He’s still looking at me. I can’t look back at him. I can’t believe he’s apologized to me. Like I’m not the snooping deviant who broke into his room and invaded his privacy. There’s only one person at this table who needs to apologize, and it isn’t him.
Before I can figure out how to apologize to him, he cuts through the tension smoothly.
“I have a surprise for you,” he announces. “Will you come with me?”
I’d love to,my conscience suggests.
Like the little doll he’d deemed me last night—a puppet, suspended from his strings, dancing for him—I nod eagerly.
***
Twenty minutes later, we are pulling up in front of a red brick building.
My head spins.
No. No, it can’t be.
“Iosif?” The words come out strangled.
The building has deteriorated to its bones. Construction workers and their paraphernalia are everywhere. But past the scaffolding and lumber and the men in their bright yellow hard hats, I know this place. I would know this place anywhere.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, sounding far away to my ears.
He just gets out of the car, rounds it, and opens my door. “Come see,” he invites. My brain feels scrambled as I take his proffered hand. I can’t spiral over him, keeping it in his grasp, guiding me.
The crowd of workers parts for him just like the people in the Pit had that night.
Inside, the space is gutted. Memory is vivid, though. There is a hole in the ceiling, and I still see the exposed beams Mom hung thrift-shop fairy lights from. The windows are dirty, paint-splattered. I’ve been dreaming about the park view from there for years.
Iosif lets my hand go. I turn in a circle, waiting for the punchline.
Is this a cruel joke?
“I don’t understand,” I breathe.
Iosif reaches out and grips my shoulder. “The idiot Cillian sold this place and ran it into the ground, given how competitive this area has gotten. He was more than happy to give it away. It’s been sitting empty and deteriorating for a while. It was a good investment. It’s shitty. And I thought, after a little renovation, you could make it enchanting.”
My vision blurs, tears stinging my eyes. “You just bought back my mom’s café? Why would you do that?”
His features soften, his eyes falling shut. Much to my surprise, he lets loose a warm, rumbling laugh.
“To prove that perspective can change.”
I can’t speak. I’ve cried a lot in my life. I’ve cried a lot the past few days. I have never wept from an abundance of joy.
“My mom’s café?”
I can’t believe it.
“A café,” he corrects. “You’re going to have to learn the business and build it as you see fit. I don’t have the time for that. So, it’s on you. The aesthetic, the menu, any staffing, and financial decisions. The whole thing. You can handle that, can’t you?”
It isn’t really a question.
Iosif’s callused thumb catches my tears.
“You aren’t weak, Janella. When I see you, all I see is potential. That’s why I saved you.”
I’m crying too hard to speak now. Those cried are muffled against his chest, my arms wrapping around him. Iosif catches all of me, his hand cradling my head.
