He shakes his head, measuring flour onto the scale.
“No. That’s something I picked up after she passed.”
I pause, glancing at him.
“Why sourdough?”
He thinks about it while he mixes.
“Well… I like to eat it,” he says with a small smile. “But it also takes patience, and that was something I was struggling with.”
I look at him, surprised.
“You’re telling me you haven’t always been this patient?”
He laughs softly. “Absolutely not. It’s a learned habit. Practiced too.”
I stir slowly, watching the jam thicken.
“Well,” I say, a little more serious now, “I hope it’s contagious.”
He smiles, but this time the conversation doesn’t stop there. We keep working side by side, with me stirring slowly as the blueberries soften into something glossy and sweet, him foldingdough with steady, practiced movements. The kitchen hums quietly around us.
The words keep coming, easy and unplanned, and I realize I haven’t talked like this with anyone in a long time—not like this.
I haven’t opened up like this with anyone besides my sisters in… I don’t even know how long. Past relationships float through my mind — dates that felt fine but never deep, conversations that stayed on the surface. Ever since Mom died, everything has felt a little thinner, like I was just going through the motions.
And now I’m standing here talking about things I usually avoid, feeling completely at ease.
“So tell me,” he says after a minute, glancing over. “Was Depoe Bay always the plan? Or did it just happen?”
I stir slowly, thinking about it.
“It wasn’t a concrete plan,” I admit. “I always knew what I wanted to do. Marine biology was never the question.” I shrug lightly. “I just didn’t know where.”
He nods, listening.
“I started applying everywhere—California, Washington, Oregon.” I smile faintly. “I wanted a fresh start. Somewhere different. Somewhere new. Somewhere far away from home.”
The words settle between us for a moment.
“How long has it been since your mom passed?” he asks softly.
I take a slow breath before answering.
“Two years.”
My throat tightens slightly just saying it out loud. I keep stirring, focusing on the way the berries break down under the wooden spoon.
He gives me a second, not rushing to fill the silence.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that,” he says, eyes still on the dough.
I nod.
“I’ve had my sisters,” I say. “We’ve all kind of… crumbled at different times. But we always pull each other back up.”
He looks at me thoughtfully, making me feel heard without needing to explain more.
