Bea wandered into the kitchen where her umma was carefully placing hot bowls of miyeok-guk beside the rice cooker. Her father’s newspaper was folded in half on the table; he’d read it and gone to work hours ago.
Umma looked up. “You girls came in at different times last night.”
“I was tired from my shift, Imo,so I came back first,” Claire said smoothly, appearing behind her. Claire called herAuntie, like any self-respecting child with immigrant parents. First names? Only if you wanted to summon your own mother’s disappointment like a curse. “I brought my key.” She pulled it from her pocket as proof.
Umma nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Claire had kept a spare to the Cruz house since middle school, when she’d been locked out of her own place after schoolin the snow—everyone was at work, and no one had remembered to leave the back door open for her. She’d walked almost an hour to Bea’s, where Bea’s umma took one look at her and said,never again.
Her parents were good people, who often worked nights as a trauma nurse and fire captain. Her three older brothers were already half raised by the time she came along. She was loved, yes. But often left to figure things out herself.
Claire had learned early how to toast waffles and iron uniforms. Bea’s house had been a sanctuary: fun, warm, always stocked with snacks and home-cooked meals.
“What about you?” Umma pointed a spoon at Bea. “Did someone drop you home?”
Bea schooled her deer-in-the-headlights look. “Yeah. I was totally safe, Umma. We knew everyone at the party pretty much.”
Umma tutted. “Eat something.”
Bea nodded, relieved. She took a sip of water, gathered her hair up into a clip, and dutifully had a few spoonfuls before heading back to dress. Jeans, boots, a pale pink wool coat. Subtle earrings. Claire met her at the door.
“What’s the plan?” Claire asked.
“I’m easing you in.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re using me as a buffer.”
“Also true.”
Claire grinned, tossing on her coat. “Let’s go meet the billionaire.”
The place smelled like books and bergamot. Worn leather chairs slouched in corners. Old typewriters sat on polished tables like forgotten relics. Strings of Edison bulbs glowed against the brick walls, and the back shelves stretched floor to ceiling with mismatched hardcovers.
Claire pushed open the heavy door, then stopped. “If he picked this, I’m tentatively impressed.”
Bea smiled. “He did.”
They didn’t have to look for him. He was already in the corner, seated at a round table in a navy sweater, coat draped over the adjacent chair. Three drinks steamed in front of him.
Claire let out a low breath. “Okay. So the photos didn’t do him justice.”
Another smile tugged at Bea’s mouth. “What does that mean?”
“It means he looks exactly the same but twice as imposing.” Claire tilted her head. “He’s waiting for us, but why does it feel like we’ve been summoned?”
Gage stood courteously as they approached, brushed a kiss to Bea’s cheek when she looked up, and smiled. Then he turned. “Claire.”
“Gage.”
They sat, forming a loose triangle. No one was left out. Bea knew that was by design. Without a word, Gage slid a coffee toward Bea, and a mug toward Claire.
Claire picked it up, breathed it in. Spiced apple tea with vanilla. Her favorite. She glanced at him but said nothing.
A waiter appeared, unusually punctual, to take their order. Around them, the café murmured: the clink of spoons, the hiss of milk, the soft shuffle of conversation.
Bea watched, fascinated, as the most electric part of her old life met the most essential part of her new one. If she’d had access to a bag of popcorn, this is the moment she would have dug in.
“So,” Claire began, crossing one leg over the other. “You came all this way.”
