Page 13 of Selfish Desires

“Easy, Wendy, easy.” Blair's voice was a soothing murmur against the pounding heartbeat in my ears. The bench was cold beneath me, the iron digging into my black cashmere sweater. She pressed her fingers to my wrist as though checking my pulse.

“I'm not having a heart attack,” I snapped. The name 'Vincent' echoed in my head like some crazed mantra. I trained myself to not think about him. This was why I fled New York. To be away from him. The life we had built. All the memories we created and thought I’d look back on them fondly when I was an old woman. But now? They were the last thing I wanted to draw upon.

“Shh.” Blair pulled me closer as if old times dictated our actions. We sat in silence for an eternity, the bustle of Thames Street continuing in an oblivious hum around us. “I'm sorry,” Blair breathed after a while, her gaze fixed on the cobblestones beneath us. Her hand—still clinging tightly to mine—relaxed, and she turned to look at me. Her eyes were soft, filled with regret and concern, making the anger dwindle. “You're right,” she continued quietly. “I shouldn't have brought him up.”

I looked away from her then, my gaze resting on Stephen's store across the street. A man was peering at that old Ford Model T, his interest piqued by Stephen's odd collection of antiques.

“I'm fine, Blair.” My voice seemed distant even to my own ears, empty words used far too often. The truth was, no one knew how Vincent left me the night he fled. All people understood was he had left. But no one knew in what state he abandoned me. What we did that night still sent chills down my spine, but the abandonment was beyond shattering and humiliating. I wasn't prepared for anything that came after. I had to sit with all those truths, and three years later, the simple mention of his name sent me spiraling into a well of doom.

Blair pulled a bottle of water from her bag, unscrewed the cap, and didn't give me a choice as she brought the cool liquid to my lips, and I sipped eagerly. “Better?” she asked, finally releasing her iron grip on the bottle once I'd drained half of it.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. We sat in silence for a moment more, the noise of passing cars and distant chatter only amplifying the quiet between us.

“You know, I wanted to ask you something.” Blair cleared her throat, shifting. “Sadie is going to be one in less than a month, and we're going to have a first birthday party for her.” Blair's eyes stayed glued to the uneven pavement, and I knew what was coming. “Zachary and I would love it if you could come. You can stay with us for however long you decide.” Her eyes lifted from the ground and locked on mine. “You can finally meet Sadie.” She shrugged, offering a lopsided smile.

“I'm not sure,” I confessed, my gaze lingering on a family walking past us. The father swinging his daughter high into the air, the mother laughing heartily at their antics. A pang of longing shot through me at their display of simple joy. To be part of a world where laughter came easily and love flowed freely seemed a distant dream now.

“I know. I just wanted you to know you’re invited, and we'd love for you to be there.” Blair's fingers squeezed mine gently, her touch grounding me, reminding me that while I might have felt like an outsider looking in, I wasn't alone. “You don't need to decide right now.” Her voice was soft and understanding. “Just promise me you'll think about it.”

“I will,” I assured her even as my heart continued its tug-of-war. And I wondered, when would this battle within my body would end? And the stranger question that loomed even higher above me was if I wanted it to end at all.

“Stop. You're going,” said Marissa, plating two deluxe portobello mushrooms topped with provolone. The way the pale cheese melted off the slick mushroom deserved a chef's kiss. And the chef was me.

“I just don't know. It's been three years.” I tossed a damp white rag over my shoulder, plating key lime pies for the display in front. It wasn't the season for this kind of pie, but I couldn't resist the tangy and sweet flavors the dessert delivered.

“Three years is a long time. Maybe even long enough so you can finally go back.” Marissa picked up the burgers and pushed the kitchen swinging door ajar, one foot in the main dining area. “I'll be right back; this conversation isn't over.” Marissa left to tend to the packed lunch crowd, leaving me alone with sous chefs and the rest of the kitchen staff, who didn't make it too obvious they were eavesdropping in on our conversation.

It had been a week since I saw Blair and had been extended the invite for Sadie's first birthday. I hadn't been this torn over a decision since the night he left me. My heart wanted me to return to New York and celebrate with Blair and her husband, but my mind screamed at me for even humoring the idea. I left New York and all of them for a reason. Every part of that last night with him haunted me and was a tease. And while that night blew my mind and broke my heart simultaneously, I couldn’t help but think about all the memories Vincent and I shared. The way we laughed. We didn’t just laugh.

We fucking laughed until our stomach cramped and tears spilled from our eyes. We always respected the other whenever someone had something to say. The way Vincent’s eyes stared into my soul whenever I spoke to him. He was the one person I always knew who actually listened to me when I spoke.

He was my best friend.

Still lost in thought, I picked up a rolling pin from the counter and started working on a new batch of dough. My hands moved mechanically, but my mind was a million miles away. The mush of the dough under my fingers took on an almost comforting texture as if grounding me amidst the whirlwind of emotions conjured by Blair's invitation.

I grabbed a plate and plopped the slick dough on it, huffing a breath. It was a blessing for Blair to show up on my birthday, but it left me rattled, more unsettled than I had felt since the night everything changed. Without looking, I went to grab the plate of dough again for no reason.

Suddenly, the plate slipped from my greased hands and shattered on the floor, snapping me back into reality.

“Everything okay, boss?” Marco, one of the sous chefs, asked, rushing over with a broom.

“Yeah,” I replied hastily, bending down to pick up the bigger pieces of broken ceramic. “The sucker got away from me.”

“Everything okay in here?” asked Marissa, barging into the kitchen breathlessly.

“Just a little accident,” I mumbled, sweeping my pieces into the dustpan Marco held out.

Marissa scrutinized the scene, her eyes landing on me. She didn't miss the pained look in my eyes, connecting it to our earlier conversation.

“I love you, and you're probably not going to like hearing this, but you're a mess today,” she declared, her tone softer than I expected. “You need closure. You need to face your past. Even if that means going back to what you left. It'll be a quick visit, if anything.”

A lump formed in my throat, threatening to choke me, and there was a sudden sting in my eyes.

“Maybe,” I conceded quietly. But even considering the possibility felt like reopening an achingly fresh wound.

I returned to my workbench, diverting my attention to kneading another batch of dough with more vigor than necessary. The rhythm calmed me somewhat as I sank into the familiarity and simplicity of the task. The rest of the kitchen staff returned to their business. However, tension was still in the air—the conversation had stirred up emotions beyond my control.

As Marissa watched me from afar knowingly, I couldn't help but let myself think: would New York be different this time?

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