“Just sourdough.” I force a chuckle. “I don’t have time to cook actual meals.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pretend to find it amusing. “That’s no good.”
“It’s fine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, already sure I know where this conversation is heading. It’s the same path we’ve been walking for months now.
And I’m right. “You’re too busy,” he says, his voice taking on that lecturing tone I remember from high school. “You’re spreading yourself thin, Noah.”
“I love what I do.” I bite my tongue to keep from adding that he should mind his own business, that I’m thirty-six years old and capable of managing my own life.
“You don’t want to get burned out again. Remember last time.”
“That wasn’t burn out that ended Street Cucina.” My face heats up, the familiar defensiveness rising in my throat.
“No, but if all that other shit hadn’t gone down, it would have happened eventually. You were frayed for months before it closed. I could see it every time we talked. The bags under your eyes, the weight you lost.”
He’s only partly correct. Yes, I was exhausted, running on fumes and stubbornness. But that wouldn’t have sunk my restaurant. I fought tooth and nail to keep Street Cucina going. I wouldn’t have let simple fatigue get in the way of my dream.
My father continues, warming to his theme. “You’ve got the bakery, the YouTube channel—which is damn good, I’ll give you that. People love those videos. But it’s too much, Noah. And now this cookbook on top of everything else...”
I suck in a sharp breath. The cookbook is my baby, the project that gets me through the pre-dawn hours of kneading and shaping. It’s the thing I’m most excited about right now, besides Alexis.
“And you don’t have an investor for the bakery,” he adds, as if I need reminding of the fact that all of my savings, my entire 401k, everything I had is sunk into Rye Again. “Most bakeries and restaurants don’t make it past the first year. What if it goes under? What’s your backup plan?”
I rub my face hard enough that I see stars. “Is this why you called? To remind me that there’s no safety net this time? That if I fall or slip up, there’s no one to catch me?”
“I’m checking in on you, Noah.” There’s an edge to his voice now, frustration mixing with concern. “No one can do it all. Not even you.”
“And what would you rather I do? Close the bakery? Give up and come back home?” The words come out sharper than I intended.
There’s silence on his end, just the distant sound of the grocery store around him. Even though he’s the one who started this conversation, who called to lecture me about my lifechoices, I can’t help but feel guilty for snapping at him. There’s something about growing up with a single parent that makes you feel eternally responsible for their happiness. My dad and I are the only consistent things in each other’s lives. We’re a team, always have been. And I would rather die than hurt him.
“I know what I’m doing, Dad,” I say quietly, trying to soften the blow of my earlier words. “Will you please just have some faith in me?”
“I do, kid, but you’re not a superhero. No one is. Not even your mother was, and she tried to be.”
The mention of Mom hits unexpectedly hard. I stare out the window at the tree branches scratching against the panes like they’re trying to get in. “I have it under control. Really. What about you? What’s new with you?”
It’s an obvious deflection, but I’m done talking about me and the sword hanging over my head, ready to fall and end everything at my next misstep.
“Nothing much,” he grumbles. I hear him put something in his cart. “I went out to coffee with a nice lady the other day.”
“What?” I sit forward so fast I nearly knock over the water glass on the side table. “Dad. Are you telling me that you went on a date?”
“It wasn’t a big deal. Which cheese is better on stuffed peppers? Pimento or cheddar?”
“Depends what else is in them.” I shake my head, not letting him deflect. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging. Who was she? How did you meet her?”
My dad hasn’t dated in... I honestly don’t even know. I never saw him with anyone while I was growing up. No women came to dinner, no one stayed over. Since then, any mentions of women have been few and far between, usually just comments about a coworker or neighbor. I’m sure he hasn’t lived like a monk sinceMom died when I was one, but he’s kept that part of his life completely separate from me.
“Adrienne. Nice lady.” He says it like it’s no big deal, but I can hear something else in his voice. “Works at the library. We started talking about bread making, of all things. She wants to learn.”
There’s something in his tone that makes me think this is more than just casual coffee. Why else would he mention it? My dad doesn’t share unless there’s a reason.
It makes me want to bring up Alexis, to share my own news. But it only takes a second of reflection before I decide to hold my tongue. We’re so new we don’t even have a label yet. We’re not even really a “thing.” We’ve kissed—God, those kisses—but I don’t even know if she’ll want to do it again.
Though I really hope she does. I want that and so much more. Real dinners at actual restaurants instead of stolen moments between work obligations. Time spent slowly and intentionally getting to know each other, learning all the little things—how she takes her coffee, what makes her laugh, what her dreams are beyond the editing job.
At thirty-six, I’m done with vapid flings and casual whatever-this-is arrangements. I want something real, something that lasts longer than the time it takes for bread to rise. And I think there’s true potential with Alexis.
