I force myself to eat. The lobster is perfect. The pasta is al dente. The butter is ridiculous and I don’t care that it’s getting everywhere. Every bite tastes like he’s been paying attention this whole time. Like I matter beyond the contract and the boundaries and the rules we’re both pretending we can follow.
Around the table, families are eating and laughing and not checking their phones. Kids are asking for seconds. Parents and kids alike are actually talking to each other instead of monitoring screens.
It’s working.
The whole insane concept is actually working.
After dinner, we clean up together. Kids at the sink doing “brave bubbles” and counting to calm. Parents drying and sorting. Marco and I move around each other in the kitchen space like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
Our shoulders brush when we reach for the same dish towel.
“Sorry,”I mutter.
“Don’t be.” His voice is low enough that only I can hear. “You did good tonight.”
Before I can respond, Ben appears at my elbow with Frederick clutched in both hands.
“Jess? Can Frederick stay here for a little while? On the shelf?” She points to a spot near the window. “So he can watch?”
“Yeah, sweetie.” I crouch down to her level. “Of course.”
She carefully places Frederick on the shelf. Adjusts him so he’s facing the room. Then she does the one-two-three hand squeeze to herself, breathing through whatever emotion is surfacing.
When she turns back to me, her eyes are shiny. “Thank you for letting me be brave.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment I know I’m completely screwed.
Because this isn’t about the money anymore. Or the career pivot. Or even about Marco and whatever gravity keeps pulling us together.
This is about Ben.
About watching an anxious kid discover she can exist in her own body without panic.
About building something that matters more than metrics ever did.
I pull her into a hug. “You don’t need my permission to be brave. You already are.”
She squeezes back hard. Then goes with her dad to help with the last of the cleanup.
I stand there staring at Frederick on his shelf, watching the space we just created, and pretend my eyes aren’t stinging.
Lucy appears beside me. “You should be proud.”
“Of what? Teaching kids to breathe?”
“Of this.” She gestures at the room. At the families still lingering. At Ben laughing with Matteo’s daughter. At Marco watching his kid participate without freezing. “You built this. Without cameras. Without clout. Just substance.”
Substance.
Not followers. Not views. Not the validation I used to chase like it was oxygen.
Justthis. Just showing up and doing the work and letting it matter without needing proof that it happened. Without a chat filled with strangers commenting on the most random things.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Families start filtering out. Hugs and promises to come back next week. Ben walks each kid to the door like a tiny hostess, with Frederick tucked under her arm once again.
