Page 97 of Weekends with You

I watched it consume my resolution, a cursive declaration in black ink, a shout into the universe for a promotion. What I had gotten was far more than that, and for a second I was embarrassed that I might not have dreamed big enough. I’d gotten a whole shop. Which was now my shop. A shop that belonged to me.

Maybe I could afford to start dreaming a little bigger after all.

My little dream turned to ashes in the tray on the table, and the cheering came in waves all around me. I had done it. I set a goal, and I hadn’t just reached it—I surpassed it.

I had my own shop.

If I could have bottled that feeling, the confidence, the pride, the unadulterated joy, I would have sipped it every day for the rest of my life.

Once the cheering subsided and the ashes were swept onto the floor, we settled back into a natural rhythm around thetable. The idle conversation was comforting as I picked the damp corner of the label on my beer, contemplating my future as a shop owner.

It was the first time in weeks I could lower my shoulders from my ears, unclench my jaw, and release some of the tension in my chest. I wasn’t bogged down by a breakup or the stress of losing my job. I was coming out on the other side of the fog, turning toward the sun.

Or so I thought. When Henry’s voice floated into the kitchen as I was finishing washing up, that familiar tightness returned to my shoulders. The rest of the lot had gone up and I’d thought I was alone. I tried not to startle at the sound.

“Congratulations,” he said, voice barely audible over the running water in the sink. “Finn told me the news.”

“Thank you.” I hadn’t yet found the resolve to turn around, so I kept my back to him while I cleaned my glass.

“You deserve it, Luce,” he continued. “You’re going to be incredible at running the shop.”

I spun to face him, glass and sponge still in hand. He was disheveled from his travels in a way that used to make me want to make him a cup of tea and smooth the wrinkles in his clothes, only now he looked far more tired than charming.

“Thanks, Hen,” I said again, at a loss for anything else.

“I also have some news,” he said, closing the gap between us ever so slightly. “I mean, not to make this moment about me or anything, because you’re the one who’s made the huge accomplishment and all I’ve done is make a decision really, but this might be a good time to share, if that’s—”

“Spit it out,” I said, secretly relishing his nervous rambling.

“I’m not moving to Amsterdam.”

That was not what I expected.

Time stopped just long enough for me to remember whoI was talking to. “Is that true? Because sometimes you say things and they aren’t necessarily true, and I don’t want this to be one of those times.”

I returned the sponge and glass to the sink, crossing my arms over my chest to stop myself from fidgeting.

“I’m serious, Lucy,” he said, stepping closer now. “I’m not moving anywhere else, either. I’m staying in London. And I’m not just saying that for the sake of the moment, or implying it, or hinting at it. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

“What about your job?” I asked. “Your future apartment? The great big dream that was so important to chase?”

“I’m being promoted,” he said, in a voice far more measured than my own. “I was just piloting the program before, but now the company is turning it into a concrete position for newer photographers, so they need someone to oversee it from headquarters here.”

“So that’s all it took, huh?” The creases in the corners of his eyes deepened as I spoke, and I could sense perhaps I was being a bit harsh. Still, I couldn’t help it. I felt the sting of my position on his list of priorities all over again, and it would have been unbearable to relive.

“I told you, Luce, sometimes you think you know what you want until something better is right in front of you.” He stepped closer, and I backed away until I was up against the sink. I sensed he wasn’t talking about the job anymore, and I was terrified to venture into that territory.

“Right, well, congratulations,” I said, hoping our conversation could end there. “Thrilled it worked out for you.”

“I was hoping it might not be the only thing that worked out...” He let his voice melt away, waiting on me to fill the silence.

“Well, we don’t always get the things we hope for, do we?”

“We can’t even talk about it?”

“There is nothing left to say, Henry. I’m glad things worked out for you. Really, that’s grand. But it has nothing to do with me anymore. You can’t see me only when it’s convenient for you, and I need more from someone than just living in the same city.”

“Right, then.”