Page 32 of Mine

“Have you ever had a smoothie from here?”

I turn to Natalie. She’s standing beside me, studying the menu posted to the top of the cart. I follow her gaze and narrow my eyes, trying to read some of the options. “No, I haven’t.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows arch on her forehead.

“Yeah.” I shake my head, looking around. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything from here.”

Natalie looks back at the menu, clasping her hands behind her back. “My parents never had much money when I was growing up.” Her mouth sets into a frown at the memory. “My dad was a mechanic and my mom was a waitress. They only had me to support but we still struggled. My mom usually cooked one meal to feed us for an entire week. After a while, it became monotonous. But at the end of every month when my dad’s paycheck would come in, he’d take me down to the Santa Monica Pier and treat me to one ride on the Ferris wheel and one ice cream for the ride home. All the toppings my little kid heart desired.” Her frown disappears, replaced by a smile. “I don’t know why I just thought of that now. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” I laugh under my breath. “It’s nice to have memories like that. I have a few of my parents too. Only mine involved nosebleed seats to see a Bruins game.” I bite the side of my tongue, remembering I never told Natalie exactly where I was from on the east coast. Now I had just narrowed it down to the New England area. If Natalie catches on to my hint, knowing what team I had just mentioned, she doesn’t let on.

“I owe everything to my dad. He helped me get into culinary school and worked extra hours to pay for my tuition, despite knowing the odds of a woman making it big in a male dominated industry.”

“Right.” I nod, awkwardly looking down at my feet. What Natalie was saying was true. I hadn’t even gone to culinary school, making it to where I am based on years of working in the industry and a stroke of luck.

“I don’t think I’d ever go back there though.” She looks down at her feet, kicking a small pebble across the concrete.

“Why not?”

“I haven’t spoken to my mom in years. In fact, I don’t even know where she is. My father moved to Colorado as soon as I moved out of the house. There’s nothing left for me there. Seattle is my new home.”

In a way, I relate to Natalie.

There was a part of me that still thought of Boston as my home. But now that Lena and I have built a new life here in Seattle, I don’t think I could ever find myself wanting to go back. Once you’re forced to leave your past behind you, the thought of going back is too painful. All your focus is on the future.

Finally, we move up to the counter, ready to order. I didn’t even look at the menu long enough to know what to order so I tell the woman working behind the cart that I’ll have the same smoothie Natalie ordered.

We’re waiting for our orders when an inexplicable feeling waves down the back of my neck. The loud buzzing of the blender drowns out the crowds of people around us. I turn to look around, wondering why I’m suddenly feeling uneasy. A sea of tourists pass us by, most dressed in sandals and T-shirts printed with large letters on the front, spelling ‘Seattle’. I don’t recognize anyone, scanning their faces frantically as each person passes. We’re lucky to be here on a weekday. The usual shoulder to shoulder crowd isn’t as large as it is on the weekends, gaps spaced out between several groups.

Seagulls fly overhead, cawing and circling, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and snatch up anyone’s unfortunate dropping of food.

The clouds above the seagulls begin to thicken, bringing a promise of a thunderstorm with them. Mixed with the salty ocean air is the familiar scent of rain. A smell I’ve come to know over the year since we moved here. I can’t explain it but chills run down my spine and goose bumps prickle the back of my neck.

The lady behind the counter hands us our smoothies and I immediately spin around, ready to walk back to my car. It feels wrong to be here with Natalie, sharing smoothies with her. It’s perfectly normal and innocent. I’m not doing anything wrong by being here with her but I somehow feel as if I’m being watched.

The memories of Julian come to the forefront of my mind, clouding my vision as I walk back to my car. I don’t even look back to see if Natalie is still following. A person walking past, bumps shoulders with me. I stop, spinning around to catch a glimpse of the person. A man in a black hoodie looks over his shoulder at me, his deep brown eyes catching mine. He stops briefly to apologize before continuing with his day.

My chest stings as I gasp for a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding.

“Logan, are you okay?” Natalie’s hand rests on my arm. I follow her arm all the way up to her face.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “Yeah, I just thought I recognized someone I knew. I was wrong.”

Natalie follows my gaze out to the crowd outside the market. We’re now standing out on the sidewalk, my car parked just a few spaces down.

I look at Natalie and take a step back, removing her hand from my arm. “We need to go to work. Max will be mad if we’re late.”

Thirteen

Lena

Logan didn’t get home until late last night.

He had closed the restaurant for Max dozens of times before and was usually pretty good about coming home just after midnight. In the past, he’d run through the entire routine with me. Not because I was curious, but because he thoroughly enjoyed it. He’d loved being a chef and I would lay in bed beside him, my hands tucked under the pillow, listening as he rambled on about recording that night’s sales and balancing the money drawers. Most of it was a part of the job that didn’t involve any actual cooking or preparation of food. The job was more along the lines of Abby’s line of work, configuring numbers and comparing it to sales of the same day the year prior.

I knew training Natalie would keep Logan longer, but I didn’t know it would keep him out two hours past when he would usually come home.

I’m digging through my closet, sifting through every outfit I own, trying to find the perfect one to meet with my client in Tacoma. The sun peeks through the windows as I quietly search my closet, not wanting to wake Logan. He’s still sleeping, the blankets pushed down to his waist, exposing his bare chest. The muscles of his torso contract with every slow, deep breath he takes before relaxing once again.

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