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“I haven’t decided yet, I might sell it later or open another restaurant. For now, I’m happy to let it sit there, at least until I get my shit together.” I don’t want to consider the possibility that I’ll never cook again, but it’s crossed my mind. And if that’s the case, I need to have a back-up plan. But even that is a gray area. “I don’t know,” I sigh. “Everything still feels like a fucking mess, even though I’m legally divorced and rid of my life with Willah. I have no direction at the moment and that scares me. I don’t want to be lost forever.” Because lost is an adequate adjective for how I’m feeling.

“There’s no rush,” Row says, standing up. He goes to pour us more whisky, and just as he’s about to sit down, the doorbell rings. He goes to the door, I hear him talking to someone, and then he’s back in the kitchen, a Robin egg blue box with a pink bow in his hands. The sides have Wild Flour Café printed on the side in a delicate font. It’s very Birdie.

“Let’s see what our treat is.” He unties the bow, and unfolds the box, revealing, “Looks like traditional Peach Roses.” We both inspect the delicate puff pastry that would have been cut into strips, lathered in peach jam and layered with thinly sliced peaches cut into half-moons. The tops of each rose are dusted in powdered sugar, and in the middle of the three desserts is an intricately decorated dark chocolate dome. Yes, I’m well-versed in how this treat was made. I taught Birdie how to do it. Seeing it conjures up that exact memory, and how we ended up in a sweaty heap on the floor of her apartment covered in chocolate, powdered sugar and dried flakes of pastry I took my time licking off her petit body.

“She’s come a long way,” Rowland murmurs, lowering his head to take a closer look. “Doesn’t look like she used jam though. It’s practically oozing creme.” He retrieves a fork, moves the pastries around, and breaks the chocolate dome. The inside is filled with a pale orange cream. Rowland takes a bite, and moans. “Good God, that’s delicious. It’s like a peaches and cream fusion, not too sweet and not too tart with the dark chocolate. And I think I taste peach liquor, too. Maybe Merlet Creme de Peche, which isn’t overwhelming on the palate.” Handing me the fork, he adds, “Try it.”

The moment I do, I understand what he means. I hum, and mutter, “That’s a different twist. And it works.”

“Right.” Rowland retrieves another fork. “Let’s try the roses. I have a feeling she’s used that same creme between the strips of pastry.” And he’s right. The same filling that was in the chocolate dome is pasted between the layers of pastry. We’re silent for a beat, and then Rowland’s eyes widen. “Damn,” is all he says.

“It must be freshly made,” I comment. “The pastry isn’t soft from the creme.”

Rowland devours his treat, I devour mine, and we split the third one. I haven’t had a Peach Rose in a long time, not since I taught Birdie how to perfect it, and I must admit I envy how she took something simple, and made it her own. Rowland’s observation that she’s come a long way is accurate. And it only makes me wonder what else has changed, alongside her patisserie skills. I’m staring down at the plate, cleaning the fork with my tongue, when an idea hits. I straighten, and glance over at Rowland. “I think I know what I’m going to do.”

“About what?” Rowland asks, preoccupied with what’s in his mouth. The sounds he’s making are downright inappropriate. It makes me think of sex. Not with Rowland, obviously, but in general.

“About Birdie, you dumbass.” I slap his arm. “What if I ordered her ‘mystery treat’ every night, and have one sent back to her? Kind of like exchanging letters, except its desserts. Or treats. Whatever.” The longer I sit with that idea, the more I like it. Rowland throws me a side-eye. “Sounds like foreplay with food.”

A chuckle bursts from my chest, which feels good. Foreign, since I haven’t laughed in only God knows how long, but good. “You’d make whatever you send to her, right? Because I can tell you now that a store bought dessert will not yield any kind of results, my friend.”

“Of course I’m going to make it. But how would I have it delivered if she’s not ordering it from UberEats?”

Rowland purses his lips, thinks on it for a few minutes, and replies, “You’d have to make it before you order, then you can pay the UberEats person to have it sent back to Birdie. And you’d have to do it before her café closes.”

Something inside me ignites, the smallest kindling of anticipation, and when I smile, Rowland gives me a light shake of his head, his own expression one of knowing. Once I’ve made my mind up about something, very little can make me change course — it’s how I ended up in France to begin with, why I left Birdie, why I married Willah. I made those decisions and stuck to them, convinced I was doing the right thing. “Man, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Rowland sighs. “Because it has the potential to go all kinds of wrong.”

“It has to be worth the risk though, right? And I won’t know if I don’t try.” This does, in fact, have the potential to blow up in my face, but I really have nothing left to lose.

“Only if she’s open to something, be it friendship or more. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time. And have you even thought about the possibility that she’s seeing someone?”

“She’s not,” I reply. “Björn would have told you if she was.”

He would have tried to steer both Rowland and I in any other direction but the one that leads straight to Bird. “She also would have mentioned it last night,” I add. “But she didn’t.”

Which means Birdie is single.

I have yet to decide what to do about that.

And I know it won’t take me long.

With one last cursory glance, Rowland says, “Then we’d better get supplies. You’ll need to make the good stuff if you want to get her attention the right way. No more showing up at her café like a creeper.”