Page 115 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“No. I know better than that,” he says. “I came to wish you luck. You’ve got a lot of fight, Heidi. Don’t ever let an old man like me take it away from you.”

I find myself hugging the oversized potted plant against me. I swallow hard.

“I won’t.”

Erving nods once. He’s about to leave, but before he can turn, he reconsiders. “He really did try to fix it, before it was too late. But if you know him at all, I think you know that already.”

He pats the door frame with finality. When he disappears, I’m left with another hole in my chest, and I wonder this time how I’m going to fill it. I gather my nerve and the rest of my things, giving the city one final look from this vantage point. I suck in a breath and for the last time, I head for the door.

***

I pull into a street-side parking spot in front of the dark windows of a narrow shop in the arts district. It’s in a colorful, quiet edge of the city, tucked between a brewery and an oyster bar. This is Meg’s favorite part of town. When we climb out of the car, she’s already following our usual trajectory towards the co-op at the end of the street, which we always hit for the latest seasonal produce. When she realizes I’m not beside her, she stops short. Reluctantly, she doubles back to where I’m standing in front of the empty storefront.

“What’s up?” she says.

“I figured we’d check this place out,” I say.

She gives the dark windows a once over, then does the same with me.

“It looks… closed. Whatever it is. Nothing’s here.”

I pull a set of keys from my pocket the way a magician produces doves from a hat. Meg watches in confusion as I unlock the door and hold it open for her. She reluctantly steps inside.

The space was recently vacated by an Italian pasta shop that literally never had any customers. Every time we used to walk by, we would speculate if it was a front for the Memphis mafia. They advertised homemade pasta in the front window and yet, the one time we went in, they didn’t actually have any pasta. They looked genuinely confused when we asked.

Regardless, it’s now empty. It’s only been closed for a few weeks, but it has developed the faint musty smell of old buildings that have been shuttered too long. Dust motes glitter in the strips of sunlight coming in the front windows. There’s one lonely table in the back that didn’t get swept up in the auction, probably because it has a bum leg. Meg walks over and smooths a gentle hand over its surface, the way one might pet a stray three-legged dog.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?” she says, somewhat bemused.

I toss the keys in her direction with an underhand pitch. She catches them uncertainly.

“It’s yours,” I say. “Your bakeshop.”

Her eyes have gone wide, but she shakes her head like this is some sort of practical joke. “I don’t understand.”

“All the money I was planning to put in when I made partner – I don’t really need it anymore. And I wanted to do something with it that would… matter. I’m investing in your business, Meg. No more fighting with your owner over the menu. We’ve got a twelve month lease. We’ve got enough money to build out the kitchen and get things going. This place can be anything you want it to be. ”

“Heidi. No. You can’t just buy me a bakeshop!”

“Well I did,” I say. “I mean, sort of. We’re renting it, technically.”

“Okay, but I can’t just accept it!”

“You can,” I laugh. “If anyone can, you can. I’m all in. I believe in you.”

When she laughs, I can hear her throat constricting with the threat of tears. She gives me a warning look.

“I appreciate this, babe. Really, I do. But this is a huge risk.”

Once, I might have agreed with her. I might have believed, on some level, that it was too big of a risk. Relationships are messy. Partnerships are often precarious at best. But is there anything more important than this? The dreams we dream. The chances we take. The people we love.

I wrap Meg in a hug. “There’s nothing I’d rather invest in than this.”

30.

The early evening breeze teases at the hem of my dress as I make my way to the market near my apartment to buy myself flowers. I’m supposed to be meeting Meg for cocktails at a new place on the corner, so I got dressed early and found myself here, running my fingers across the delicate softness of mid-season peonies. My smartwatch buzzes, and when I move to silence it, I am met with a reservation reminder.

The High Limit. Rooftop dining. Two guests. 7:30pm.

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