Page 13 of The Cupid Chronicles

Itispossible to love again.

Uffa.

I open the refrigerator and pull out the coffee beans, then move over to the counter to start my morning ritual. Grind beans. Boil water. Make breakfast—today, an omelette with some leftoverprosciutto, mushrooms, and tomato—and sit down at the table and eat.

Slowly. I like to taste my food. And I’ve learned to appreciate the slow morning when I know what kind of chaos will come later. For me, mornings are sacred, which is why the disruptive nature of a newspaper that shows up whenever it wants to feels like plain old bad manners.

Which is why I often think about moving. I’m not sure if I’ve been hanging on to this apartment because of itsproximity to the restaurant or because I’m too sentimental about the summers I spent here with my grandparents to let it go—but my life would be a heck of a lot easier without the constant interruptions.

I think of what my grandpa said when I finally got up the nerve to ask him if he knew what was happening—and why. He chuckled, almost like he’d been waiting for this, and told me to “be open to whatever the building brings you, Teo.”

Open? To a building?

“It chose you for a reason,” he said. I argued with him, telling himhewas the one who’d asked me to move in.

He smiled and handed me a newspaper.

On page six, circled with a highlighter, was a small pull quote in the middle of a larger story.

If you’re looking for someone to trust with all you’ve done, look no further than your grandson. He needs to find himself again.

Cryptic and plain at the same time.

He added, “And it won’t let you go until you’ve figured it out.”

The memory makes me pause because I don’t think I’ve figured anything out except that I’m not a good matchmaker, I still don’t believe in love, and I really don’t need people complicating my life.

I look slightly past the photo on the fridge, the one of him and Elena in Venice, and I see, stuck under the same magnet, the highlighted section of that very paper, ripped out.

Someone to trust,I think.More like someone to dump on.

I’m better off alone. Life decided that for me, and I don’t need some magic building to remind me of it.

After I drink my first coffee, eat my omelette, and finish getting ready for the day, I head downstairs and walk outside, inhaling the chilly January air as I walk down the block and around the corner to work.

The sign on the front of the building comes into view, prompting another morning ritual. “All for you, Aria,” I whisper to myself, pushing back memories of late nights and quiet dreams and the way she convinced me that one day, I could open the restaurant I’d always dreamed of.

She was right. I did it.

I grit my teeth and will away the memories that try to surface. It happens every time I realize I’m talking about her in the past tense.

She isn’t here to see it. And I know the pain of that will never go away.

I let one memory slip through.

At night, after a long shift, we were unwinding with a glass of wine, in pajamas, snuggled under heated blankets, talking the dreamy talk only soulmates can indulge in.

As usual, she prodded me to talk about what I’d do differently if I finally had the chance to run my own kitchen.

In my mind I can see the light of the fireplace in her eyes, the way she tipped her head down and raised her eyebrows, and I knew exactly what she was thinking.

Stop. Stop it.

I shake myself to the present and look up at the logo on the front of the building.

This place is the result of those late-night conversations. Aria, the restaurant—ourrestaurant—is exactly what we intended it to be—small, intimate, and sought-after, featuring the special family dishes my grandma taught me to make in the kitchen of the very apartment where I live now.

“Food brings people together, Teo,” she said, hands floured, pinchingtortellini. “Don’t forget that. And don’t underestimate how important it is.”

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