming at me with his entirely too brilliant smile. "What would this expose entail exactly?"

     Whatever my tone is doing, it makes Luke flush. He runs a hand through his hair, fluffing his already very dense blond locks. It looks like he took a blow dryer to his roots for too long and what's worse is I think it was intentional.

     "It's more like an interview. People are curious about the elusive Dresden Gibson. Your social media presence is pretty much nonexistent. You run the most successful bakery outside the city and now you're dabbling in the pop up restaurant pool? That kind of activity doesn't go unnoticed in the restaurant world."

     "I see," I repeat. "Well, I appreciate it. But I'm not interested."

     Luke's eyes get wide as his smile tightens. There's some resolute tension, like he's not used to people saying no. "You're not interested?" he repeats. "I don't do this sort of thing often. It would kind of be a big deal for your business."

     "And while I appreciate that, I don't do interviews. The critique isn't really necessary, either."

     He lifts his chin. "Well that isn't actually up to you. I'll be buying tickets and I do have freedom of press."

     I make a face. "Okay. Well, if that's all you need, then?"

      "I guess I'll see you next week," he responds before turning swiftly and very nearly prancing out the door.

     Tasha calls from the counter, "What did you just do?"

     I walk over, rubbing at my temple. "What did I just do?"

     "Do you know who that was?"

     I raise an eyebrow. "Luke something. Do you know who that was?"

     Tasha's eyes are wide. She swats at me with the dish towel she had slung over her shoulder. "Are you kidding me right now? Only the most major food critic. His posts can make or break your business."

     "I sincerely doubt that."

     She sighs, exasperated. "You seriously act like you're a boomer. And you need to accept that you're actually a millennial and like actually act like one."

     "I made the instagram like you wanted. What more do you want from me?"

     "You never post," Tasha practically screams. "Oh my god, please just — here, take my phone and sign into the account. I will manage it but I also want a raise and my title to officially be Media Manager. I'm also going to make a twitter for you. And you need to get in touch with Luke Doucet and tell him you'll do the interview."

     "But I don't want to do the interview."

     "You're not hearing me. You need to do this interview and make him fall in love with you. Or, alternatively, you could hook up with him and make him fall in love with you. But, either way, he needs to love you. I get very petty vibes from him. I'm pretty sure he's a Scorpio."

     "Why can't I just let him critique the restaurant and decide for himself? And what does him being a Scorpio have to do with anything?"

     "I mean, sure you can let this major review be contingent on the merit of Weston's After Hours. But it's risky. And he's actually definitely petty. And you just declined him."

     "I didn't decline him. I declined to be interviewed."

     "Look, I saw his face. He was high key offended. I just don't think he'll be impartial, is all. And if he writes anything other than a rave review, he's going to tank business."

     I shrug my shoulders. "Who knows if After Hours is even going to be successful, though? It could tank all on its own."

     "That's the attitude we love to see!" Tasha jeers. "We stan optimism."

     "Stan?"

     Tasha throws up her hands. "Seriously. Come down to earth! Enter this universe!"

     I don't see Cas that week.

     But I do see Olivia. She comes in Friday morning, looking frazzled, which is unusual for her. It puts me on guard, makes me tense before I can even reason with myself that everything's fine. I say, "Did something happen? Is Cas okay?"

     Olivia frowns, looking confused. "What? Cas is fine. Why, did you hear from him? Did something happen?"

I'm confused now, too. "No, uhm, you look like somethings wrong."

     She nods her head vigorously. "There's something wrong with our water heater and I wanted to see if you know a guy because the guy I know can't come out until Monday. And I can't do three more days of freezing showers."

     "Do you know what could be wrong with it?"

     "Not at all. This is so out of my area of expertise. Like I'm thinking maybe I should just replace it?"

     I laugh. "No, no I don't think you're there yet. I can come over after work and look at it?"

     She brightens. "Are you sure? I don't want to put you out."

     "No, it's no problem," I say with a shrug. "Is Cas still — will Cas be..."

     "He's fine," she responds with a wave of her hand. "He'll probably go right to his room, anyway. This is his long week."

     "Long week?" I ask unable to hide my curiosity.

     "He does a rotating schedule. So fifty hours one week, forty the other."

     "Yeah, he said something about working late nights and then early days."

     "The life of an ER doctor," she quips. "I urged him to pick a different focus. But he lives for it. God knows I did not see that coming. He came home last week and he was so excited. He was like you will not believe who came into the ER today with a foreign body. What I really couldn't believe was what the foreign body was."

     She's laughing as she shakes her head. I don't ask because I imagine Hippa wouldn't allow for it, anyway. She says, "The most shocking was Cas, though. I haven't seen him that excited about anything in so long."

     "Maybe being home is what he needed," I say even though I know it isn't true. That isn't what he needs. But it's not up to me to decide what he needs.

     "You've been seeing him, though, haven't you?" Her question feels very sudden. I'm hot with guilt.

     "Seeing him?" I repeat.

     "Well, he's been by here a few times, right? He leaves boxes of cupcakes in the break room all the time."

     I nod. "Oh, yes, he has. He's come by a few times. He was doing some work one day."

     "Are you guys talking?"

     "I would say — I mean. Kind of? It's gradual. I haven't had a chance to tell him everything, though."

     She nods. "Okay, well I'll see you tonight. I'll text you the code to get into the house in case you get there before me." She starts to turn and then stops. "Oh, is Dolores in? I'd like to say hi."

     I nod. "She is. I think she's in her office."

     Olivia turns, walking out, and a few minutes later I get a text for the code to her house. Hours later, I'm at the front door, punching it into the keypad when Cas pulls into the driveway.