Page 89 of Go Back to December

“We’re not done.” He says it so coldly, it lands like a threat. “You still need Badger’s letter for the Lightman.”

“And were you counting on Alicia helping you with that letter?”

“There’s nothing going on with Alicia!” he barks.

As I retreat toward the kitchen, he flings out a crutch to block me.

“This is not about my family or my past hook-up,” he rasps. “You’re bailing because you’re afraid of what’s happening between us. You’re afraid this will fail too.”

“It will fail because you can’t be honest with me, or yourself. The rift with your family is eating you alive, and you won’t do what it takes to mend it.”

He curses a denial.

“I want something real,” I say softly. “I deserve the real deal. And so do you.”

“Then stay,” he says over the pinging of his phone. “When I get back, we can talk.”

“You should go. You’ll miss your appointment.”

“Promise you’ll be here when I get back.”

“I’ll try,” I lie.

And the way his expression empties of all emotion tells me he knows it.

Chapter Twenty

New Year’s Eve Day dawns sunny and cold.

The streets are slick with melting snow and ice, but the temperature’s milder, with no sign of the wintery mix that’s kept me locked in Manny’s apartment since I fled from Baz.

Luckily, I had the B-Corp certification to keep me busy. Most of the questionnaire is complete, a miracle given that I’ve filled out every section of the form seven different times, perseverating over every choice of word.

The bigger challenge is outreach to potential sponsors. After New Year’s, I’ll have to confess to Lacy that we can’t rely on Baz for any more help.

I’ve drafted a few hundred apology texts to him, and deleted them, because I’m not sorry for what I said. And I’m not sorry I left. But I think I hurt him with how I quit things. And I regret that. It aches as much as missing him does, which is worse than I imagined, and why I had to leave when I did.

Despite my best efforts to bury myself in work, my brain wants to replay the last chaotic week on repeat. Particularly, Baz’s confession, and our kisses in the park.

My meager breakfast of toast and instant espresso isn’t helping, so I head to the café for a proper beverage and to print out the final grant documents.

When I walk through the back door and into the dark kitchen, the quiet familiarity doesn’t grant me the comfort I’m seeking. It feels small, constricting. Like a sweater that no longer fits.

A laugh echoes from the dining room, and my unease escalates to alarm. Besides Amal and me, the only other person who has access to open the café is the Blackhart & Steele property manager. I wouldn’t put it past any of the senior partners to stage an impromptu inspection ahead of next week’s vote on our survival.

I rush to the front of the house. Amal stands at the corner of the coffee bar. Her teal hijab sets off the beautiful tones of her tan skin, her thick lashes and white smile. She’s nodding, talking slowly to a camera behind Lacy.

“What’s going on?”

“Mel!” Amal flies around the bar to hug me, while simultaneously yelling, “You’re supposed to be resting at home.”

“What’s all this?” My eyes fix on the camera before they narrow on Lacy. “Are you filming another vanity project on a holiday? And making my staff help you? We have an operating agreement, Lacy. You can’t exploit my staff for whatever shit Blackhart & Steele wants!”

Lacy folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not.”

I gesture to the café, the two coffee cups on the table. “Sure looks like it. Is this Baz’s idea?”

“It was my idea,” Amal says loudly. “Justin asked for a sound bite for the documentary.”