Connor caught my eye across the room and smiled—soft and genuine. The exhaustion hovered at the edges, but underneath it was something that felt like hope.
“He makes you happy,” Mike said.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “He does.”
“Then don’t screw it up by being too scared to want more. From him, from your life, from whatever comes next.” He walked away before I could argue, leaving me standing there with a tray of cookies and too many feelings.
Mike was right. I was genuinely, stupidly happy in a way I hadn’t been in years, even before everything fell apart.
The question was: what was I going to do about it?
After Santa returned to the North Pole and the last parent wrapped their sugar-fueled kid back into oversized jackets and dragged them out into the cold, I tracked him down. “Hey. Can we talk?”
Connor looked up from coiling microphone cables with precise loops. “Of course. What’s up?”
I showed him the email. “I got this today.”
He read it, and I watched his face carefully. Surprise, then something else. Pride? Relief?
“Hannah, this is incredible.” He looked up. “An interview with Victoria—”
“Did you know they were going to reach out?”
He shook his head. “I mean, I told Victoria after the wedding that she should consider you. But I didn’t know she’d actually—” He stopped. “Should I not have said anything?”
“No. I’m glad you did.” The words surprised me as much as him. “The interview’s December 28th. In person. In Manhattan.”
His lip tilted up. “Can I—” He set down the cables. “Can I take you to dinner? After the interview?”
I smiled despite my nerves. “Are you asking me on a date, McNamara?”
“I’m asking if I can celebrate with you. Or commiserate. However it goes.” He looked down at his hands for a second, then back at me. “And you can stay at my place that night, if you want.”
If you want.The words hung there, full of possibility. His apartment. Waking up together in Manhattan. A glimpse of what could come next.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Connor
Packingwasthebaneof my existence.
When I moved from San Francisco, Blackstone & Clarke paid for packing services as part of my relocation package. I didn’t go through these boxes of Mom’s stuff then, just shoved them in the closet—out of sight, out of mind. But as Hannah reminded me daily as I re-packed: square footage is a luxury in New York, and there was no reason to pay for a storage unit for boxes I wouldn’t open.
So now, with the luxury of time, I spent just as much time unpacking as I did packing, going through Mom’s books and journals, organizing her old clothes so Grace could bring them to the domestic violence shelter where she volunteered.
Most of the boxes were easy, trinkets I’d held onto for no good reason. But there was one box I’d been avoiding. I’d taped it shut three years ago and hadn’t opened it since. It sat in the corner of my bedroom now, my handwriting accusatory:Mom’s kitchen supplies.
Hannah was at work, so I had the apartment to myself. No reason not to open it. I used the box cutter to slice through the yellowing tape.
The smell hit me first. The vanilla and cinnamon scent that meantMom. Not perfume—she never wore perfume after the MS made her skin too sensitive. This was how she smelled when she’d pull me into a hug, flour on her hands, telling me to stop worrying about the recipe and justfeelthe dough.
I pulled out the first item: a dish towel embroidered with a dancing taco, faded and soft from years of use. Underneath: her apron. Navy blue, the ties frayed from being knotted and unknotted thousands of times.
And then, at the bottom: a forest green binder. Worn at the edges, the plastic cover cracked in places.
I lifted it out carefully, like it might disintegrate in my hands.
Inside were recipe cards. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, protected in plastic sleeves.
