They’re right.
We endup at a late-night place a few blocks away—Mom’s idea, Erin’s exhaustion, and Liam’s gentle insistence that we shouldn’t end the night yet.
White tablecloths, warm lighting, clinking silverware. The kind of place Wren would love.
She should be here.
Tucked between me and her little cousin, rolling her eyes at Luka’s theatrics. Laughing under her breath at Sophie’s stories. Hiding behind a menu because she hates being stared at.
Instead, the space beside me stays cold. Empty chair. Empty chest.
Menus circulate. Water pours. Bread baskets refill.
I stare at the condensation sliding down my glass.
Liam leans in. “Staying away is the first part,” he says. “If she ever gives you another inch after that, you’ll have to earn her trust.”
I drag in a breath. “I know.”
He dips his chin once. “Good.”
Somewhere between entrées and dessert, Erin’s phone buzzes. She glances at it, her expression unreadable at first, then something in her face eases. “Wren,” she says softly, looking at me.
My pulse stumbles. She texted. She thought about tonight enough to reach out at all.
Hope flares sharp and unwelcome inmy chest.
“She says congrats on the performance,” Erin continues. “And that she’s sorry she didn’t stay. Larisa wanted to meet us.” Her mouth tilts. “She didn’t say she was overwhelmed. But we all know she was.”
Sophie lowers her fork, watching me carefully.
Erin hesitates, then adds, “She also said…next time.” She leans in slightly. “If there everisa next time, don’t squander it.”
Dmitri nods once, solemn. “This girl is special,” he says. “If she ever decides to let you close again, you do not get a second chance to be careless.”
Mom reaches across the table and covers my hand, warm and steady. “She didn’t have to come tonight,” she says gently. “The fact that she did means something. Even if she didn’t stay.”
My throat tightens. I nod because if I speak, I’ll break.
She came. After everything.
Maybe—just maybe—I haven’t burned every bridge.
Eventually, dessert menus arrive, a flimsy attempt at normalcy. Luka orders crème brûlée with the enthusiasm of a man proposing marriage to sugar. His boyfriend steals his spoon. Sophie and Erin split something chocolate. Liam orders a complicated oat milk cappuccino for Sophie and an espresso he absolutely should not be indulging in at this hour. Mom gets a port.
I don’t order anything. My stomach is tied in knots.
Conversation drifts. Laughter bursts. Silverware clinks. Somewhere across the table, Dmitri murmurs an endearment to Erin in Russian, and she flushes, smiling.
Sophie looks at me.
Really looks.
“Kieran,” she says, carefully casual, “are you okay? You’ve barely spoken.”
Liam exhales through his nose, anoh-good-she-opened-the-doorbreath. Mom tilts her head, already braced.
My chest tightens. Heat, then cold.
