"I just want to make sure you have everything you need."
"Lucy." Sarah set down her dough. "I've got this. You've taught me everything. You've documented every recipe. You've introduced me to every regular customer. I'm not going to let you down."
"I know. I just—" Lucy's voice cracked. "This was my grandmother's. And then it was mine. And now it's not anymore."
"It's still yours. Just in a different way. You gave it room to grow. That's not losing it—that's loving it enough to let it evolve."
Lucy nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
The afternoons were spent preparing for Paris. Enrolling in the culinary program. Finding an apartment—a tiny studio in the Marais that cost more per month than Lucy had ever spent on anything. Buying winter clothes because Paris in February wasapparently much colder than she'd anticipated. Learning basic French phrases from an app that made Jake laugh because Lucy's accent was "aggressively American."
"I'm trying," Lucy protested one evening while they cooked dinner in her apartment.
"I know. It's cute. Say 'croissant' again."
"Non."
"See, you're getting better already."
The evenings were spent with Jake—cooking together, watching movies, talking about everything and nothing. They were both trying to soak up as much time as possible, to create enough memories to last six months.
"Four weeks," Lucy said one night in mid-January, lying in Jake's arms.
"I know."
"Are we really doing this?"
"Yes."
"What if—"
"Lucy." Jake turned to face her. "We've been through this. Yes, it's going to be hard. Yes, we're going to miss each other. Yes, there will be moments when it feels impossible. But we're doing this anyway."
"How are you so calm?"
"I'm not calm. I'm terrified. But I'm also sure. About us. About this." He kissed her softly. "I love you. That doesn't change just because you're in Paris."
Lucy buried her face in his chest. "I love you too. So much it scares me."
"Good. If it didn't scare you, it wouldn't be worth it."
With three weeks until Lucy left, Jake started seeing the countdown everywhere.
Twenty-one more days of waking up next to her.
Twenty-one more Wednesday morning pork bun traditions (though they'd expanded to include Lucy actually sitting with him now).
Twenty-one more nights of falling asleep with her in his arms.
It was making him crazy.
"You're doing the thing again," Marcus said at practice one Monday.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you're physically here but mentally you're spiraling about Lucy leaving."
"I'm not spiraling."
