“What is that?” he asks, nodding at the fresh ink on my wrist.
“Oh,” I blush. “Mina took me to get a tattoo for my birthday.”
He runs his thumb over the plastic wrap covering the tattoo. “It’s cute.”
“Thanks.”
I look down at the box. The cake is small, but still too much for me to eat alone. “Do you want to come in? For cake, I mean.”
He gives me a curt nod, and I fumble with my keys, pushing the door open wide with my hip.
James steps in and stands awkwardly.
I set the cake on the kitchen island and flip on the under-cabinet lights, the whole apartment suddenly rendered small and exposed. I feel the pressure of his gaze everywhere: the art on the walls, the scuffed baseboards, the collection of half-dead plants Mina insists on gifting me every few months.
“This is nice,” he says, taking in the apartment.
I shrug. “Thanks.”
I open the box, revealing a cake so absurdly perfect it looks photoshopped. It’s pale pink buttercream, piped rosettes, and in looping script, the words: Happy Birthday Avery.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, feeling a little silly describing a cake that way.
He nods. “I wasn’t sure what flavor you liked, so I picked vanilla. Felt…safe.”
“Vanilla is perfect.”
I rummage in the silverware drawer for something to cut the cake, my hands too shaky to trust with anything sharper than a butter knife.
The silence thickens around us, and I realize we’re both waiting for the other to break it.
I cut two slices and plate them, handing one to him. We sit on the countertop barstools next to each other, cake in front of us.
The first bite is all sugar. I close my eyes and let it melt on my tongue.
“It’s good,” I say.
James doesn’t respond, his mouth full with his first bite.
“I really appreciate the cake, James, but you didn’t have to do this.”
He puts his fork down. “I wanted to see you.”
I don’t know what to do with that. I want to say the distance was for the best, but the words lodge and never come out. I take another bite, letting the frosting glue my teeth together.
James watches me, his face unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For the way things ended. For everything.”
I swallow around the lump that’s formed in my throat. The apology lands hard, and for a moment, I just sit with it. I focus on the cake, on the uneven fork marks, anything to avoid his eyes. My hands worry the edge of the plate, tracing circles. Because I know if I look at him, I’ll say something stupid or worse, start to cry.
Finally, I say, “Don’t be. We made our choices.”
He nods, but I can tell it’s not enough. There are a thousand things he wants to say, but all of them are too painful, too loaded.
“You know you can’t be here. If your father finds out—”
“He’s not going to.” There’s a steel in his voice, a certainty. “And I’m not here as your boss, anyway.”
“Then why are you here, James?”
