Should I call him? Tell him everything? Ask him to forgive me for pulling away, for being scared, for not trusting that good things could last?
Or should I let him sleep? Let myself sleep. Show up at the Taste-Off tomorrow—clear-eyed, honest, ready.
My body answered for me before my heart could argue.
I changed into an old sweatshirt and crawled into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. Remy jumped up first, circling twice before settling against my chest like a watchful little guardian. Linguini followed more carefully, kneading the blanket before flopping against my hip with a sigh. I stroked their fur, slow and absentminded, letting the warmth and quiet sink all the way into my bones.
My eyes burned, not from tears this time, but from the deep, bone-heavy exhaustion that comes after you finally stop running. As sleep pulled me under, one thought stayed with me—steady and bright enough to hold onto.
Tomorrow, I would show up at the Taste-Off.
And maybe—if I was very lucky—Nate would be there, ready to meet me where I stood.
Chapter 32
Nate
The morning of the Taste-Off arrived like a sucker punch. I woke up before the sun, nerves tight in my chest, reaching instinctively for my phone on the nightstand.
No messages. No missed calls.
No Eliza.
I didn’t blame her for pulling back. I just missed her.
I lay there longer than usual, staring at the ceiling while the house settled around me. The coffee maker clicked on in the kitchen, filling the quiet with a familiar hum, and I took that as my cue to move. I dressed on autopilot—jeans, Pennywhistle hoodie, boots—every motion threaded with the same looping thought. Would she come? Or was this the day I learned how to let her go without answers?
Coffee in hand, I stood at the window for a minute, watching the sky lighten over Honeybrook Hollow. The town was already stirring, as if it knew today was important. I told myself I’d be fine either way. I told myself the Taste-Off was about the food, the diner, and showing up for the community.
I told myself a lot of things that I didn’t believe.
Then, I went to wake Tilly.
By the time she was dressed and eating toast at the counter, I was back in motion—focused, practical, steady enough to almost fool myself. I loaded the last of the supplies into the truck—chafing dishes, utensils, the cooler with ingredients I’d triple-checked—when Tilly drifted close, hugging her jacket around herself even though it wasn’t cold. She watched me as if she were memorizing the day.
“Good luck, Daddy,” she said quietly, like luck worked better if you didn’t shout it.
I smiled and crouched in front of her. “Thanks, sweetheart. That means a lot.”
She nodded, then tipped her head, studying my face. “Is Eliza still coming to cook with you?”
“I don’t know, but I hope so,” I said, honestly, because she deserved the truth.
Tilly considered this, then said matter-of-factly, “I hope so, too. I like her. You smile a whole lot when she’s around.” She paused, then added, as if sealing the argument, “And the spaghetti was better when she helped you cook it. I bet the chicken pot pies will be better if she helps, too.”
That hit me right in the chest.
“Hard to argue with that.” I ruffled her hair, feeling her faith in me settle something restless inside. “But I’ll do my best no matter what, okay?” I said, trying for reassurance as much for myself as for her.
She grinned and nodded like she believed it was already true. For a brief, calm moment, I let myself imagine Eliza at my side in the booth—her laughter among the clatter, her hands steadying mine when doubts crept in. It made the day feel less daunting, the unknowns a little softer around the edges.
I’d built a whole life around showing up for the people I loved—and right now, I didn’t know if she was still going to show upfor me. I tried to ignore how much it hurt because I understood where she was coming from.
Before Tilly could respond, my grandparents pulled into the driveway. Grandma climbed out with her familiar brisk warmth, Grandpa already calling Lois’s name. She trotted over happily, leash held in her mouth, while Tilly bounced into Grandma’s arms.
“We’ll meet you there,” Grandma said, squeezing my shoulder, her voice gentle but certain. “You focus on cooking. We’ll take care of our Tilly. Lois too. No worries, Nate. You got this.”
“Focus on kicking that Graham’s butt,” Grandpa muttered as he hooked Lois to her leash, then handed it to Tilly.
