Chapter 7

I pulled the blinds closed.

"Tell him I'm not here."

"But he said he won't leave until he sees you—"

"Then he doesn't leave."

The manager went downstairs with a helpless look.

Another half hour passed.

I went down to do a walk-through of the back kitchen, and when I took the service exit, he somehow found the alley and stepped into the opening.

"Wren."

His voice was hoarse, not like himself.

"Please. Ten minutes."

I looked at him.

He had aged several more years since the last time.

Hollowed eyes. Cheekbones sharp under skin.

Before, he was meticulous — suits pressed, shoes shined, every strand of hair in place.

Now he looked like a shirt that had been crumpled and left in a corner.

I stepped around him and kept walking.

He followed, reached out to grab my hand.

I shifted to the side.

"Don't touch my right hand."

His hand froze in the air.

His eyes dropped to my forearm — the sleeve was pushed back a little, showing the edge of the scar.

The color had gone from red to dark brown.

Sitting quietly on my skin.

His hand began to shake.

His eyes went red all at once.

"Wren... is that from..."

"Second-degree burn. It's going to scar."

My voice was flat, like I was reading off a weather report.

"I'm sorry..."

He choked.

"I didn't even see you that day. I didn't know you were hurt until afterward. I went to the clinic and pulled the records. Second-degree burn, right forearm, two weeks of dressings."

"You went alone. No one with you."

He looked down.

"I don't deserve you... I was a fool..."

"I fired Serena. I had the Pack House repainted. I went through the trash for the pages from your grandmother's journal. Dried them one by one, pressed them flat, put them back in the cover."

He pulled a brown paper bag from his pack.

Inside was the journal.

The cover had been cleaned. New rubber band.

When he opened it, you could see the water-damage wrinkles and oil stains, but the writing was still legible.

The missing pages had been replaced with white paper. His handwriting.

He had looked up the format and filled in a few dishes from memory.

Braised meatballs.

Fried eggplant.

Scallion oil noodles.

In the lower right corner of one page: a lopsided sunflower.

Next to it: "Wren's favorite. Add more sugar."

I stared at the sunflower.

My chest went tight.

It hurt.

But only for a second.

I closed the journal and pushed it back.

"Cain, this isn't about a journal."

He looked up.

"I know, I—"

"No. You don't."

I cut him off.

"You made room for her in the Pack House, piece by piece. The slippers. The yogurt. The photo from the balcony. When I got burned, the first thing you did was check on her."

"I'm not going to say any of this again. You know it yourself."

He shook his head hard.

"That's not it, Wren, I never thought—"

"Every single thing you did told me you were sure I couldn't leave."

"But I left."

"And I'm fine."

Behind me, the door swung open.

My mom's face appeared in the crack. When she saw Cain, she got angry immediately.

"What are you doing here? Get out!"

She grabbed my arm, caught sight of the scar, and her voice went sharp.

"You burned my daughter like this and you have the nerve to come back?"

Cain opened his mouth. Before anything came out, my dad walked through from inside.

He was calmer than my mom.

That calmness was worse.

He walked up to Cain and looked him over.

"Cain. I'm not here to yell at you."

Cain went very still.

"When we left, I entrusted Wren to you. Do you remember what I said?"

Cain's throat moved.

"I said: her tears from now on are yours to carry."

"Did you carry them?"

Cain looked at the ground.

He had nothing to say.

My dad held his gaze for ten seconds, then turned and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Come inside. They need you in the kitchen to taste the new batch."

I followed him in.

Just before the door shut, I looked back once.

Cain was still standing in the alley.

The sun was directly overhead, and his white shirt was soaked through with sweat, stuck to his back.

"Don't come back," I said.

"Next time, I'll have the guards escort you out."

The door closed.

The shop manager told me later: Cain stood in the alley until four in the afternoon.

He went down with heat exhaustion.

The owner of the hardware store next door called for medical assistance.

I didn't go out.

I told the manager to put the repaired journal outside the door after the ambulance took him, along with a bottle of water and a packet of electrolytes.

Those were the only things I could give him.

Not because I'd gone soft.

But because I wasn't willing to watch a man I'd loved for five years collapse at my door.

That was all.