“And a bar on the top floor,” I add.
“Wow,” she says as we approach the counter. Mila orders a hazelnut latte, and I order an Americano. We also grab two orange scones because they are hot and soft and truly are the best.
“Oh my god,” she mumbles as she bites into one. “You’re right. This is the best scone I’ve ever had.”
“Told you,” I say.
“I’m a little surprised, though. I didn’t see you as a scone kind of guy,” she says, and I smile, looking down at the scone in my hand.
“So…I don’t have a lot of memories of my mother,” I say. “I was in first grade when she passed away. But one thing I do remember is that she loves British baking.”
“Really? Was she British?” Mila asks, and I shake my head.
“She used to watch that old cooking show on TV and fell in love with Julia Child. We got her a cookbook, and she literally went through the entire book making every single recipe,” I say.
“Gosh, that must have been delicious,” she says.
“Most of it. But as a kid, I really just liked the sweets. Cookies, scones, pies.”
“Sounds heavenly,” she smiles. “What a lovely memory.”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the nape of my neck. “It’s one of the good ones. One of the few. I don’t usually like talking about my mom. Mostly because I don’t remember much. And the bad memories, the ones of her dying, are the most prominent.”
“I get that,” she says. “It never gets easier, even with time. It’s like, yeah, the cut heals to a scar, but the scar is sore when you bump it.”
Exactly.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get more time with your mom,” she adds, reaching across the table to take my hand.
“And I’m sorry you had to give up your dreams because of an accident,” I tell her. Then I get an idea. “I want to show you something.”
Mila gives me an odd look, but I get up and hold out my hand. “Where are we going?” she asks.
“You’ll see,” I smile, tugging her with me. We go outside and round the building, then come to a door where the windows are taped off with white paper.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Another room,” I tell her, typing in the code to get inside.
“Are we allowed in here?” She asks as I pull the door open.
I give her a look. “I own the whole building,” I remind her.
“Right. You’re rich. I keep forgetting,” she says with a little sass, and I’m not really sure if she’s kidding or not. No one’s ever said that to me before, especially not a woman.
Once we are inside, I look at her. Her eyes sweep over the pinewood hard floors, wall mirrors, the vast open space, and then back to me. “What is it?” she asks.
“Well,” I say, walking to the middle of the floor, my voice echoing through the empty room. “It used to be a gym. Then I think it was a yoga studio, but the owners moved to San Francisco. So now it’s empty again.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says, slowly walking the perimeter. “What do you think it’ll be next?”
“Maybe a dance studio,” I say casually, crossing my arms. I’m enjoying watching her.
“Really?” she perks up.
“It can be,” I say with a half-shrug and a small smirk.
Mila just stares at me and then laughs. “What do you mean?”
