At home, life settles into a comfortable chaos. Mason’s excitement about the reopening grows by the day. He counts down on his fingers at dinner, reminding us how many sleeps are left between now and the reopening. He asks what he should wear, whether dinosaurs are appropriate party accessories, and if the fire trucks will be there.
Aiden answers every question with infinite patience, even when Mason asks the same one three times in a row. I watch them together from the kitchen doorway more often than I should, a quiet warmth spreading through me at the ease of their connection.
Aiden’s weirdness persists.
He disappears with Garrett more frequently now, offering vague explanations about “logistics” and “coordination.” He checks his phone and then pockets it quickly when he notices me looking. Once, I catch him standing on the balcony late at night, talking in a low voice I can’t quite hear.
I tease him about it over breakfast one morning.
“You’re being suspicious,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
He smiles too easily. “Only about being surprised.”
I laugh and let it go, knowing this is all part of whatever firefighter-flavored spectacle he’s helping plan for opening night. Considering Aiden, it’s probably something thoughtful and understated, even if Garrett’s involvement makes me suspect explosions or sirens might somehow be involved.
Between the bar, the people, the routines at home, and the quiet certainty of Aiden’s presence, my life feels full in a way that doesn’t leave room for fear. If there’s a catch coming, I don’t see it. And for once, I’m not actively looking for it.
The days blur together in the best possible way.
Dinner becomes a standing family appointment, even though I have a thousand things to do. If I don’t make time for it now, I’ll hate myself. Running a bar means late nights, so these dinners are everything to me.
Nothing fancy—pasta, tacos, whatever Aiden can throw together after a shift—but it’s consistent, and consistency has a way of calming the edges of my mind. Mason insists on setting the table “the right way,” which changes nightly, and Aiden lets him explain the rules as if they’re official policy.
Afterward, homework stretches longer than it should, mostly because Mason keeps asking Aiden to make the pencil talk or act out spelling words like they’re characters in a story.
This is what I didn’t know I was missing. I feel good. Not just busy or distracted or cautiously optimistic, but genuinely happy. Present in my own life instead of waiting for it to fall apart. When I crawl into bed at night, exhausted and satisfied, I don’t run mental disaster scenarios. I fall asleep thinking about lighting choices and playlists and whether Mason should wear sneakers or boots to the party.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not bracing for impact. Whatever’s coming, I trust it. That, more than anything, tells me how far I’ve come. If there’s a crack forming anywhere in this perfect momentum, I don’t feel it. And if it comes, we will patch it and keep going.
The bar hums with activity from open to close, every day bringing a new problem to solve and a new reminder of why I fought so hard to rebuild. The staff is trained and eager, the shelves stocked, the lighting finally just right. I catch my reflection in the mirrored back bar one afternoon and barely recognize the woman staring back at me—confident, tired in a good way, smiling without forcing it.
This is mine again.
Roz and I spend hours fine-tuning details that probably don’t matter, and then arguing about them anyway because that’s who we are. Her hints ramp up—“Make sure you wear something comfortable opening night,” or “You’re going to want waterproof mascara”—and every time I roll my eyes, she just laughs and tells me I’ll thank her later.
And as opening night looms closer, the excitement builds into something almost electric. The bar is ready. The community is ready. I feel ready.
But then sleep refuses to cooperate the night before the grand re-opening. I’m too anxious. Maybe it’s waited until now to hit me. That’s what it feels like.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying lists and timelines and worst-case scenarios even though I know better. Tomorrow is the culmination of everything I’ve worked toward since the fire. Tomorrow is proof that Marcus didn’t win. Tomorrow is the bar, the people, the music, the noise and laughter and life returning exactly where it belongs.
And yet my chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with permits or staffing or whether the liquor delivery will arrive on time.
I slip quietly out of bed and pad into the living room, careful not to wake Mason. The penthouse is dark and still, the city beyond the windows spread out in a quiet constellation of lights. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and step onto the balcony, letting the cool air wash over me.
It helps a little.
I rest my hands on the railing and close my eyes, breathing in slowly. For the first time in years, my life feels almost too good. The bar is back. Mason is happy. Aiden is here—steady, present, not running. The community showed up. The future looks wide open.
And that’s what scares me.
Aiden steps out onto the balcony quietly, already dressed for bed, his expression soft and knowing like he sensed where I’d gone. He doesn’t crowd me or ask questions right away. He just joins me at the railing, shoulder brushing mine. “Can’t sleep?”
I huff out a small laugh. “I’m terrified.”
“About tomorrow?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not about the bar.”
