But right now I’m not thinking about the article or the reservations or the invoices in front of me. I’m thinking about Emma. I’m supposed to head to her place after I finish here, and I’m already counting the minutes. Already imagining the way she’ll smile when she opens the door, the way she’ll fit against my chest when I pull her into my arms.
There’s a knock on my open office door, and I look up expecting one of the servers with a question about closing procedures.
Victoria is leaning against the doorframe.
I feel my whole body go still, that involuntary alertness that always comes when she appears unexpectedly. She’s dressed casually—jeans and a nice sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders—but there’s something different about her posture. Something uncertain. Hesitant, even.
“Hey,” she says, and her voice is tentative in a way I don’t recognize. “Sorry for just dropping in. I was driving past and I realized I haven’t actually been inside the restaurant in years. I wanted to see it.”
I stand up from my desk, still processing her presence. “No need to apologize,” I say, because it seems like the thing to say. “Come in.”
She steps into the office, looking around at the cramped space with its filing cabinets and cluttered desk and the window that looks out onto the back kitchen. “This is where the magic happens, huh?” she asks, a small smile playing at her lips.
“This is where thepaperworkhappens,” I correct her. “The magic happens out there.”
“Can I see?” she asks. “The whole place?”
“Sure.”
I lead her out of the office and through the kitchen, past Alex who looks up from his braise with raised eyebrows. He gives her a polite nod. “Hey, Victoria.”
“Hey, Alex.” She offers him a small wave. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Thanks.” He catches my eye over her shoulder, his expression clearly askingwhat the hell is happening?I give him a subtle shrug—your guess is as good as mine—and keep walking.
We emerge into the dining room, mostly empty now, chairs already up on some of the tables, the warm lighting casting everything in that golden glow that makes the space feel intimate even when it’s deserted. Through the windows, the water is dark and still, reflecting the lights from the back patio.
Victoria turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. The oak bar we installed two years ago when I gave up on completing my black walnut masterpiece. The artwork on the walls, local artists Maren helped us find. The windows overlooking the harbor, the string lights on the back patio visible through the glass, swaying gently.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, and she sounds like she means it. “Really, Theo. You’ve done something special here.”
“Thanks. It’s been a lot of work.”
“I know.” She turns to face me, and there’s something in her expression I can’t quite read. “I saw the feature article online. The food writer was glowing. I always knew this place would be successful, but this is really something else. You should be proud.”
“Alex and I have put a lot into it over the years,” I say.
I could leave it there. Keep things surface-level. Wait for her to say whatever she came to say and then get back to my paperwork and my plans with Emma. But something makes me add, “Those early years, though. When we were just getting started. You were with Chloe during all those long nights I was here. That’s part of it too. This place exists partly because of you.”
Victoria looks surprised, then something softer crosses her face. “That’s generous of you,” she says quietly.
“It’s the truth. I wasn’t there enough back then. You held things together at home when I couldn’t.”
She’s quiet for a moment, looking out the window at the dark water beyond. The silence stretches between us, filled withyears of history—good and bad, regret and resentment, all the complicated feelings that come with sharing a child with someone you used to love.
Then she turns back to me. “Can we sit for a minute? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I gesture toward the bar. “Sure.”
We settle onto barstools facing each other, the polished wood of the bar top between us like a negotiating table. The restaurant is quiet around us, just the distant sounds of the kitchen crew cleaning up and the soft music still playing through the speakers—some jazz playlist Alex put together years ago that’s become part of the restaurant’s identity.
I wait for Victoria to say whatever she came to say.
She takes a breath, and I watch her compose herself, gather her thoughts. This is Victoria preparing to be vulnerable, which is rare enough that I find myself paying closer attention. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s always led with confidence, with certainty. This uncertainty is new.
“About when I met Emma at pickup,” she says finally.
I keep my expression neutral. “What about it?”
