It's Monday morning and I'm sitting at the island in the kitchen of Private Weston's. It's a bright white outside, the teaser before snow, and I've got a letter in my hands. There are some habits, I think, that just won't ever die. No matter what's been killed around it. I may be seventy and still sitting here, reading letters from a boy I no longer know.

     I've got a voicemail from Luke Doucet that's been sitting in my phone since last week. I imagine it's an apology, but then Doucet's a bit self-serving so it could be some request to spin the shooting in my favor. I don't know, but I decide to play it, anyway.

     "Dresden Gibson, can I start by saying I am so sorry? I feel awful about what happened and very much at fault for it. I know you probably never want to hear from me again, but I just couldn't live with myself knowing that this is my fault and that the situation could've been much worse. I understand you don't want me anywhere near your establishment and I totally get that. However, I pulled some strings and called in a favor. Gael Greene is going to be coming to Weston's After Hours on the seventh. I'm sure you know who she is, she needs no introduction. That's the only string I can pull so the rest is up to you. Play your cards right and impress Gael, and who knows? You could have an apprenticeship in your future. Anyway, all the best to you, Mr. Gibson. I'm not asking for forgiveness here, but I do hope you know it was never my intention to get you injured or put your life in danger."

     Luke Doucet, who's been an absolute thorn in my side for the last two months, has managed to invite Gael Greene to Weston's. When Luke had shown up, and Tasha had reacted like this was the biggest thing to ever happen to Weston's, I was skeptical. Luke's the kind of food blogger that hits a younger demo. Gael Greene is someone I know, a chef I've admired the work of. It's the equivalent of having Joe Bastianich or, my god, Anthony Bourdain at my restaurant. The opportunity to have even met Anthony Bourdain in his lifetime would've been good enough for me.

     It's enough of a gesture that I don't feel all that bitter towards Luke and even give him a call to thank him. I start my morning batches, and when Dolores comes in, I call her into the kitchen to tell her. She knows of Gael Greene and is easily more excited than I am.

     "Oh my god, that's only a week away. Less then, even. What are you making? This needs to be better than anything you've ever done."

    "I know, I know," I say with a shake of my head. "Please don't stress me out more than I already am."

     Dolores laughs. "Okay. You've got this. But also, maybe call in Ibrahim to do some taste testing? He's got a great palate."

     It's kinda weird to call my therapists husband to come and try my food, so I'm not going to do that but I appreciate Dolores's excitement. I shoot a text to Jack to tell him the news. Jack sends back a litany of happy emojis. Everyone knows who Gael Greene is. She's kind of a legend.

     Except for Rumi, that is.

     "Who?" she asks when I tell her, her tone absolutely dumbfounded. It's enough to almost damper my excitement. Gen Z doesn't even know good music, I don't know how I expected her to know who Gael is.

     "Never mind," I say. "It's just a really big deal."

     "Well that's great," she says. "If you're offering free tickets again, I'll be happy to come and show my support."

      "Right," I muse. "And who would be joining you this time?"

      "Their name is Stef and they're honestly so freaking insightful. Like have you read Pablo Neruda? Cause it's like living inside a Pablo Neruda book when I'm with them," Rumi says and she's gone all googly-eyed now. "Do you wanna hear what they sent me?" Rumi moves her gaze to mine, raising an eyebrow in question. She very clearly wants to tell me what they sent.

     "Okay, sure," I say.

     She opens the text on her phone. "So apparently they've been like into me for years? But didn't know how to approach me? How cute is that."

     "That sounds kind of stalkerish," I tell her and she looks up to glare at me.

     "It's romantic. So this is what they sent: I wait for you like a lonely house, till you'll see me again and live in me. Until then my windows ache. It's Neruda. They sent me Neruda. I think I've been waiting for this love my whole life."

     "You should bring Stef to After Hours then," I say. "It'll be romantic."

     "I don't care what Tasha says, best boss ever," Rumi says slyly.

     "What does Tasha say?"

     She grins and there's teeth for the first time, I think, ever. Maybe Rumi really is in love. It's got her side tracked enough to forget her own insecurities.

     I'm in the kitchen cleaning up for closing. Rumi's bought in the empty trays, so I rinse them off before putting them in the dishwasher. I'm about to start wiping down the countertops when Olivia walks in. I startle, feeling my heart rate jerk. For the smallest, slightest second I thought, maybe hoped, it would be Cas.

     She smiles warmly. "Hi Dresden, how are you?"

     "I'm well," I say, my voice stilted. I clear my throat. "What's up?"

     Olivia shrugs and it seems like it's supposed to be more casual than it is. "I was just stopping by to pick up some cupcakes on my way home, thought I'd say hello."

     I don't buy it. "Did something happen?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

     She shakes her head, confused. "I don't know, did something happen?"

     We stare at each other and I can't tell if she knows something, or nothing at all. She wouldn't show up if she didn't know something had happened, though. But then I don't really think Cas tells his mom things the way he used to, which isn't a slight. Part of getting older is about not turning to your parents for everything.

     She steps forward, places her hand on the island between us. Her eyebrows have knitted close to each other. "I suspect things have come to an end?"

     So she knows something.

     I sigh, not answering her directly, when I say, "He should be good now. I think...I think he's okay."

     "He seems much better," Olivia says. "Like he's not holding onto something anymore."

     That stings, I think. I don't know why.

     My throat feels tight so I have to nod first, trying to gather myself and my words. "That's good," I say and my voice is off. Doesn't sound like it's good at all. "That's what we wanted, right?"

     "Are you holding onto something?" she asks quietly, her tone thoughtful.

     I tell her honestly, "I think I'll always be holding onto something."

     "When I came to you months ago," she responds, choosing her words slowly. "Dres, it was unfair of me to put that on you. You didn't owe it to anyone to fix Cas. Cas needed to fix himself. And I'm afraid it's only made things worse for you."

     "I didn't get anything I didn't deserve," I say quickly.

     She holds up her pointer finger at me, like she's going to scold me. "You didn't deserve to be hurt. Hurt doesn't beget hurt. Just because you did something that hurt someone else, doesn't mean you have to pay for it in your own pain. Doesn't mean Cas can just walk all over you."

     "He didn't," I say and my voice is just shy of whining. Maybe because I want to believe it as much as I want her to believe it, too.

      She turns her head, gives me this sad face. "I'm his mom. I know when he's taking advantage and when he's being bad. He wasn't good to you."

     "He is the best person I know."

     And my favorite. He is my favorite person. How did that even happen?

     "That may be true," she says. "But even the best people can be wrong, Dres."

     I know it's going to be a long week. I'm not really sleeping because I can't really sleep these days and the added stress of cooking for a major Chef has taken whatever anxiety-riddled sleep I would fall into and thrown it clear across the room. Instead, I stay up Monday night cooking and testing different recipes.

     I move through Tuesday in a haze, wondering if another lamb dish is derivative, if I'm trying too hard with a beef Wellington, or if it's actually ballsy. Is chicken too plain? I'm suddenly questioning every culinary decision I want to make, wondering if I'm doing too much or too little. 

     When I get home, I pull out some pork and start on an appetizer idea that I'm actually pretty confident about. A pork and red cabbage crostini, which if I do I'll have to pair it with a pasta dish. I could make Orecchiette by hand. Now that I'm thinking about it, that could be brilliant.

     I'm wrapped up in my cooking that I don't notice Charlie and Delta waiting at the front door. It's the ring that catches my attention, always does, I think. I grab a dish towel, wiping my hands as I walk to the door. It's past two in the morning so there's really only one person this can be. I'm doing my best to ignore the unsettled feeling in my stomach. Things are definitely settled. My stomach is on alert when it has no reason to be.

     Cas is on the other side of the door. He's wearing what he usually wears to work, slacks and a button-up. He has his long winter coat on but its not closed. The small distance between us gives way to the scent of alcohol, something sweet. He doesn't look all that drunk, so maybe it's just wine.

     He says, "I don't understand what's happening."

     "Well you're outside my door and you've been drinking," I say. My tone is even but not angry. Because I'm not angry, just tired, I think. Sad, maybe, too.

     Cas looks down for a moment like he's thinking over my response. "Can I come in?" he asks when he looks back up, meeting my gaze.

     I shake my head. "No, I don't think that's a good idea."

     His lip puckers, slightly. The swellings gone now, but there's a faint mark where the cut was above his mouth. "So that's it, then? We're done?"

     I sigh. I told Ashley I was no good at telling Cas no. And I'm not. But I'm really fucking trying.

     He chews on his bottom lip, his eyebrows pinching like he's distressed. "I'm not going to — I'm done with him. I was never even with him but the once. And I wasn't fucking anybody else. And you know I won't."

     I lick my lips, before I ask, "What do you want, Cas?" I'm working hard at keeping my tone neutral. I don't want an argument and I don't want accusations and I don't want fights and I definitely don't want fights that lead to fucking. I just want honesty.

     He looks like a cornered mouse, eyes darting down and up like he can't maintain eye contact. "What is that supposed to mean?"

     "I'll make it simple for you. I want you. What do you want?"

     "I don't know."

      I take a deep breath. I say, "Okay, well, if you figure it out, you should come back. And if you don't, that's fine, too."

     I go to close the door, but Cas slaps a hand against the wood, holding it in place. "Well wait, that's it?"

     I nod my head, because, yes, that's it. It's really quite that simple now that I've said it. He's either in or he's out.

     "Let me come in," he says, voice pleading.

     "I can't. I can't do this with you again, or anymore. I just — I can't keep pretending, Cas. I can't pretend that you don't mean what you do to me. Or that the sex isn't more than what it is for me. I'm okay with never having you again. I was okay with it five years ago. I can handle it. But I can't have this half-assed, half-in with you. Because my feelings aren't half-assed or half-in. They're all in. They've always been all in."

     Cas is staring at me hard. I can't tell if it's the alcohol or if he's actually angry.

     "I don't understand what you're saying right now," he says.

     "I'm saying I can't keep fucking around," I say. "I'm saying I love you."

     His expression breaks at that and it takes me back to the last time I'd said those words to him. I thought they provided some sort of life line. I thought that you could hurt someone if they knew you were doing it in the name of love and it would be okay. I thought, and I thought, and I thought, and I was wrong. I was always wrong. And I'm tired of being wrong.

     "I love you," I say again, meaning it more than I can even actually express. "And I'm okay with only ever getting to love you from afar. But I can't love you anymore and pretend that I don't. Pretend that it doesn't hurt to have you this close — and so fucking far away at the same time. I love you but I'm not accepting this anymore. I love you but I need more. I love you—."

     Cas holds up a hand. "Please stop talking," he says.

     "Cas," I say but he presses his hand in the air, telling me to stop. So I do. He turns, suddenly, throwing his chest over the railing as he vomits onto the grass. I drop my head against the wooden pane of the doorway, sighing heavily before I step outside, placing my hand on his back.

     "Come inside," I say when his vomiting has turned to dry-heaving. I try to lead him, but he swipes at me, pushing me away as he uses the momentum to upright himself. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, turning and jogging down the pathway. My eyes coast the road, looking for his car. He must have walked here, or Ubered.

     Either way, I let him go.