Page 26 of Banter & Blushes

FLAVORS OF FOREVER

P. HARLOWE

FLAVORS OF FOREVER

After my divorce, I became a workaholic—because, apparently, nothing says "I'm fine" like burying myself in work. But my best friend Maya had other plans. She practically dragged me to a tiny coastal town, promising I’d “relax and recharge” or whatever. I didn’t expect much—maybe some overpriced coffee and a couple of walks on the beach, where I’d pretend to contemplate life and not think about how much of a mess I was.

Then, I met Luca.

He was a young, annoyingly charming chef with a smile that should probably be illegal. The chemistry between us? Instant. And it scared me more than I’d care to admit. Things shouldn’t be this easy, right? This can’t possibly work out.

Of course, there was a catch. He was in his late twenties, and I had a few more years on him. Was I some sort of cougar-in-training? Was this just a fling, or would it end with an awkward “thanks, but no thanks” moment? I tried to fight it, to pretend the attraction didn’t exist, but Luca wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t about to let me push him away with my insecurities.

Could a younger chef and an older woman really make it work? Was this a chance at real love, or just another fleeting moment? And, if I let myself fall… would I finally taste theflavor of forever?

A TASTE OF SOMETHING NEW

REBECCA

I’d like to say I’m the type of person who embraces spontaneity, who throws caution to the wind and dives headfirst into new experiences. But the truth is, I’m not. Not anymore. I used to be—back when I was younger, before life became a series of meticulously planned meetings, contracts, and deadlines. But somewhere along the way, I became someone who needed control. Who needed everything to be predictable.

So, when my best friend, Maya, suggested I take a trip to some tiny coastal town for the summer, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Sure, I needed a break. But a trip? A vacation? The idea of spending an entire week in a place that wasn’t on my calendar—without an agenda—felt like a foreign concept.

“Becky,” she’d said over the phone, “You’ve been working nonstop since the divorce. I’m not asking you to book a wedding for an entire city, just—” She paused, and I could almost hear the eye roll in her voice. “Just come with me to the beach, will you? It’ll be fun. You need fun.”

She’d been saying that a lot lately, ever since I’d let her in on the fact that I had no idea what I was doing anymore. My life had been nothing but work for so long that the idea of something simple, something joyful, felt like a distant dream. But I promised her I’d go, mostly because I didn’t want to hear her guilt-trip me any longer.

And so here I was, sitting in a beachside café in a town so small I almost didn’t believe it existed outside of a postcard. It was beautiful, no doubt—whitesand beaches stretched for miles, the air smelled of salt and seaweed, and there was a calmness to the place that made me feel like I’d stepped into another world. But something about the slow pace made me uncomfortable. Like it was too... unstructured. Too unpredictable. I wasn’t sure how to relax in a place where nothing required a schedule.

Maya was off chatting with a local shopkeeper about handmade soap or some other bizarrely specific souvenir, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I tried to focus on the ocean in front of me, the rhythmic crashing of the waves doing little to soothe my jittery mind. But instead, my thoughts wandered back to the past. My ex-husband, Jared. Our marriage. Our slow, inevitable collapse. I wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired. Tired of putting up walls, tired of feeling stuck, and, above all, tired of trying to make everything fit into neat little boxes.

I sighed and shifted in my seat, staring down at my untouched iced coffee. It was just too easy to think about everything I was trying to escape, and too hard to stop thinking about it.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

I jumped, looking up to find a man standing in front of me, leaning casually against the café counter. He had this confident air about him, the kind of guy who could make a cup of coffee look like a fine art. His hair was dark, tousled in that effortlessly I-woke-up-like-this way, and he wore a chef’s jacket, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal tattoos that were probably some sort of artistic statement.

I blinked a couple of times, like maybe I had imagined him materializing out of nowhere. But no—he was definitely real, and definitely standing in front of me, waiting for me to speak.

“Uh…” I stammered, looking around like maybe there was someone else he was talking to. “Sure?”

His eyebrow lifted. “You’re staring at that iced coffee like it’s your one true love. You might need to get a room.”

I laughed awkwardly. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out if caffeine is the answer to all my problems.”

He grinned. “Well, if your problems involve deciding between water and coffee, you’ve come to the right place. But, if you’re looking for something a little more exciting than that iced coffee, I’d recommend the seasonal crab salad. It’s fresh, light, and perfect for a hot day.”

I blinked. I don’t do salads. My food pyramid consists of carbs, carbs, and maybe some carbs on the side. Salad is for people who have their lives together, which I did not. But, something about his grin made me feel like I should try to be the kind of person who orders crab salad at a beachside café.

“Okay, fine,” I said, leaning into the moment. “But if this is a trap to make me eat something weird, I will hunt you down.”

His grin only widened. “I’d be happy to offer you a personal apology... over dinner... or dessert.” He winked as he turned away, and I swear, my pulse actually skipped a beat.

Oh no.I wasn’t ready for this. I needed to relax, not get caught up in some flirty seafood moment.

As he walked away, I couldn’t help but watch him go. His movements were fluid, confident—he looked like he knew exactly where he was going, what he was doing. That’s the kind of guy who owns his life, I thought. Not like me—no, I was the kind of person who would prefer her life in spreadsheets. If I wanted to avoid embarrassing myself, I’d better stay away from this chef character.

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

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