"For now. But people change. Wants change. Just—don't give up on her yet. She might surprise you."
After Mrs. Henderson left, Marcus raised his glass. "To not giving up."
"I'm not giving up. I'm being realistic."
"Realistic is just another word for scared."
"Since when are you the expert on relationships? You haven't dated anyone seriously in five years."
"Exactly. Which makes me the perfect person to give advice. I learn from everyone else's mistakes." Marcus leaned forward. "Jake, real talk—are you over Lucy?"
"No."
"Do you want to be?"
Jake thought about it. Did he want to be over Lucy? Did he want to stop missing her, stop hoping she'd change her mind, stop checking his phone for messages that never came?
"I don't know," Jake admitted. "Part of me wants to move on. To find someone else, build a different life. But part of me still hopes—"
"That she'll come home."
"Yeah. That she'll realize Paris isn't enough. That she misses us—me—enough to come back."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then I guess I'll learn to live with it. Eventually."
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
They drank in silence for a moment. Around them, the Wolves laughed and joked and celebrated the start of a new season. Jake envied their lightness. Their ability to be present without the weight of heartbreak pulling them down.
"Give it time," Marcus finally said. "That's all you can do. Give it time and see what happens."
Time. Jake was so tired of time. Tired of waiting, of hoping, of trying to move forward while part of him was still stuck in Paris, still holding Lucy's hand on that hill in Montmartre, still believing they could make it work.
But Marcus was right. Time was all he had.
So Jake would wait. And coach. And try to build a life that felt whole even with Lucy-shaped hole in it.
And maybe—maybe—eventually it would hurt less.
September in Paris was beautiful.
The tourists thinned out, the weather cooled, the city returned to the Parisians. Lucy had been working at Le Bernardin for two months, and she'd fallen into a rhythm. Work, sleep, work, sleep. Occasionally drinks with Amelie and James. Occasionally a museum or walk along the Seine.
But mostly just work.
"You're losing yourself," Amelie observed one evening over wine. They were at their usual café, watching people pass on the street.
"I'm not losing myself. I'm focused."
"You're hiding. Same as you were hiding in your grandmother's bakery. Different country, same problem."
"I'm not hiding. I'm building my career."
"To what end? So you can work yourself to death in a Michelin kitchen? Lucy, you're miserable."
