“Details. I'm making latkes with rosemary. Your sister requested sweet potatoes, but they fall apart. Traditional is better, right?”
"You know me too well."
"Six o'clock. Don't be late." He pauses. "You sound different. Happy."
"Just well-rested," I say quickly. "The power outage meant no screens, early bedtime."
After we hang up, I check my phone for... what? Brian didn’t reach out. We didn't make promises. We didn't discuss the next steps because there aren't any. He lives his life in airports and hotels, chasing the next deal. I live mine here, between these walls lined with stories that never quite match the reality of modern romance.
The morning passes in a blur of customers and cocoa. By lunchtime, I've almost convinced myself that last night was simply a pleasant fairytale, a story I'll tell myself on lonely nights but nothing to build hopes around.
My sister texts a reminder about tonight's family dinner, complete with a photo of her three children dressed in blue and white dreidel pajamas. The sight grounds me. This is my life—family dinners, community events, book orders, and quarterly taxes. A life built on purpose and permanence, not passion and impulse.
Dad's house is chaos incarnate when I arrive, exactly as I expected. My eight-year-old niece Leah barrels into my legs the moment I step through the door, chattering about her school play, while my six-year-old nephew Eli demonstrates his new karate moves dangerously close to the glass table. Baby Sophie, barely two, toddles after them both, determined not to be left out.
"Thank god you're here," Carol says, appearing from the kitchen with flour on her cheek. "Dad's been driving me crazy, micromanaging the latkes. Take this wine. You'll need it."
I accept the glass gratefully and follow her back to the kitchen, where Dad stands guard over a sizzling pan, spatula held like a weapon.
"You're flipping them too early," he tells my brother-in-law, who looks genuinely afraid.
"Daddy," I kiss his cheek. "Leave the poor man alone." I hand him the wrapped loaf of challah.
Dad lights up when he sees me, pulls me into a hug that smells of oil and comfort. "My Noa! Finally, someone who understands the sacred art of grapeseed oil for frying."
Daniel whispers 'thank you' over Dad's shoulder and sneaks into the living room.
"How's the shop?" Dad asks, handing me a spatula like a baton in a relay race. He unwraps the bread to set on a plate for dinner. "That storm didn't cause any damage, I hope?"
"Everything's fine," I say, focusing intently on the browning potato pancakes. "Just lost power for a bit."
Carol narrows her eyes at me from across the kitchen. My sister has always had an uncanny ability to detect when I'm not being entirely truthful. I occupy myself with the potato pancakes, avoiding her gaze.
"Mom's going to FaceTime during candle lighting," Carol says. "She and Gary are at some resort in Hawaii, so it'll be like 2 pm their time."
Our mother, ever the sun-seeker, is now basically a snowbird, even though it doesn't really snow in Seattle. She loves us, in her own way, but has always been better at mothering from afar.
"Wait," Dad points at the bread. "Who made this? It's excellent."
I flush, realizing that my family would, of course, notice the homemade loaf and know I wouldn't have taken the time to make it. "A customer gave it to me." Only partially a lie. I'm not ready to talk about Brian. Not yet.
Dinner is the familiar controlled disarray—food passed, stories interrupted, children negotiating vegetable consumption against the potential of dessert. I sink into it gratefully, the normalcy washing over me like a balm.
After the meal, we gather around the menorah. Dad's voice leads the blessings, and the children join in with varying degrees of accuracy. My mother's face appears on Carol's tablet, propped on the mantle beside the family photos—including one of Bubbe Rose standing in front of Bishop Books decades before it became mine.
Looking around at these faces—my family, my foundation—I feel grounded once more. This is my life. Complete, rich, complicated. Rooted here in Pittsburgh, in tradition, in connection.
After the candles are lit, Dad turns on the TV for the local news while Carol and I clean up. The sports segment grabs my attention when I hear a familiar name.
"—Stag, who has been instrumental in the Fury's playoff push. The team announced today that enforcer Tucker Stag has signed a contract extension for another three years."
I nearly drop the plate I'm drying as the camera cuts to a hockey player standing next to a man in a suit. Not Brian, but the connection still makes my heart skip, nonetheless.
"The Stags practically own Pittsburgh sports," Carol comments, noticing my attention. "Three play hockey, another bunch of them soccer... I think there's a coach too?"
"Emma Stag is doing a book signing at my shop next week," I say, trying to sound casual. "She's married to one of them."
"Fancy," Carol smirks. "Look at you with your celebrity connections."
