“What about the father?”
“David. He’s not a bad guy, but he was young, too. They’d only been dating for a few months, and they were nowhere near ready to make a commitment to each other. Our grandmother was starting to need care of her own. I thought, at the very least, I could help Annabel out with a place to live.”
I refill our wine, and Will takes a sip.
“My friend Matty was working at his dad’s consulting agency in Toronto. He set me up with a graphic design job and a good salary. Helped me out with first and last month’s rent. I had this idea that my sister and I would be roommates, and that I could lend a hand with babysitting after my niece was born.” He plays with the stem of his glass. “I had no clue what I’d signed on for.”
“How old is your niece?”
Will eyes me closely. “Nine.”
“Nine,” I repeat back. Will wasn’t just a babysitter or proud uncle. “You helped raise her.”
“Yeah.”
Will tells me how Matty’s dad offered to sponsor his MBA and how he earned it through night classes. He and the girls lived in an apartment until he saved enough for a down payment. I listen, and I can almost feel my mind bending to accommodate the new information.
“The early years were rough.” Will rubs his neck as if he’s deciding whether to say more. “I went from doing whatever the hell I wanted to having a nine-to-five and a baby at home. It kind of messed with me.”
“What do you mean?”
He presses a finger against a knot on the tabletop like he’s pushing something down into the woodwork. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. “We were so sleep-deprived, I was barely functional.”
I don’t think that’s the full story, but I’m afraid if I press, he’ll snap shut. “What about your art?”
“It’s just not something I do anymore. There’s no time.”
“But you loved it,” I say, and his gaze rises to mine. “You were so good.”
Something flashes in his expression. “Yeah, well. I was lucky to find something that’s allowed me to support my family.” He hesitates. “Is that weird? That I call them my family?”
“Why would it be weird? Your sister and niece are literally family.”
His shoulders relax. “That’s how I feel, too. But it’s been an issue . . . for women.”
I don’t react to the mention of other women, not outwardly. Inside, my dinner curdles. But then Will’s eyebrows rise a little, like he wants to know whether it would be an issue for this woman, and my mouth goes dry.
He runs his hand through his hair when I stay quiet, further shuffling the haphazard sections. “Anyway,” he says, “I like my work. My partner, Matty, he’s the real brains. I’m mostly there to charm the clients.”
“Hence the fancy parties,” I say, though I don’t believe this for a second. I’ve seen Will in action. I’ve googled him extensively. He’s always been more than a pretty face. But I also remember how he used to talk about art—it’s hard to buy that his job gives him the same satisfaction.
“Hence the fancy parties,” Will agrees. “It’s not what I pictured myself doing when I was twenty-two, but who the hell knows anything in their early twenties anyway?”
“You knew a few things,” I say. “You helped me figure out I didn’t have to end up here.”
Will watches me. “But maybe that’s changed for you,” he says after a few seconds. “Maybe this is where you were supposed to end up after all.”
I’ve wondered that, too. If I took the long route to find my way back home. I look out over the water. “Maybe.”
* * *
—
We’re at the kitchen sink when the text comes. Will wouldn’t let me wash the dishes after dinner, but I grabbed a tea towel, and he reluctantly began passing me clean plates to dry. He’s wearing yellow rubber gloves, and they’re almost as hot as the apron.
My phone lights up on the counter. It’s from Philippe, and it’s just one word.
Fate.
I frown at the screen, not sure what he’s referencing.
“Everything okay?” Will asks, and then Philippe’s second message arrives.
It’s a photo of the outside of a building taken at night. It’s slightly blurred so I have to examine it to recognize the redbrick corner store and see the sign in the window. I pinch the screen to zoom in.
“Oh my god.”
“Fern? What’s going on?”
I hold out my phone to Will, and he takes off the dish gloves. “It’s for sale.”
He studies the screen. “This is your coffee shop.”
“Yeah.” We stand side by side, looking at the photo together. “This is it. I can’t believe it’s actually for sale.” I thought the elderly couple who owned it had drunk the elixir of life and would hang on to the place forever.
Another text from Philippe pops up on the screen.
No time like the present, BB. Come back home.
Will double blinks and then clears his throat. “?‘BB’?”
“Short for Brookbanks.”
I look at the photo again. Philippe’s right. This is fate. This is the moment to make my dream happen. I have access to money. I have years of planning. I have a stack of baking cookbooks in my apartment closet and a storage unit of vintage furniture. I could put the orange velvet chair in the corner by the window. I could open Fern’s.
“I used to want this so badly,” I murmur, surprising myself. When did that change?
“You still talk to your ex?”
“Hmm?” I glance at Will, distracted. His eyes are darker than usual.
“I don’t, really. We’ve exchanged a few messages.”
Will frowns. “He asked you to come home.”
“As in back to Toronto. He knows how much I want this.”
“Do you?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I want anymore.” I stare at the photo, my head beginning to throb. “I should go.”
I thank Will for dinner, and he walks me back to the house. He says something when we pass the trail to the family dock, but I don’t catch it because inside I’m unraveling. I’m not sure about anything right now—Will, the resort, my coffee shop.
I ignore the focused way he studies me when he says good night. I close the front door behind me and seconds later there’s a knock.
Will’s in the doorway, his hands on either side of the frame. “I think that’s bullshit,” he says.
My hackles rise. He’s never spoken to me like that before. “Excuse me?”
“I think you know exactly what you want. I think you want to stay here and run this place and you’re afraid.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I snap, and Will’s head jerks. The movement is subtle, but it’s so satisfying. I want him to feel the way I did nine years ago.
“Don’t say that,” Will starts. “I know you’re scared that—”
I cut him off. “You think you can show up here after all this time, spend a few weeks with me, and think you know me. You don’t know a single thing about who I am and what it feels like to be back here.”
His fingers whiten around the doorframe. Good.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Will says, his eyes focused on mine. “You want to be mad at me? Fine. You want to scream at me? Do it. I deserve it.” He leans in closer. “But don’t tell me I don’t know you.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.