“He’s not holding a bat to my head to make me apply. He’s encouraging me, but he doesn’tmakeme do anything. And would it really be wrecking my life if I got into the residency?”
“You didn’t have any of these thoughts until Landon came back,” she insisted. “You have a good, stable job, with a promotion coming. One that will keep you secure for years to come?—”
“But I hate it!” The confession tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it, before I could shove it back down where it had been simmering for years. “I’ve tried to like it, but it’s not me. Not like art is.”
Mom held a hand up. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”
I bit my tongue and nodded. I was raised in arespect firsthousehold, where arguments were meant to be swallowed, not spoken.
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temple. “A job does not need tobe you. It needs to be something you do to make a living. Something you can’t do with art.”
“Years later, and we’re back to the same problem,” I scoffed. Any hope of coming to a mutual understanding over this shattered. “You don’t think I’m good enough.”
Her hands tightened into fists. “That’s not what I said, Kira.”
“But it’s what you meant.”
“You are good at art, but that doesn’t mean you can turn it into a livelihood.”
“I don’t think it’s something I can do overnight,” I admitted. “I don’t know if it’s something I can do at all. But isn’t it worth trying?”
Mom inhaled sharply. “Not everything is worth taking a risk on.”
“But some things are.”Some people are, I wanted to add.
“You’ll clearly do whatever you like.” She waved a dismissive hand. “This is something I cannot support.”
I let out a breath and forced myself to keep my voice even. “Landon mentioned something the other day…” I started slowly, the words prickling in my throat like thorns. “He told me that after we broke up, he left me a long letter. But I only ever saw the second page. The one that saidI’m sorry. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
She paused at the dining table with a set of chopsticks in her hand, her back to me. Just for a second. Enough for me toknow. Her shoulders stiffened, and her fingers adjusted the place setting that was already perfectly aligned.
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she said, her tone clipped. “Now have a seat and let’s enjoy lunch with your father.”
The avoidance was deliberate. She hadn’t even turned around.
I nodded, but it wasn’t an agreement. It was surrender for now.
Inside, something broke loose. Not anger. Not sadness. Not even shock. Just this painful ache. A deep, hollow knowing that I’d always suspected but never wanted it confirmed. That maybe the fracture between Landon and me hadn’t been entirely our doing. That my mother’s idea of protecting me had meant choosing for me. Again.
I sat down at the table, numb fingers brushing the edge of a plate. So this was the shape of betrayal—not violent or dramatic, but quiet, calculated, and carried out in my name.
I stared at the steam rising from the rice bowl and wondered if anything would ever taste right again.
Landon
For the first time, I was alone in the diner. We were supposed to be taking a night off from preparations, but I craved a distraction. Which apparently was what I did now—filled up my time so intensely that I didn’t have a second to spend thinking.
I couldn’t have said what I did yesterday. Ever since Kira asked for space, I’d just been mind-numbingly trudging around town.
Until I decided to do something productive.
There remained a few unopened boxes in the back room, things that hadn’t been touched since before Dad died. I plucked a medium-sized box off the top, pushed aside the lid, and rifled through old cookbooks, faded newspaper clippings, and a stack of loose Polaroids. Then I saw it.
Folded in half, the edges soft with time, was a piece of lined paper. My chest constricted before I even opened it. I knew that handwriting. Knew it by heart.
Dad’s Bourbon-Pecan Pie.
I exhaled slowly, my thumb brushing over the messy scrawl. The measurements were barely legible in places, smudged with something that might’ve been flour or tears. There were little notes in the margins, like “Don’t overmix” and “Kira says this one needs more bourbon ;).”
