“Did she break up with you?” Emery asked quietly.
“She walked out,” Maya said. “Didn't speak to me for two weeks. I thought it was over.” She paused, taking another sip of tea. “Then one day, she showed up at the bakery with her guitar. Set up right outside and started playing.”
“Playing?”
Maya smiled at the memory. “She’d always dreamed of being a musician. But she can’t carry a tune in a bucket. She sang an awful song she’d written herself about a baker with big dreams and a bigger heart who needed to learn that love doesn't require embellishments.” She laughed softly. “It was terrible, but it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.”
“She forgave you,” Emery said, feeling a faint flicker of hope.
“She gave me a second chance,” Maya said. “But she made me promise, no more lies, no matter how small. And I've kept that promise for twenty-two years.”
Emery sighed. “But your lie was different. You weren't famous under another name, writing about her without her knowledge.”
“You’re writing about her?” Maya said. She shook her head. “The principle is the same. Lies grow. They metastasize. The longer you wait, the more painful the surgery to remove them.”
“What if she can't forgive me?” Emery asked.
“That's the risk you take,” Maya said.
Emery bit her lip. “I'm scared, Maya.”
“Of course you are,” Maya said. “Love is terrifying. It makes us vulnerable in ways nothing else can. But that vulnerability, that's where the real connection happens.”
“I'll tell her,” Emery said. “I just need to find the right way.”
“Don't wait too long,” said Maya.
After Maya left, Emery went through the motions of locking up.
As she wiped down the counter, her cloth caught on something underneath. Reaching beneath, her fingers closed around a book. She pulled it out, then froze when she saw the cover.Les Ombres de Provenceby Charles Moreau.
It had to be Charles's book, the one with Eveline's stories.
Emery turned it over in her hands, studying the author photo. Charles had Eveline's same dark coloring, but where her features were warm and expressive, his looked cold and made Emery instantly dislike him.
She opened the book hesitantly, flipping through pages. But she understood nothing. She stuck the book back where she found it.
Was she any better than him?
“It's different,” she told to herself as she locked up the shop. “I'm not stealing her stories. I'm not publishing her private memories.”
Yet the justifications rang hollow, even to her own ears. She'd hidden her identity. She'd gotten close to Eveline under falsepretenses. Whatever her intentions, the deception remained. When had she become such a horrible person?
She'd walked halfway home when her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Eveline.
Dinner over. Home safe. Everything fine.
Emery typed back quickly:Glad to hear it. How did it go?
The response came a moment later:Exactly as expected. Charles hasn't changed, still thinks charm can fix everything. Still utterly self-absorbed.
Then, before Emery could reply:But seeing him made me realize something. Something important.
Emery's breath caught.What's that?
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally:I know it's probably too soon to say this. But I don't care. Seeing Charles tonight just confirmed what I already knew. What I feel for you is real, Emery. Deeper than I expected. Deeper than I thought I could feel again.
Emery stopped walking, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs. She read the message again, then a third time.
