Page 191 of here

I trace each letter, remembering how she’d loop the strings around her waist two times because they were too long, how she’d wipe her hands on the sides, leaving flour handprints that drove Dad crazy.

The neck of the bottle feels cool against my palm as I grip it. One drink. Just one to steady my nerves. To process all this bullshit.

The seal breaks with a satisfying crack, and the rich aroma hits my nose. Notes of dried fruit, oak, and vanilla. Top shelf stuff. Only the best for a Milton.

I lift the bottle, press it to my lips?—

Fuck.

“Fuck!” The bottle leaves my hand before I fully register the decision. A sickening crack, then a sharp burst of amber and glass, shards glittering as they rain down. The scent of aged scotch fills the air, thick, suffocating, seeping into the grout like a wound that won’t close.

“It’s too fucking late!” I roar. “You hear me, Dad? It’s too late!”

My chest heaves.

I’m sorry, son. For everything.

“What’s the fucking point?” The words tear from my throat, raw and bleeding. “You’re not even here to see it.”

The apron bunches in my fists as I sink down against the wall, my head falling back. That’s what really burns. Not the letter. Not the building. But the fact that he’ll never walk through these doors. Never sit at my pass. Never taste what I can do.

He’ll never know.

“You don’t get to do this, Dad.” My voice cracks. “You don’t get to die before I could prove—“ The words choke off. “Before I could show you…”

Cook with love, like your mother taught you.

But what’s the point of cooking when the two persons I needed to taste it never will?

My phone won’t shut up.

Naomi: Brandon?

Naomi: Please answer.

Naomi: I’m coming over.

Naomi: Stay right there.

Naomi: Don’t move.

The screen blurs. What do I even say?Hey, cupcake, turns out my dead dad finally believed in me. Just fucking great timing, right? He left me the restaurant of my dreams, but he’llnever get to taste a single dish I make. Never get to see what I can do. What’s the point of proving yourself to a ghost?

The door creaks and soft footsteps approach until her shoes appear in my line of sight.

“Brandon?” Naomi crouches, keeping a distance. “Want to tell me what happened?”

The letter trembles in my grip as I fish it out.

Silently, her eyes scan the pages, with each twitch of her expression cutting into me. Surprise, understanding, something deeper I can’t name.

“So this is it?” Her voice is soft. “Your restaurant?”

I nod, Mom’s apron still bunched in my hands. “He knew. The whole fucking time, he knew. And now he’s not here.” I gesture at the shattered bottle, the amber liquid still dripping down the wall. “He’s just… gone.”

She settles beside me, her warmth barely there against my arm. “And that’s what’s really making you angry, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I smooth out the apron across my knees. The fabric feels delicate, like it might dissolve if I handle it too roughly. “You know what the last thing I said to him was?”

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