Chapter 2 - The Place Between Us
Emma arrived at the station carrying two paper cups and wearing boots entirely unsuitable for construction debris.
“I brought coffee,” she announced.
“You hate coffee.”
“One is hot chocolate. I’m complicated.”
I unlocked the front door.
Morning light fell through the blue windowpanes, spreading watery squares across the dusty floor. The original ticket counter stood along one wall. Above it, a round clock had been stopped at 8:14 since before I bought the property.
Emma stepped inside and went quiet.
I had expected a joke about the smell.
Instead, she set down the cups and walked toward the ceiling.
“Those beams are original.”
“Mostly.”
“And the tile under this plywood?”
“Still there.”
She crouched, brushed dust from a corner, and uncovered a small green diamond.
“Oh, Ryan.”
The way she said my name made the empty room feel suddenly occupied.
I showed her the bakery space, the proposed rental kitchens, and the courtyard where weeds had swallowed an old loading platform.
She asked practical questions.
Ventilation. Deliveries. Accessible entrances. Storage.
For the first time in months, explaining the project didn’t feel like defending it.
Then I showed her the office.
My mother’s recipe box sat on a folding table beside invoices.
Emma touched the lid.
“You kept it.”
“Couldn’t throw it away.”
“Why would you?”
I shrugged.
“People keep telling me I can’t build a business around missing somebody.”
She looked at the drawings pinned to the wall.
“Missing her might be why you started. It doesn’t have to be the only reason you finish.”
I wanted to kiss her.
The thought arrived so plainly that I turned toward the window.
Behind me, her phone rang.
This time she answered.
“Meredith, I’m home for four days.”
A pause.
“No. I haven’t agreed to lead the presentation.”
Another pause.
Her voice changed.
“I said I would review the packet.”
She ended the call.
I kept my eyes on the courtyard.
“Your boss sounds fun.”
“She’s under pressure.”
“Bell Street pressure?”
Silence.
When I turned, she was looking at me.
“You saw the message.”
“Hard to miss.”
Emma set her phone down carefully.
“My firm is preparing a redevelopment proposal for a company called Alden Group. I learned the address yesterday.”
“This address.”
“The whole block.”
A truck passed outside, rattling the glass.
“They’ve been trying to buy me out,” I said.
“I didn’t know you owned it.”
“What does their proposal involve?”
She hesitated.
That was enough.
“Demolition.”
“An apartment building with retail below.”
“Retail,” I repeated.
“I haven’t worked on the design.”
“But they want you to sell it.”
“They want me to present the interiors. There’s an associate director position attached.”
I laughed once, without humor.
“Congratulations.”
Her face tightened.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide what I’ve chosen before I choose it.”
I looked away.
She was right, which somehow made it harder.
“I’m sorry.”
Emma nodded, but the warmth between us had thinned.
“I came because I wanted to see your building.”
“Now you have.”
The words sounded ugly as soon as they left me.
She picked up her bag.
At the door, she stopped.
“You asked whether I remembered your mother.”
I said nothing.
“I remember this place too. I’m allowed to care about both my career and something you love.”
She left before I could answer.
I spent the next hour pretending a crooked cabinet required all my attention.
At noon, Daniel called.
“What did you do?”
“Why assume it was me?”
“Because my sister is reorganizing Mom’s pantry alphabetically. That’s either heartbreak or premeditated murder.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“I was an idiot.”
“Be specific. We’ve got history.”
That evening, I drove to the Carters’ house with Emma’s forgotten cup washed and tucked into my truck’s cupholder.
She answered the door.
I held it up.
May you like
“I owe you an apology.”
“Yes,” she said. “You do.”
