Page 139 of All We Need

It’s at my fingertips.Theuntouchable dreamI’dlaid to rest long ago.IfIclose my eyes,Ican see it.Fullcreative freedom.Patronswho aren’t intimidated by fancy-sounding dishes.Ina city where people from all around the world could walk in and try my food.

Behind my eyelids, it’s a yes.

But when my eyes open to see the kitchen my dad helped install, it’s a no.

I make a promise to myself to callPedrotomorrow.

AfterIsend the team home,Ihead out front to findJohannais the only front-of-house staff still here.She’stidying up the server station when there’s a knock on thewindow.Weboth turn to find a couple standing out in the snow.

“Oh,Booth, will you get that?I’vegot my hands full.”Sheholds up the empty ketchup bottles.

“Got it.”I’malready walking over to unlock the door and greet the couple with a warm smile. “Eveningfolks, you okay?”

A light dusting of snow coats the sidewalk.Thestreetlamp outside the restaurant flickers, so it’s hard to make out their faces.Thewoman speaks first, her voice cheerful but tired. “Pleasetell us you’re still serving food?”

Their shoulders deflate at my apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry.Weclosed the kitchen an hour ago.Areyou just passing through?”

“We’re staying inJacob’sBluff, but my husband suggested we try here.”Shegestures to the man behind her. “Clearlyhe forgot to check the closing times.”

He chuckles. “Ididn’t have my readers.It’sbeen a while sinceI’vehadMaineclam chowder, can you blame a guy?”

“The only placeIcan recommend that would be open at this time is two towns over.”Iscratch my jaw, feeling bad. “Whydon’t you come in from the cold while you make a decision?”

They murmur their thanks, stomping their feet before coming inside.

Johanna looks over at us curiously.

Under the restaurant’s lighting,Ican make them out.Shehas dark skin and cropped, straight brown hair, a similar shade to her eyes.WhenIturn to her husband, an odd sense of déjà vu hits me.

He notes my curious expression and smiles timidly.

“Sorry, have we met…”Mywords trail off when he tugs his hat off.

Black hair.Thecolor of coal.Curlingtightly around his ears.

Pale skin flushed pink from the cold.

A sharp chin and nose.

But it’s the eyes that hold me captive.

I’ve only met two people with eyes like them.

If someone asked me to guess his age,Icould say with the utmost confidence he’s forty-six.Forty-seven next month.

I know what he looks like as a baby, crying in his mother’s arms.

I laughed at his disgusted expression as he held a wriggling trout in his arms.

He doesn’t need to respond.Wehaven’t met.Butfrom the handful of photosAlyhas shared, standing in front of me isHarveyWillis.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

alessandra

It’s latewhen an abruptbzzztnoise interrupts the silence in my apartment.Ijump from my spot on the sofa, and without checking,Ilet him in—because who else would it be?

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