I crossed the room, came up behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist. He stilled for a moment—he always did, that first second of contact—then relaxed into it. Let me press my cheek against his back, feel the warmth of him through his flannel.
“One more day,” I said. The words came out softer than I'd intended.
His hands stopped moving. “Yeah.”
“Big day tomorrow.”
“Biggest of the year.”
I tightened my grip. Breathed him in—soap and flowers and something underneath that was just him. This time next week, we could be over. He could shake my hand and thank me for my help and walk me out like nothing had changed.
“Holden—”
The bell rang. Another customer.
“I've got it.” I let go, stepped back. “Finish your masterpiece.” It really was beautiful.
He caught my hand before I could leave. Squeezed once, brief and hard. Didn't say anything.
I went to handle the customer and told myself the ache in my chest was nothing.
Holden
The second Friday of every month, Reid and I had lunch.
This had been true for three years now, since he'd taken over my grandmother's accounts and discovered what a disaster I was at keeping records. He'd declared that quarterly check-ins weren't cutting it, that I needed monthly monitoring like a patient who couldn't be trusted to take his own medication.
I'd resisted. He'd ignored my resistance. Eventually I'd stopped fighting it.
The meetings happened at Pine & Flour Bakery because it was neutral ground. Not the shop, not his office. We'd sit in the corner booth, he'd review whatever receipts I'd remembered to save, and I'd eat pastries while he lectured me about estimated tax payments.
Today was the second Friday of February. The day before Valentine's Day. The busiest weekend of my entire year.
I'd tried to cancel. Reid had shown up at the shop anyway to get me.
“Quarterly estimates don't care about your feelings,” he'd said, steering me toward the door while Jamie watched with raised eyebrows. “Twenty minutes. The roses will survive.”
“The roses are fine. I have a wedding to prep for.”
“Then you'd better talk fast.”
Now I sat across from him in our usual booth, a panini going cold on my plate while he flipped through the folder of receipts I'd shoved at him. His pen tapped against the table in that irregular rhythm that had driven me crazy for three years—tap tap, pause, tap tap tap, pause. He didn't seem to know he did it.
“These are almost organized,” he said. “I'm genuinely concerned. Did you have a stroke? Should I call someone?”
“Jamie has been helping.”
“Ah.” The pen stopped. “The boyfriend.”
I didn't respond. Reid made a note on something, then looked up and studied me over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. The same glasses he'd had since I met him, slightly bent at one temple where he'd sat on them six months ago.
“You look like shit,” he said. Matter-of-fact, like he was reading a balance sheet.
“Thanks.”
“When did you last sleep more than four hours?”
“Tuesday.”
