Page 88 of The Seven Year Slip

Yogurt with marshmallows.

Ice cream with caramel drizzle.

And finally, there was a whisk of lemon-flavored meringue ona crumbly graham cracker. It was supposed to be his new rendition of a lemon pie, but as I ate it, all I could think about was the dessert Iwan and I shared at my aunt’s kitchen table.

He had said meringue was his downfall—he couldn’t be good ateverything, he’d be boring if he was perfect—and yet the bite I took was good. The graham cracker crumbled in my mouth.

I didn’t realize I had tears in my eyes until Drew asked, “Is everything okay?”

Yes, it should have been. Yes, because this dinner was excellent in every way that it needed to be to impress every publishing team here. Every celebrity, every influencer. It was delicious.

Perfect, even.

And yet I couldn’t get the photo I had seen on Vera’s wall out of my head, of Iwan and his grandfather in a too-tiny kitchen, wearing mismatching aprons, with flour on their cheeks and that crooked, terribly perfect smile. Perfect because itwasn’tperfect.

Perfect because it wasn’t trying to be. He was just himself.

“Excuse me,” I told my table, wiping my mouth, and quickly left for the restroom. The door was locked when I got there. I cursed under my breath and stood outside, waiting. The sign above the door was in the same lowercase loopy handwriting.

My chest felt tight.

My aunt had quit her career because she was afraid she’d never be better than who she’d been inThe Heart Mattered, and Iwan was the opposite. He kept trying to be better, to earn everyone’s respect, to impress people with perfect—or nothing.

Did he realize what he’d given up, though?

I should have been proud of him—Iwasproud of him—but...

“So, how was it?”

Startled, I spun around, and Chef James Ashton stood behind me, fresh out of the kitchen where his team worked like a well-oiledmachine. I caught glimpses of them through the circular window in the door, faces pinched, working toward the kind of perfection I didn’t understand.

“It’s... quite a restaurant,” I told him, motioning out toward the dining area.

His perfect grin grew tight. “You don’t like it.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat.Oh, no.“I didn’t say that.”

“I can see it on your face.”

I glanced back toward the dining area, the clanking of silverware and the murmuring of voices, the gasp as plates came, sighing dry ice off them. We were secluded in our own little world back here.

“I’m sorry, James,” I said quietly.

His face didn’t give anything away, but he asked, “Why don’t you ever call me Iwan?”

It was a question I really didn’t know how to answer until just then, looking up into those guarded gray eyes, pools of shale that only needed a single layer. I stepped up to him, and placed a hand on his solid, warm chest. I wanted to kiss him, and I wanted to shake him, and I wanted to bring out the man I sometimes saw between the cracks, but I couldn’t. All I could do was give him the truth.

“I used to have lovely dinners with a man named Iwan, who told me that you could find romance in a piece of chocolate and love in a lemon pie,” I began, and confusion crossed his brow.

“Those dishes wouldn’t have impressed anyone, Lemon. I was a dishwasher then. I didn’t know better.”

“I know, and the food was delicious tonight. The—um—the fish thing? It was really great. I’m sorry, I don’t know the actual name of it,” I added quickly, hoping it didn’t annoy him. “It was very good. Are you happy with it all?” I asked, waving my hand toward his new restaurant, and all of its sharp edges and blankwhite walls. The way it tried to be something new, and ended up being nothing at all.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, and there was an edge of frustration in his voice. “Of course I am.” He gestured toward the dining area. “Everyone out there looks like they’re enjoying themselves—they’re having excellent food.”

“Then close your eyes—what do you hear?”

“I’m not going to do that.”

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