Raf looked wary. He picked up the phone and held it close, as if I was going to wrestle him for it. As if. “No drunk dialing. I won’t allow it.”
“I’m not gonna call her. I want to erase her number. Delete the photos of us. Come on, give it.”
He looked sympathetic. “I’m not gonna let you do that either. Let’s make a deal. Give me your phone and get on with your life. Use one of the other company phones. I’ll put this one in a drawer, and if you come back to me in a month with the same request, I’ll delete everything for you myself. But until then . . . all I’m saying . . . life is long, you know? Just . . . drink your tequila and live to build another hotel another day. Cool?”
It seemed like a foregone conclusion he’d be deleting everything a month from now and having to use a different phone only spelled hassle for me, but I was too beaten down to argue.
“Fine. Do what you want. And in a month, give me back my goddamned phone and do what I’m asking.”
He nodded and slipped the phone into his pocket. It actually felt good to be rid of it. But it was the only thing that felt good.
Chapter 29
Isla
Camille and I were in new territory—specifically the get-your-boss-through-the-most-depressing-breakup-in-the-history-of-breakups territory. And Owen and I hadn’t even been officially a couple.
It was completely my fault. I saw that now.
For whatever chip on his shoulder he seemed to have about Tom—I’d looked at the text and seen what must have set him off—his bigger issue was with me.
He’d flat-out asked me if I loved him and I froze. It made no sense because I did love him. There was no question in my mind. But I’d been so shocked and confused that I hadn’t been able to articulate anything at all.
Every time I started to roll out my dough, I thought about the day Owen and I had spent in here making bread and I started crying. My tears would drip down and get in the dough and I’d have to throw out the batch.
“This is no good,” Camille said. “You cannot be here. Your bread will be full of tears, too salty.”
“I have nowhere else to be.”
I still didn’t understand why Owen hadn’t given me a chance to talk things through with him.
“He’s a guy. A man of action, not thoughts. He made a decision and he needed to do something about it,” Camille said.
“I know, but I thought he knew how I felt about him. How could he just leave?”
“Did you tell him how you felt?”
I hung my head. “No, I called him my rebound guy. I told him we were friends because I thought he wanted that too.”
The coffee machine began the sputtering and spewing that signaled it was finished brewing. I went into the kitchen to grab us some cups. Then we sat at one of the tables in the café. Both of us had prep to do for the day’s bakes, but I appreciated that she could tell my heart wasn’t in it.
“You love him,” she said. It struck me as odd that she wasn’t asking—she was telling me.
“It’s only been a month since Tom and I broke up.”
“So what?”
“So a person can’t get over a relationship and fall in love with someone else so fast.”
“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t know there was a rule book. Please explain what else a person can and cannot do with a guy who’s so obviously the perfect one.”
I wanted to talk some sense into her because she was being ridiculous, but I couldn’t come up with a logical argument. “I don’t know. I don’t know the rules.”
“That’s because there aren’t any, so don’t feel so guilty about calling him a rebound guy. That seemed logical at first, but now it’s clear that’s not who he is to you.”
“So what should I do? Should I call him? Text him?”
“Yes and yes. Do all the things. But apologize to him to start with. You have that thing we all hope for, un fou d’amour, so fix your mistakes. Do it now.”
* * *
After that, my week got worse. Two new landlords who’d given me the go-ahead were now jumping ship for Centinela Bread. It was pure economics, they said.
It was my own fault for relying on a handshake deal and not getting everything in writing upfront, but that was how I’d always done business because trust was key. If I needed a legal document to make sure a partner followed through and there was no implicit trust, what was the point?
So I followed up with each of them in person. I took Owen’s advice and pushed the idea of my reputation and the farm-to-table nature of my business. I tried not to think about him—I just pressed forward with the logic he’d presented like it was an emotionless business deal.
By the end of my meetings, I felt like I’d done a good job of convincing the landlords that it would make them look good to have my business in their spaces. It was goodwill that money couldn’t buy, even big money from a competitor who’d yet to show his or her face.
They agreed not to make any bold moves yet, but they wanted to warn me they had to consider their bottom line and Centinela was willing to pay enough to make it hard to say no.
Neither one would be more specific when I tried to press them on their timelines but they indicated that no matter how much money I offered in rent, Centinela would pay more.
Both got very quiet and ended the discussion.
To add to my overall crummy mood, I hadn’t gone running in three days and I missed the endorphins that had become a pale substitute for happiness without Owen. I missed his deadpan declarations that were supposed to serve as questions.
I missed looking at him. I missed his eyes.
And I couldn’t tell him. He hadn’t replied to any of my texts and my calls went straight to voicemail. He’d probably blocked my number. Besides, he’d made it very clear that we were done.
Mornings had always been my favorite time at the bakery. I loved the sense of renewal and the unknown—the bread would always turn out a little differently and I never knew who might stop by. But I could always count on Owen being there.
I’d never realized what a comfort it was to see him in the mornings. More than that, I loved seeing his face.
I loved him.
Ugh, that’s in the past. It has to be.
I had no idea what I needed to do to get over Owen, but I really wanted to figure it out so I could get start doing it. Sitting around in the kitchen eating bread was not the answer.
I started spending a little less time at work. Of course Owen had been right—my staff had been trained to run the place without me and if I ever hoped to expand, I couldn’t be everywhere at once, so I needed to start letting go.
That meant I had to quit staring at the empty table against the wall and move on.
Chapter 30
Owen
I’d almost forgotten I’d put Julia on a side project that I’d been mulling as a way of offering a better experience to our hotel guests. If I’m honest, I’d also seen it as a way to work with Isla down the road, which would never happen now.
But Julia was diligent, and she sent me a text telling me she’d finished a preliminary version of the drawings.
I didn’t even want to see them. What was the point?
I’d look at them eventually, but I could think of ten other things I wanted to do more urgently. Having tea in a pit of alligators, for one.
Of course Julia was the first person I saw in the hallway that day. She smiled at me in the goofy way she always did, the bashful look that Raf interpreted as her “wanting to bone me.”
It was just the way she always looked. I pushed him to ask her out instead.
Raf hadn’t done it yet, partly because he had a whole ritual of building up to his eventual seduction. He took her out for working lunches a few times and she started to loosen up a little bit, foregoing the usual blazers and conservative dresses for an odd variety of fashions that didn’t speak to one particular style.
Today, she had on one of her strange get-ups that looked like she’
d bought it at a children’s clothing store in Japan. Her skirt was tiny and bright orange, and she wore it with royal blue tights and a fitted white sweater with anime characters on it. Her lips were a darker pink than usual and she’d swept her hair to one side in a giant clip.
The clip looked like it was teetering on the side of her head, about to fall down and take the pile of hair with it.
I mentally high-fived Raf for getting her to leave her comfort zone a little bit. She looked happier, and for the first time, she looked me in the eye when she spoke. “Thanks for your feedback on the designs. I put together some revisions. Want to see them?”
“Oh yeah, about that, it’s not super urgent.”
I saw her visibly deflate, which made me feel terrible. She’d obviously worked hard. “But I’d really like to see them,” I said.
“Great. Now?” The flush rose in her cheeks.
I checked the time and realized it was coming on six at night, which was when a lot of people left if they had families to go home to or social lives to keep afloat. Julia worked traditional hours, and I was hesitant to ask her to stay late, especially when it was ridiculous to push forward with the designs.
Isla and I would probably never speak again, so what did any of it matter? I had to be some special kind of masochist to keep moving forward with concepts she’d never see, but maybe I just needed to torture myself a little bit more by seeing my vision for her bakeries come to life even if they died on the page.
Julia pushed her glasses up on her nose and shrugged at me. “I don’t mind staying late if you want to work.”
I felt the hollow rumble in my stomach remind me I’d skipped lunch and if we sat in my office for another hour, it would be eight before I could grab dinner. “Are you hungry? We could grab a bite and work while we eat.”
Her glasses slipped down again, and she pushed them up and stared at me. Her eyes looked bigger than usual through the thick lenses and I wondered if she’d worn glasses since she was a kid. Knowing how self-conscious she was, I didn’t ask. “Sure, I could eat.”
“Great.” I might have sounded a little too enthusiastic and I saw the shock on her face. “Sorry, I skipped lunch and as soon as I said the word dinner, my mind went to pizza. Do you eat pizza?”
Her expression said she still thought I was strange, but she nodded. “I eat pizza.”
“Meet me in the lobby in ten and we’ll find a place.” She nodded again and went toward the cubicle where she’d been working all day.
I turned back to my office to grab my stuff. Maybe if Julia helped me finish the drawings I’d started, I could get some closure. I desperately needed to stop thinking about Isla every goddamned minute, but I wondered if I ever would.
There was no doubt I’d always love her. I’d given up the ghost on thinking I’d ever get over her, which meant I’d end up being a shitty boyfriend to the next woman I dated and probably end up alone forever.
For now, though, I’d keep myself distracted with work, even if it was work I’d started when Isla and I were still together . . . or whatever we actually were.
When I got back to the lobby, Julia was waiting for me wearing a tiny pink backpack instead of a purse and carrying a sketchpad and toolbox. She’d taken the clip out of her hair, thank God, because I wouldn’t get through a conversation without staring at the clip, waiting for gravity to take over.
“There’s a decent place near campus, but it’ll be full of college students. Do you care?” I asked her. Pizza or not, there was almost no restaurant near the office that wouldn’t be filled with Stanford kids. Sometimes their energy fueled me, so I didn’t mind, but Julia was the one whose creative focus I needed, so I’d defer to her.
“Um, maybe not near campus. It’ll be too loud, don’t you think?”
“Okay, well, you live in the city, right? We can head toward home and find a place there.”
She brightened at that. “Oh, there’s a great place in the Mission that I love. Can we go there?”
“As long as they have food, I’m happy.”
“Great.” She told me the name, I plugged it into my GPS, and a half hour later, we were at a giant table that just happened to be a perfect size for her sketch pad and a pizza. In a fucked up twist on Murphy’s Law, her go-to pizza place was on Valencia Street, just a few blocks from Isla’s bakery.
My mind immediately wandered to her and wondered what she was doing.
Stop it.
When I finished my mental conversation, I found Julia looking at me expectantly.
Right, I’d called this meeting.
Julia jotted down some notes and positioned her sketchpad in a way that allowed for our plates and glasses to fit comfortably and still give her ample room to present her drawings.
“Lemme guess, you come here and work sometimes?” I asked.
She blushed and nodded. Then she got down to business, sketching a few modifications on the plans she’d already rendered. “It makes it feel less like work when I’m eating at the same time. Sometimes I have a beer.” She said the last part like she was divulging the mysteries of the universe.
“Let’s have some beer,” I said. Or straight tequila.
We agreed on a pizza that was half Hawaiian pineapple—for her—and half tomato basil for me. She sat across the large oak table from me with her back ramrod straight like an attentive student and a pencil poised over a spiral notebook, ready to jot down any other thoughts I had about her work. I desperately needed her to relax. “Julia.”
“Yes?” Her pencil edged closer to the paper.
“Put down the pencil. Let’s at least wait until our beers come. Just . . . relax,” I said. The concept seemed to make her nervous. “Have you and Raf been having a good time?”
She nodded.
“He’s a good guy. I’m glad you like him.” She nodded again. This was getting painful. “Julia, do I make you nervous or something?”
She looked down at the table. “Not nervous, but you’re my boss and I’m mindful of saying the right thing.”
“There isn’t a right thing. Okay? I’m just making conversation. If you don’t want to talk about Raf or any other dumb thing I happen to bring up, just say so. I don’t subscribe to the whole boss-employee thing. We’re equals. We have different skillsets but we’re all just doing a job.”
She nodded slowly and finally . . . finally . . . she smiled. “Okay, boss. In that case, I really like Raf, but between you and me, he’s not really my type. And also . . . is he a little bit of a prude? He seems almost asexual.”
While I was busy hoisting my jaw back up from the table, our waiter delivered our beers. Julia looked at me expectantly, but I wasn’t even going to touch that one. Raf was probably the horniest guy I knew, and he’d laugh his ass off if he’d heard what she just said.
For the rest of dinner, I made sure we only talked about work.
Chapter 31
Isla
It was official—a half dozen almond croissants and a good-sized glass of absinthe proved no match for the sadness I felt without Owen.
He told you he loved you, and you said nothing.
The self-torture had been thorough. I’d run countless miles up steep hills, I’d wallowed at home with Dunkin Donuts and bad cop shows that guaranteed I wouldn’t witness any kissing, and I’d talked the ear off of every one of my sisters. And my mom.
It had been almost two weeks and I didn’t feel any better. The loss felt just as huge and I felt just as awful as the night he walked out. If anything, I felt worse.
I sent him a text.
Me: Hey, can we find a time to talk?
Me: If you’re free sometime, maybe grab a drink?
I sounded more casual than I felt. When the friendly texts didn’t get a response, I threw caution to the wind. What did I have to lose by telling him what I wanted to say?
Me: Owen, I’m sorry. I hate apologizing via text but you’re not giving me a choice. So . . . I’m sorry. You’re more to me tha
n just a rebound guy.
I figured that had to earn me some kind of response. Or even an emoji. I was desperate for anything. But after a day and a half, I gave up hoping that he’d respond. It only added to my mood.
Well, if he was going to ignore me anyway, there was no harm in letting him know the final damning bit of truth.
Me: Also, I love you.
I didn’t feel the need to get all flowery about it. Simple was best. He didn’t have to respond. He probably wouldn’t. But I needed him to know.
When I got no response, as expected, I tried to move past it, even though the giant lump in my throat wouldn’t budge.
Nothing good was going to happen by mulling this stuff over for another hour. I’d do better by heading home and starting a new watercolor painting. Watching the pale paint colors bleed on the page made me happy in a deep soulful way. I’d grab a photograph of a gorgeous beach I wouldn’t have time to visit anytime soon and paint it. I’d been at the bakery long enough.
When I stepped outside, I found the night cooler and foggier than I’d expected, but it felt nice to walk and feel the mist on my face. Someone had parked in my usual spot behind the building again, so I’d circled the neighborhood a few times this morning and had finally found a space on one of the side streets a few blocks away.
I almost regretted that the walk wasn’t longer because it felt so nice to be outside.
As I walked down Valencia, I saw a couple exit a pizza place. The woman caught my eye because she was wearing a bright orange skirt and I immediately thought it looked like something Cherry would wear.
Then I noticed the black portfolio under the arm of the guy—just like the one I’d seen under Owen’s arm a few mornings when he was heading to work. My stomach dropped.
It looked like Owen, but maybe after thinking about him nonstop, everyone looked like him.
No . . . I was pretty certain it was him. The slope of his shoulder and the flick of his hair as he shook it off his forehead—if it wasn’t Owen, the man across the street bore a striking resemblance.
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