It should feelgood.
This is what I’ve been working toward. My own place. My own concept. No one looking over my shoulder, no one telling me how to plate a dish or when to adjust a menu. Except for Julian, but we almost always see eye to eye.
Freedom.
Instead, I keep catching myself reaching for my phone.
It happens without thinking. A break in the conversation, a pause while the contractor double-checks a measurement, a second of silence that my brain fills automatically.
My hand goes to my pocket every single time. And every single time, there’s nothing new.
Or there is, and its hours old.
A message I didn’t see because I was busy. A photo I didn’t respond to right away.
Even though nothing’s coming, I check again anyway.
“Alex?”
I look up.
The contractor is watching me, clipboard in hand. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I say, straightening. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
He points to the back corner. “If we shift the prep station here, you’ll have better flow into the line.”
I follow his line of sight, forcing my attention back to the room. “That works.”
We talk through it for another twenty minutes before he wraps up for the day, promising to send over updated plans by morning.
When he leaves, the space goes quiet again.
I stand there for a minute, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside, the distant sound of a door closing somewhere down the block. I drop my head between my shoulders, leaning against the counter.
Then, out of habit, I pull my phone out and a message from Taylor is waiting for me.
My chest tightens as a photo appears on the screen.
Her hand is dusted with flour, clutching a tray of pastries I can’t make out at first. The light is warm—or maybe that’s just how she makes me feel. A smear on her wrist catches my eye. I wonder what it is. Knowing her, it could be anything.
PRETTY GIRL:
burnt my arm twice today
but look how pretty these turned out
Another image comes through, a close-up of one of her pastries cut in half.
I zoom in, taking my time to study it.
Croissants. Perfect layers. Deep golden color. Slight sheen on the surface.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.
I type back before I can overthink it.
ME:
