Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sun was setting, shimmering golden over the warm, late spring air that had settled over the Harvard campus green. The smell of barbecue-y woodsmoke drifted on the wind, as did the sound of cheering, laughing voices of other graduates, posing for pictures in the grass and hugging  their families.

Claire Saffitz reached up to readjust her graduation cap, giggling as the tassel brushed against her chin, tickling it. 

The hand holding hers tugged gently, pulling her to a stop on the plush, verdant grass. 

“What is it? Has my hair gotten frizzy?” Claire sighed, squinting up at her boyfriend, Brad Leone.

He smiled down at her, his signature toothy grin, but somehow sweeter than usual. “You look beautiful, Claire.”

She shrugged. “I’m happy.”

“About graduating? Top of your class, ’n all? My fuckin’ lil’ nerd,” He teased her, brushing his knuckle over the tip of her nose.

“About graduating. About how sunny it was today. About how I’m standing here with my best friend, holding his hand, with not a single care in the world at the moment.” Claire’s eyes lingered on the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-up, which showed his muscled, tanned forearms to an almost sickening advantage.

If you’d asked high school Claire, she never would have pictured herself so madly in love with a carpenter, a big, loud, friendly giant of a man, who hated school and who’d never met a stranger.  

But he made her knees weak, and he made her feel safe, in body and in spirit. 

If there was a future without him, she didn’t want it. 

Claire turned away, gazing over the treetops at the deep yellow-orange of the setting sun, embracing the faint pain of her eyes adjusting to the light. 

Smiling, she turned back toward him. “Brad, do you-”

Claire’s heart leaped into her throat. 

Though her hand had never left his, Brad was now kneeling in the grass in front of her, bent on one knee.

“Brad,” she breathed. 

It felt like her heart had grown wings.

As he gazed up at her, the fading light casting a glow around his messy curls, she could feel his hand shaking as it held hers.

“Claire, you know I’m no good with words, but nothin’ has ever mattered to me in the world like this, so I’m gonna do my damn best, all right?” He paused, clearing his throat nervously. “Claire, you’re the best, best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never thought I’d be such a lucky guy, to love you, and for you to love me back. The thing is, Claire – I guess, what I’m sayin’ is – everything about life is better with you. And I don’t ever wanna spend another day without you in it. So what I’m askin’ – what I wanna ask – shit,” he wiped a tear that had spilled over with the back of his knuckle. “I’m hopin’ that you’ll wanna spend the rest of your life with me, too.”

A tear of her own trickled down Claire’s cheek. She gave him a watery smile, holding his hand in both of her own.

“Marry me, Claire,” he finally said, his eyes intent on hers, swallowing her up. A swirling sea of blue; an ocean that belonged entirely to her.

Tears flowed more freely down her cheeks now. She thought that maybe a single body wasn’t supposed to feel this much happiness at once. She wondered if she might burst. 

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The answer has always been yes.”

A smile spread across his face so beatific, so bright, that it put the sun behind them to shame. He dug around in his pocket for a moment, laughing, before he produced a small velvet box. 

“It’s my mother’s,” he said, opening the lid to show her an intricately-cut, geometric art deco-style silver and diamond ring. 

It was old, and a little bit eccentric. It needed a polish.

And it was the most beautiful ring Claire had ever seen.

“It’s perfect,” she cried, watching him slip it with ease onto her left hand. 

Brad got to his feet, rising back to his intoxicating full height. Claire’s head felt light, almost drunk on the smell of his aftershave and the way he held her palm over his, staring at the ring on her finger.

“I won’t ever let you down, Claire. I swear,” he murmured, cupping her face in his hands, gently rubbing his fingers across her warm cheeks.

“I never thought you would,” she replied, his lips already brushing against hers. His mouth closed the distance fully, and he held her face in his hands as he kissed her hotly, slowly. 

They had all the time in the world. 

… 

“Claire, honey. Oh my goodness. Engaged? Darling, but you’re only 22. You haven’t even gotten out into the real world yet.”

Crestfallen, Claire looked back and forth between her mother, her father, and her sister. 

None of them were smiling. 

In the heady joy of the moment, she’d expected congratulations, hugs, and gushing over the beautiful ring that now weighed heavily on her finger. 

Nervously, Claire picked at a loose thread on the sofa. 

“We’ve been dating for three years, though. That’s longer than you and Dad, right?”

Her father shook his head. “Claire, that was a different time. No one’s expecting you to get married and settle down right away after college now. Please don’t feel like you have to.”

Claire frowned. “I don’t feel like I have to. I want to. I love him, he loves me. I don’t see what the problem is here.”

Her sister rolled her eyes. “You really can see yourself as a fresh-out-of-school little wifey, with a baby on the way in a year or two? Claire, you used to make fun of people like that.”

“That’s not what I-” Claire faltered, trying not to groan in frustration. “That’s not what this is. I just don’t see the problem here. I’m out of school now, and honestly, I don’t want to be with anyone else. Not ever. We just wanted to make it official. I love him.”

Her mother, Sauci, sighed, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Claire, sweetie. He’s your first real boyfriend. Don’t you think it’s a bit drastic to just marry the first boy you date? There’s so much of the world still to see, to experience. It probably won’t happen if you tie yourself down so early. You’ll just end up growing to resent what you did, and each other, in the end.”

Claire’s eyes darted back and forth between her mother and her father, wondering if her mother was speaking from experience. She didn’t want to think about that right now. 

“Mom, everyone always says that when someone’s the one, you just know. And that’s how I feel. It feels right.”

“Honey, I’m just going to come out and say it. I don’t think you should do this.” 

“Mom, I-” Claire stopped, glancing around the room. At the sternness on her mother’s face. The disappointment on her father’s. The disapproval on her sister’s. 

“You know what, I don’t want to talk about this anymore tonight. I’m going to bed.” 

Snatching up her discarded hat and tassel, she hurried upstairs and disappeared behind her bedroom door. 

Her family was just old-fashioned, Claire reasoned with herself. 

Her friends knew her better. They’d be happy for her. 

She snapped a quick photo of the ring on her phone and sent it to their group text.

Guess who just said yes?! she captioned it. 

A few moments later, responses began tumbling in.

Wow. Aren’t you guys kind of young for that still? Her friend Ginger wrote.

Is this a prank? Tommy chimed in.

Claire, how tipsy were you on wine coolers when you said yes? Rachel added.

Claire’s heart plummeted down into her stomach. The inverse of the feeling the sight of Brad down on one knee had given her. 

Tossing her phone to the other end of the bed, she collapsed onto a pillow, rubbing her eyes hard, not caring about the ruined makeup.

Had she been too hasty in saying yes?

Almost no one’s initial reaction had been positive. 

Claire couldn’t deny that something like that meant something. 

You’ll just grow to resent each other, in the end.  

Her mother’s words echoed, clanged in her head like a warning bell.

She couldn’t shake it. Uncertainty, fear crept in.

She’d never want to resent Brad. 

But they were so young. 

Claire had never even lived as an independent person before now. 

From her family home, to a college dorm, to...married?

It certainly wasn’t what she pictured for herself. 

And she had no idea what it would mean for her plans for grad school, eventually. 

Were they making a mistake?

Her family liked Brad well enough, but she knew he wasn’t exactly what they’d wanted for her. They’d likely pictured someone college-educated, a bit more refined –  a future lawyer who could afford to take her out to fancy dinners and not fret over the price of the meal.

What would life be like, married to one man, when your whole family imagined someone entirely different at the wedding?

For the rest of the night, Claire tossed and turned, uneasy, taking the ring on and off and staring at it in apprehension.

And in that moment, fear was stronger than love. 

… 

“Hey, what’s up?” Brad smiled, striding toward her as she sat on her favorite bench in their usual park.

Claire couldn’t bring herself to speak.

Noticing, his smile began to fade. “Claire, what’s wrong? Did something bad happen?” He leaned forward, brushing stray hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

The touch of his fingers against the soft skin of her cheek made her eyes well up, burning with tears.

Silently, she held the ring out to him.

Questioning, he looked down at it for a moment, cocking his head in confusion. 

Claire could see the realization physically dawn on him, working its way across his sweet, open face.

After a moment, he lifted his eyes to hers. 

A long, painful beat passed.

“Why, Claire?”

She choked on the breath she sucked in. “Brad, we shouldn’t do this. We’re too young – we’re not even really adults yet – and we’ll just get tired of each other and resent each other if we end up making a mistake. Everyone else says that-”

“Everyone else?” Brad interrupted, his face stony. “What do you mean, ‘everyone else?’”

“Well, my family, and all of my friends, they pointed out that-”

Brad shoved off the bench, plucking the ring from her hand. “Screw everyone else, Claire! This isn’t about them! I didn’t ask them to marry me, now did I, huh? What they think don’t matter!”

“But what if they’re right,” Claire choked out. “What if they’re right, and we ruin this? I couldn’t live with that, and we are still so young, and-”

“We’ll never know if it’s a mistake if we don’t even try,” Brad argued back. Flushed, he sat back down, leaning in to her. “Claire, come on. Don’t let them get in your head. It’s you n’ me, Claire. Always. That’s what matters.”

The earnestness in his voice sent more tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“But what if we just tried to take a break instead, you know? Get on our feet as adults, instead of getting married as practically kids? I-”

“Is this because – because you think I’m a chump, or something? I know I ain’t got no college degree, but you know I work hard, and I’ll figure out a way to support us-”

Claire shook her head. “It’s not that, Brad.” At least, not her own objection. She knew that he was insecure about his lack of education and self-perceived “brains,” and it hurt her to see him think that was actually a reason she’d ever turn him down.

“I don’t think this is a mistake, Claire,” He spoke up. “Not even close.”

“Brad,” she began, not even knowing what she wanted to say. She reached for his hand, folding her fingers around it. 

“Do you think it would be a mistake, Claire?” His voice cracked on her name, but his eyes stayed steady on hers, never wavering.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, gripping his hand even tighter. 

It was those three words that destroyed everything.

They were the wrong three words.

It was as if a light switch was shut off behind his eyes.

His face went dead, and she felt him pull his hand out from under hers. 

“Right,” he finally muttered, his voice flat. “Right.” He twiddled the ring in his fingers, then dropped it back into her palm. “Y’know what? Keep it. I could never picture anyone else wearing it but you, anyways.”

Claire’s skin crawled as her fist clenched around the ring. She was still so uncertain, so afraid. She didn’t know what her future was supposed to look like, and she’d agonized over trying to figure it out. 

“Goodbye, Claire,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear it.

Her eyes swam so badly with tears that she only felt his lips brush her forehead.

When she wiped them from her eyes, his back was already to her as he walked away, disappearing into the treeline. 

Eight Years Later

The shrieking, eternally-unpleasant sound of the iPhone alarm echoed off the eggshell-painted walls of a cramped Manhattan apartment. 

Claire Saffitz, 30, certified not-a-morning person, rolled over in bed, slapping haphazardly at her bedside table.

When her bleary vision finally came into focus, she saw streaks of rain trickling down the tiny, lone high window of her bedroom.

Sighing, she buried her face in her pillow, closing her eyes for just a moment more. 

She’d only been awake for 90 seconds or so, and she was already dreaming of the moment she could climb back into bed later today. 

With a quiet, herculean effort, she lifted herself out of bed and got ready for the day.

Plain, shapeless sweater, dark pants, a french braid in her hair. Coffee with sugar and a little bit of milk, poured into a thermos. 

Claire stopped at her dresser, grabbing the small, diamond-and-silver geometric ring that she’d worn on her right hand like a bad, self-indulgent habit for the past eight years.

She tugged her raincoat on and headed out. 

The freezing January drizzle sent chills through her hands as she pulled out her phone, checking to see why it kept buzzing.

Almost no one ever texted her, and especially not at this hour. Perhaps it was her mother. 

Not her mother. It was the group chat for work.

Don’t forget the new hire’s first day is today! Chris reminded them.

Isn’t he the bigshot that just finished culinary school in France? Molly typed. 

That’s the one! Gaby replied.

Claire tucked her phone back into her pocket. She’d prefer not to spare another thought about their newest employee, but she always found herself a bit shy around people she didn’t know.

The novelty of him would wear off soon enough, whoever he was, she supposed. 

Maybe he wasn’t interested in pastry and would generally just leave her be. 

That’s how she preferred it.

It’s not that her coworkers, or other people in general, annoyed her. Well, usually not. 

Claire was just tired.

She liked that she got to bake and write recipes for a living, of course. But some days, it almost felt like that didn’t matter. That she’d be just as happy staying at home, laying on her couch day in and day out. 

It felt wrong, but it didn’t make the feeling any less real. And it was January. All her life, Claire had always felt more down in the winter time, where there was less light, less sun, less warmth. 

She dodged tourists and deep puddles in equal measure as she made her way to the front of Bon Appétit’s office building. 

As the elevator ascended upward, she closed her eyes, huddling in the corner, embracing the momentary quiet. 

“Morning, Claire,” Chris called to her as she shuffled into the kitchen, tucking her raincoat on a hook near the entrance. 

She responded in kind, nodding with a smile. At least, she thought she smiled.

“New guy is late,” Rick piped up, crossing the room carrying a cutting board laden with raw chicken breasts.

Claire shrugged in response, depositing her things at her station. A handful of recipe cards laid at the end of the counter, with a sticky note on top: “Claire – test these out for the March issue. Edit as you see fit!”. 

She glanced over them. An asparagus quiche. A bruléed banana tart. Balsamic roasted beets. They were all easy enough. 

She tied an apron around her waist and trudged back to the pantry, her eyes lingering on the trails of rainwater flooding down the outside of the kitchen’s sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows.

Flour, check. Butter, check. Sugar – where was the white sugar?

Her arms full of ingredients, Claire headed back into the kitchen, looking for Gaby. 

She spotted her lingering two stations in front of her own. Claire waddled over, grappling with the flour and tart tins. 

“Hey Gaby, what happened to the sug-”

“Hey look, new guy’s here!” Amiel called out over the test kitchen.

Claire blocked him out. Right now, she needed to find the sugar. 

The sound of a man clearing his throat near the front of the room caught her ear.

“Wow. Well, um, hi, folks, I’m Brad Leone, and I guess I just wanna say, uh, thanks for having me!”

Claire’s sluggish blood suddenly froze in her veins.

This was a dream.

She’d slept past her alarm, never gotten out of bed.

This couldn’t be real. 

No.

Not him.

Not the man she both wanted to see most and least in the world.

Her heart slammed in her chest. Her throat tightened. 

She still had her back to him. Maybe it was a different man, a stranger. One that just happened to have the exact same name and voice. 

When the roar of blood rushing in her ears finally subsided, she could hear that voice, greeting people around the room with infectious charm, astonishing ease. 

He’d win them all over before the hour was up. Sooner, even.

He always had.

“Claire, come meet Brad!” Molly’s voice split the air around her. 

Claire immediately felt the warmth of a flush crawling up her neck, blooming over her cheeks.

God, no.

Slowly, she turned, her breath caught still in her lungs.

His eyes swept the room, a jovial smile on his lips.

When their eyes met, his smile fell ever so slightly. 

“Claire,” he murmured, his body still, his eyes unreadable.

Carla glanced back and forth between them. “Wait. Do you two know each other?”

A beat passed before anyone spoke.

Horrified, Claire ripped her eyes away, gazing at the counter in front of her instead.

“We knew each other in college,” she said, aiming for nonchalance. She cringed at the abruptness in her voice. She hadn’t meant it to be.

“Knew each other,” he repeated, his voice flat. She could feel his eyes burning into her.

As if something in the air broke, he clapped his hands together, turning away. “Yeah. So uh, Andy, was it? You wanna show me around first before I start learning the ropes?”

The room around her swirled, foggy. She was unable to concentrate on it. Unable to concentrate on anything but the man who’d just left the room.

“Claire?” Gaby’s kind voice interrupted her, dragging her back into her surroundings. “Claire, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

Claire didn’t look up. She didn’t want anyone to see her face. She didn’t want anyone to know.

“Uh, just a bit dizzy. Maybe I’m dehydrated, or something. Is it all right if I drop this off at my station and take a quick break?”

“Of course, take your time,” Gaby reassured, and Claire turned away, heaving her supplies onto her workbench. She hadn’t realized the weight of it all had started a burn in her arm muscles until now.

Claire walked briskly out of the room and around the corner, headed for the private bathroom down the hall. Once inside, she locked the door behind her and collapsed onto the lid of the toilet, finally letting a shuddering breath escape her lips. 

Seeing him again, here. After all this time.

Him working here, in the same kitchen, day in and day out. 

It was too much to bear.

Hot tears spilled out of her eyes and trailed down her cheeks, just like the rain on the windows outside. 

If there was anything in this world that she would bet on, it was that Brad Leone hated her.

Or, perhaps worse, he was completely indifferent to her. 

And why shouldn’t he be?

She’d broken his heart and hung him out to dry.

It had been a mistake. One she’d never be able to take back.

He’d asked her to marry him, eight years ago. 

With the happiest of hearts, she’d readily agreed.

A mere 24 hours later, she’d come back to him with a different answer. Looking back on it, she’d hate herself for that, too. For years, she’d fallen asleep praying that she could go back in time and undo it. 

Sometimes, she still did. 

She’d tried to fix the mistake that she’d made. Called him, texted him over and over after the night that he’d left her alone on that park bench. 

He hadn’t answered. 

When she’d gone over to the house he shared with two other guys, she found his room vacated, his roommates baffled, and no forwarding address given. 

She’d searched for him on social media over the years, but nothing had ever come up.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d never gotten much into the whole online presence thing anyways. He’d always been a little technology-suspicious, eternally preferring a face-to-face conversation over any other type on any given day.

And so, for eight years, he’d been lost to her. And it had been all her fault.

And here he was again, in the same room.

Entirely cold to her.

She understood. She expected nothing different.

But god, did she want something different.

The air around her felt oppressive, weighing on her lungs, on her brain, on her heart.

Getting through the day was going to be a much bigger challenge than she’d thought.

A knock on the door startled her. 

“One minute!” She called, jumping to her feet. She splashed her face with cold water, dabbing at it with a paper towel. Trying to soothe the puffiness by sheer force of will.

As she opened the door, Molly greeted her, leaning against the opposite wall. 

“God, did you see the new guy?” She began without preamble. “ Woof. He’s massive! And he’s so cute. I can’t believe he just got back from studying in Lyon, right? We’re lucky we got this hire. Apparently a lot of kitchens were jockeying for him.”

Lyon? Claire raised her eyebrows.

He’d certainly made something of himself. 

Claire had always known he liked experimenting in the kitchen. She’d just never pictured him going to school for it, practicing it in a controlled environment. 

But she wasn’t so surprised that he’d excelled.

Brad was always excellent at what he did. He just had to be given a chance.

“I can’t believe you guys knew each other in college! That’s so lucky. Tell me, do you think I’m his type?” Molly barreled on, her eyes bright.

She was recently single, and Claire knew she’d been actively dating around.

Molly was sweet, energetic, and a lovely cook. Claire wanted to see her friend happy.

Just...not with him.

But who was she to stand in the way?

“Um, I don’t know. He’s definitely a ‘people’ person, though, so I’d say your chances are good.” Claire’s chest whined at the words she spoke, but her brain pushed back, silencing it. 

“That’s amazing,” Molly gushed. “You know, I’m working on my chicky parm recipe today. Maybe I can start by seducing him with marinara and mozz,” she laughed, her cheeks pink, glowing. 

Claire tried to return the smile. “Good luck,” she said tiredly, not really meaning it. 

Molly disappeared into the bathroom, and Claire’s shoulders slumped as she looked for the courage to return to the kitchen.

She had a lot of baking to do today, and she wouldn’t finish it all if she didn’t start soon.

But to be in the same room with him, ignoring each other, with so much left unsaid – at least on her side – that felt worse than being strangers.

Strangers could get to know each other.

Claire felt as if the two of them could never do that again. 

Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep her eyes from welling up, she steeled herself, heading straight for her own workstation.

She kept her back to the rest of the room as she rolled out her pastry dough, trying to block out the sound of his voice as he mixed and mingled with everyone else but her.

… 

Rapo clapped his hands together at the head of the elongated conference table. “All right folks, we need to decide on a unified theme for our May issue. Any idea pitches? I personally was leaning toward botanicals. You know. Flowers. In May. Herbs and spices, too.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Won’t everyone be doing that?”

“Maybe, but not as good as we’ll do it!” Rapo quipped. 

“Fine,” Molly acquiesced. “I’m doing a teacake feature. With tea leaves in the cakes.”

“Nice thinking, Molly,” Carla spoke up next to her. “Can I do something with jasmine?”

“Please, for the love of god, let me do a feature with dill,” Chris jumped in.

“Hey!” Brad interjected. “You’re just out to steal my thunder. No use in doing a pickling feature if you’ve already nabbed the dill.”

Claire, who’d been sitting at the corner of the table farthest away from Rapo, shrank into herself. 

Brad had been here for two weeks now, and though she’d accepted him there as the new normal, it still hadn’t gotten any easier to be directly in his presence, even if the room was full of other people. 

She’d avoided being in his line of sight as much as possible, which didn’t seem hard, as he almost never looked at her.

Oh, but when he wasn’t looking – that’s when she couldn’t stop herself.

Time had been kind to Brad, in every way. He was successful – fresh off the kitchen line from the best training courses in Lyon – and that success had given him the confidence that his 23-year-old self had lacked. He’d grown into his size – no longer a bit overly tall and gangly, but big, strong, gently muscled. His presence in a room, while not overbearing, was impossible to ignore, as was the affable, booming timbre of his voice. He dressed more or less the same, but his arms filled out those flannel button-ups much more now than they had eight years ago. 

Claire felt terribly self-conscious by comparison. Sure, she had a successful career. She’d gone to culinary school too – ages before he decided to, apparently – and had been lucky to land this job at Bon Appétit a few years ago with little searching. 

But lately, she felt that she had little to show for her success.

 She liked her job. She liked the city well enough.

But she was lonely. She’d struggled to make and keep new friends, thanks to her own ebbing and flowing of melancholy moods. She’d been on a few dates here and there, but nothing had really clicked. In her exhaustion with life, she’d stopped caring so much about how she looked. She’d stopped buying clothes that she liked, and she’d thrown out most of her makeup. She’d let the front streaks of her hair run gray.

She wondered if he thought it looked ridiculous.

He likely didn’t think of them at all, she reminded herself. 

“Claire,” someone called out, ripping her from her reverie. Her head snapped up. Her eyes clashed alarmingly with Brad’s for a heart-skipping moment before she realized it was Rapo who had spoken.

“Earth to Claire,” he laughed. “How do you feel about doing a piece on edible flowers, hm? For cake decorations, and such.”

“Sounds fine,” she nodded, making a note on her post-it just to give herself something to do. She wouldn’t need it. Her memory was as sharp as a tack.

Sometimes, remembering everything caused more hurt than it helped. 

Rapo kept talking. “Hey Brad, do you mind helping Claire out with a recipe for lavender meringues?”

Claire’s heart plummeted in her chest. Stop talking, stop talking, she mentally pleaded with the oblivious Rapo.

Totally unaware of the way the two of them had tensed up, he blundered on. “Given your ginger recipes likely won’t take you very long, having you collab on the lavender feature would work out great.”

Claire stared at the post-it note in front of her, every muscle in her body taut.

She could feel Brad’s eyes on her for the longest two seconds of her life. 

“I uh, I’m sorry to say I ain’t too versed in the whole baking side of things,” Brad said, a bit uncomfortably.

Anyone who didn’t know him likely wouldn’t have detected the edge in his voice.

But Claire did. 

Rapo shrugged. “That’s fine. Sohla, how about you?”

Sohla readily agreed, but Claire didn’t hear it. 

Though the idea of being paired with Brad right now felt like a nightmare, she was also, somehow, incredibly crestfallen at how quickly he’d shot the idea down.

He didn’t want to be anywhere near her. 

Of course he didn’t.

Claire pretended to check her watch. “I need to go turn my bread dough, if you guys don’t mind,” she murmured to no one in particular. 

Rapo nodded at her distractedly, and, with no other protests made, she slipped away quietly, almost completely unnoticed.

With her back to the conference room, she hadn’t seen the way Brad’s eyes had followed her intently all the way to the door. 

… 

“Well, I’m no Brad, but hopefully what I lack in boyish charm I can make up for with baking knowledge and unshakeable optimism,” Sohla said with a smile, sidling up to Claire’s bench as she’d finished gathering the ingredients for meringue. 

Claire shot her a smile, grateful for her easy company. “There’s no one else I’d rather be paired with, Sohla.”

Sohla dove right into the assignment, reaching for eggs and cracking the whites into a large stainless steel bowl. 

“I think Molly’s after him,” she said conspiratorially. “Did you see the way she batted those pretty eyes of hers at him earlier?”

“I didn’t notice,” Claire lied. She’d absolutely noticed. It was impossible not to notice when other women noticed Brad.

“I guess it makes sense,” Sohla shrugged. “They’re both hot and have boisterous personalities. Then again, that might make it not make sense,” she pondered, distractedly cracking another egg.

“He’s more shy than he seems,” Claire replied automatically, then immediately regretted saying anything.

“Oh, shit, yeah! I forgot you guys knew each other in college.”

“We met on campus,” Claire hedged. She didn’t know if Brad was still insecure about the fact that college hadn’t been for him. 

“It’s funny, you guys knew each other before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you interact like, once around here. Did you guys actually hate each other back then, or something?” Sohla asked, elbowing Claire lightheartedly.

“Not really,” Claire replied dully, unsure of how to navigate the conversation without revealing more than she wanted to or making it weird by not saying anything. 

“Oh my god, did you guys used to hook up?” Sohla gasped, thankfully keeping her voice down. “I sure wouldn’t blame you.”

Claire bit her lower lip. “Something like that,” she finally conceded. That answer did the job. It explained as much as it needed to. 

It just wasn’t anywhere close to the whole truth. 

“Your secret is safe with me, Saffitz, you minx,” Sohla reassured her, heading off to find a free stand mixer. 

Left alone, Claire picked up the bottle of lavender extract that she’d made herself last year, rolling over the cool, tiny glass bottle in her palm.

She was almost certain that Brad hadn’t told anyone about their history. 

If he hadn’t, why should she?

She turned around to see him at the far end of the kitchen, his back to her as he gestured animatedly to Molly and Andy.

Molly’s hand lightly brushed Brad’s arm as she laughed at something he said. At the touch, Claire’s heart pinched, as if it had been squeezed. 

Gritting her teeth, she pulled an empty bowl toward her and began to sift out some sugar, trying not to let her mind dwell on what she’d just seen. 

On the inevitable. 

… 

And inevitable, it had been.

A month or so after Brad started work, he and Molly had gone on their first date. 

They hadn’t exactly announced it to the test kitchen, but they weren’t secretive about it either, and word traveled fast from workbench to workbench. 

“He never stood a chance,” Andy said to Claire one day as they ate lunch by the windows. “Molly’s always been a go-getter.”

Claire had casually agreed, changed the subject, and once she’d finished eating, she disappeared in the bathroom so no one would see her cry. 

… 

The new studio lights that had been set up in the corner of the test kitchen nearly blinded Claire as she walked into work one overcast March morning. 

“First day of filming,” Chris murmured in explanation as she squinted in the direction of the bright lights, a brand new video-camera man, and Brad, who stood with his back to her, a little larger than life compared to the scene being set up around him.

“Oh,” was Claire’s only response. 

She’d forgotten that was today. 

A few weeks ago, Carla had explained to her that one of the reasons Brad had been hired was to help kickstart Rapo’s idea of making personality-driven cooking content for platforms like YouTube. An attempt to remain relevant in the era of declining lifestyle magazine subscriptions. 

Claire couldn’t deny that they’d made a good hiring decision. Brad was all charisma, almost all the time. Everyone around him couldn’t help but love him, and she was sure everyone online would too. 

Briefly, she felt angry that strangers would be allowed to love Brad.

They wouldn’t even know him.

She knew him. At least, she used to.

But she’d lost her chance. 

“Camera guy’s name is Matt Hunziker, but he says to call him Hunzi. He seems like a good egg,” Chris observed, shoving an extra spoon into his apron pocket. “They’ve told us to just work normally in the background while they film, so don’t feel like you need to hang back or anything.”

Claire nodded. She was working on a no-knead bread series for the magazine, currently, and she had a lot of recipe experimentation to get done today. She couldn’t hang back and avoid her station even if she’d wanted to. (She definitely did.)

Gathering up some bowls, some flour, herbs, and yeast, she made her way to her usual spot.

… 

“Now, today, we’re gonna be makin’ some good ol’ spicy pickled okra,” Brad’s voice boomed from in front of Claire. “I know you might be thinkin’ to yourself, ‘what the hell?’ but trust me here, it’s absolutely delicious. Makes for a great crunchy snack.” She heard Brad smack his hands together. “What you’re gonna need for this is, of course, some okra. You’re also gonna need some dill seeds, a few chilies, some salt, some garlic cloves…”

Brad rambled on in front of the camera, even more animated than usual. 

Claire suspected he was a little nervous, but she was sure he’d never let anyone know that. 

Trying to tune him out, Claire rifled through her array of spices for the focaccia. 

Where was the rosemary? She was sure she’d grabbed it.

It definitely wasn’t there. 

Sighing, she snaked around the filming crew, trying to squeeze past and get to one of the spice cabinets. 

There it was. 

She reached up, snatching it off the shelf. 

Behind her, Brad was chatting up the camera about his garlic cloves. 

“Now, after you peel your garlic, be sure to use the flat of your knife to crush the cloves a little bit. Gotta do that to activate the important stuff, you know, the – oh, what’s it called, the amilskin? No, that’s not it. That sounds like ‘animal skin’.” He chuckled. “No, it’s like someone’s name, uh-”

“Allicin,” Claire said automatically as she closed the cabinet door.

Her eyes went wide, and she froze as her brain caught up to the fact that she’d said that out loud.

Behind her, Brad had stopped talking. 

“What was that? I didn’t catch it,” he finally said, his voice a bit flatter than it had been just before.

Behind him, one of the filming directors motioned for her to come over to the workbench.

Oh god.

She had not planned on making a cameo in this video. Or any other video. 

But she didn’t want to ruin the take any more than she already had.

Reluctantly, she stepped up next to the counter full of garlic. “It releases the allicin,” she repeated, looking rapidly from crew member to crew member. The cameraman – Hunzi, Chris had called him – had swiveled the camera lens to train it on her. She clutched the small cylindrical container of dried rosemary in her right hand, tapping it nervously on the counter, wondering if she should make a silent exit. 

Brad’s voice boomed again, almost making her jump. “Right, the allicin! Told you guys it was someone’s name-”

He’d stopped speaking again, abruptly this time. Confused, Claire looked up.

She found his gaze trained on her right hand. The ring finger, specifically. 

Her heart walloped in her chest. 

He’d seen that she was wearing the ring he’d given her, all those years ago.

It had become such a habit to wear that it hadn’t occurred to Claire to leave it off before going to work lately, especially given how little time she and Brad spent in each other’s circles and spaces in the kitchen.

Her cheeks burned as she yanked her hand off the counter and out of sight. 

Out of shock more than anything, she lifted her eyes to his, letting them meet for longer than a millisecond for the first time in weeks. 

It still knocked the breath out of her. 

The way his eyes held on to hers, beautifully blue and still completely unreadable.

Claire swallowed thickly, humiliation still licking at her face and neck like hot flames.

He probably thought she was completely pathetic for still wearing that ring – insane, even. It didn’t matter that she wore it on her right hand instead of her left. The issue was that she still wore it at all, eight years after they didn’t stay engaged. 

“Everything okay, guys?” one of the filming crew asked. 

Claire looked up to see everyone staring at them.

She’d forgotten they were there. 

Her palms began to sweat when she realized that the camera was still trained on the two of them.

“Yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude,” she said quickly, backing away from the counter and hurrying back to her own, not waiting to hear Brad’s response.

Though her heart sank, her mind was racing.

What did he think of her now? She’d probably just given him even more of an excuse to avoid her. 

Claire hadn’t felt this embarrassed about anything in quite some time. It was definitely a contender for “most humiliating moment” of her life thus far, right there alongside the time she’d accidentally bled through her jean skirt at school during third period when she’d been 13 and Johnny Jablonski had loudly pointed it out. 

Self-consciously, she used her thumb to reach over and turn the face of the ring inward, so that only a nondescript silver band showed on her finger. 

She should probably stop wearing it to work.

But she’d been wearing it for so long now that it felt like an extension of her own hand, and she hated breaking routines and habits.

She’d just think about it later.

Distracted, Claire mismeasured the yeast for her bread dough three times before she finally got back on track. 

… 

Another day, another planning meeting.

An upcoming issue of the magazine was centered around the concept of “Italian feast,” and Claire quietly sipped her coffee, offering a thought or two here and there, mostly observing. 

“Well Claire’s doing dessert, obviously,” Molly piped up from her seat next to Brad. Claire could tell by the angle of Molly’s arm that her hand was resting on Brad’s knee under the table, and it made her stomach turn.

“What about tiramisu?” Andy proposed, garnering a rousing, enthusiastic response. “Elevated, but not unachievable for a home chef.”

Brad shook his head. “Nah. She actually hates tiramisu.” 

Claire’s toes curled inside her oxford shoes.

He remembered.

Such a tiny, insignificant thing – something that had likely only come up once or twice in their three-year relationship that had ended almost a decade ago. 

And yet, he remembered.

Brad’s eyes darted to her only for a fraction of a second before they were gone, jumping down to the notepad in front of him.

“What?” Andy gasped.

“I’ll make a tiramisu so good it changes your mind, Claire,” Chris said, wagging a finger in her direction. 

“Claire, I didn’t know you were capable of having a bad opinion,” Carla groaned.

Flustered, Claire lifted her hands in supplication. “It’s fine. I’ll eat it if I have to, but I think the separate elements of it are better off separate, and not combined.”

“So you’d just sit there and eat a tub of mascarpone while sipping espresso? I feel like I don’t even know you anymore, Claire,” Rick shook his head.

“No,” Claire rolled her eyes. “Well, actually, yeah. Probably. Anyways. What about panna cotta? Still elegant, probably not a home kitchen staple but still nice enough to want to try out.” 

Murmurs of agreement went round the table, and notes were made in accordance.

Claire sighed as the discussion ramped back up, redirected away from her. 

She needed the mental space to mull over what Brad had just said, totally unprompted.

She still couldn’t believe he’d remembered, or even bothered to speak up.

It probably meant absolutely nothing. He probably didn’t even mean to say it. Brad was known to spout the first thing that popped into his head. 

From what she could tell, that was one of the many reasons his new video series was doing so well. The editing that Hunzi did perfectly highlighted Brad’s erratic, effervescent, open personality. There was nothing not to love. 

Clearly, Molly thought the same. 

Claire wasn’t angry with Molly. She had no justifiable reason to be. Molly didn’t know about their history, and even if she had, that wouldn’t have been cause to ask her to not date someone she was clearly into. 

All the same, any time she saw the two of them together in the test kitchen, it ate away at her, her heart twisting uncomfortably in her chest. 

She wanted them to be happy. Truly, she did.

But that didn’t make it any easier to watch. 

Trying to tune back into the conversation around the table, Claire looked up from her notes.

She was surprised to find Brad’s eyes already on her when she glanced toward him.

(She was always glancing toward him. It was as if there were magnets behind her eyes, she sometimes thought.)

Quickly, he looked away, smiling at a joke someone down the table was cracking. 

The tips of Claire’s ears burned.

… 

“Okay, fine, Chris, I concede. This is good,” Claire admitted, swallowing down a mouthful of tiramisu she didn’t hate. 

The kitchen had decided to get together for a work party to celebrate their Italian feast theme. Everyone made their featured dishes, the photographers came in and snapped their shots, and then it was time to eat.

Definitely time to drink, as well.

“Ugh, we’re out of ice for the Negronis,” Christina whined, bemoaning her empty glass. 

Claire, who’d been watching Brad, Molly, Andy, and Priya in the opposite corner against her better judgment, knew an excuse to leave the room when she saw one. 

“I’ll go get another bag of ice,” she volunteered, setting down her dessert bowl and shuffling off toward the walk-in.

Heading back toward the freezer chest, Claire folded her arms on top of the lid, allowing herself a moment to rest her head. 

Allowing herself to imagine this exact moment, in an alternate universe.

One where she’d never called Brad to ask him to meet her. To say that she’d changed her mind. Because she never did, really – her head had just convinced her heart otherwise, is all, and it had cost her more than she ever could have imagined.

Instead, Claire imagined that he was her husband, and that they were a lucky couple, with dream jobs in the same test kitchen, working side by side in happy tandem. 

No.

Claire straightened up, fishing a bag of ice from the depths of the chest.

It did nothing but hurt her when she imagined such things.

She wiped a stray tear on the sleeve covering her elbow and hoisted the bag of ice into her arms.

God, it was heavy. Who’d decided to go for the 20-lb bags?

She grappled with the bag awkwardly, balancing it on her hip as she headed for the walk-in door.

The sweat of the bag made it too slippery. She was going to lose grip.

The ice landed on the floor with a dull thud, the side of the bag ripping and spilling ice chips all over the smooth concrete.

“Damn it all to hell,” Claire swore, bending down to try and salvage what was left of the bag.

Ahead of her, she heard the walk-in door open.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it,” she muttered, not looking up. 

“Here, let me help.”

Brad’s voice made her startle, the hair on her arms standing up.

Brad.

It was the most casually direct thing he’d said to her since he started working there. The first time they’d been alone in a room.

“Don’t worry about it,” she muttered, trying to twist the side of the bag closed. “Really, I’ve got it.”

She was just happy that she’d gotten the words out without a tremor in her voice. 

Though she kept her eyes down, his hands still swept into her field of vision, easily grabbing the bag of ice with his long, thick fingers. 

“You don’t have to keep avoiding me, ya know,” he said suddenly, quietly. 

Claire bit her bottom lip, her skin crawling with discomfort.

“I...I just thought I was doing you a favor. Doing what you wanted.”

“It’s not what I want.”

Claire’s heart leapt into her throat as her eyes snapped to his.

His face was inches from hers, so close she could see the prickle of the stubble on his cheeks, the faint tan across his forehead and nose. 

It was so completely unfair, how he’d gotten more beautiful with time. 

She’d been so taken in by his nearness that she realized she’d forgotten to speak.

“Ah, come on. We can be friends, right? It’s been eight years. My heart’s not busted anymore, or anythin’, so you don’t gotta worry about that.” He shrugged.

“I didn’t think it was,” she murmured.

And she hadn’t. If anyone’s heart was still broken, she never would have said it was his. 

Clearly, he’d been able to move on. The fact that he wasn’t married yet didn’t mean anything. People were getting married later and later these days. 31? Meant absolutely nothing, really. 

It was her that kept stumbling.

But then, it wasn’t her fault she’d never been able to connect with anyone like she had with Brad.

Maybe soulmates existed. Maybe there was really only one person out there that was meant to be yours.

And maybe, they just didn’t always match up.

“I’d like to be friends,” she finally said, giving him a small smile. 

And she would.

She’d take anything she could get.

Brad was too good to let go of entirely. 

He smiled in return, his bright, toothy, thousand-kilowatt smile that used to make her want to kiss him senseless.

 She shoved that part of herself back down, in the recesses of her heart, where it belonged.

“Good. Stick with me, Saffitz,” he said cheerfully. “We always made a good team before.”

He gathered up the bag of ice and lifted it easily, carrying it back out into the kitchen for her.

Claire clenched a fist behind her back to try and counterbalance the undeniable fact that her head was spinning, despite being only one drink in. 

… 

“I don’t think that’s going to last,” Carla said around a mouthful of the garden salad she’d been eating for lunch, gesturing discreetly across the room with her fork to where Molly and Brad were chatting over a work station, laughing about something as Molly threw a dried pasta shell at Brad.

Claire choked on her tuna melt. “What?” 

“It doesn’t really work,” Carla continued, sipping her seltzer. “Don’t you agree?”

Claire tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I’m not really one to make predictions.”

Carla sniffed. “They’re like...two positive charges on a battery. Put them together, and there won’t be a spark.”

“They seem happy,” Claire replied, alarmed at the stiffness even she could hear in her own voice. 

Carla raised a skeptical eyebrow at Claire. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, you know. Like...like he’s god, or something.”

Claire avoided her eyes. “Charisma generally draws the eye, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that the two of you more than just knew each other in college,” Carla said, her voice amused, but still sympathetic. 

Part of Claire was tempted to pour out the whole story. It would feel good to have someone understand why there’d been so much turmoil inside her lately. 

But it wasn’t just her secret to tell. 

“It was so long ago, I’m sure it doesn’t matter now,” she answered in compromise. 

“Everything has a way of happening in its own right time,” Carla said cryptically as she gathered her empty salad bowl and utensils, heading back for the dishwashing room. 

Claire watched Brad and Molly from her seat, wondering if Carla was right. 

After a moment, she gave up, realizing she was too biased to judge accurately. 

… 

“Hey Claire, can you help me out for a minute?” Brad’s voice came from the filming station across the kitchen. 

Claire finished tying her apron as she crossed the room.

“Sure, what’s up?”

The rebuilding of their friendship had been tentative, at first. Conversation had been a bit stiff, a bit stilted. But it hadn’t taken long for them to get back on the proverbial bike, to relearn how to communicate with each other. It had happened surprisingly fast, actually. 

It turned out that even eight years couldn’t fully destroy a rapport like theirs.

“So I’m testin’ out a recipe for sourdough burger buns for my next video before we officially start shooting it,” he began, gesturing toward a bowl of sourdough starter. “And, well, I’m not really a baker. I could use some of your expertise, if ya don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” she assured him, smiling faintly. “What questions do you have?”

“Well, firstly, I have no idea how long to let the dough prove itself. What’s that all about?”

Claire giggled. “Well, Brad, the dough doesn’t need to prove itself. It’s not on a hero’s journey. It just needs to proof. And overnight should be fine.”

Brad nodded, unfazed. “Overnight, gotcha. Okay, second question: does this dough feel too wet? Because I feel like it’s too wet.” He gestured toward a mixing bowl helplessly.

“Um, let me see.” Claire leaned past him and stuck the tip of her finger into the dough. 

She started laughing again. “Brad. It’s so sticky! Mix it more. Definitely mix it more,” she chuckled.

“You wanna stay and help?” He asked, gesturing toward the flour strewn across the counter. “It’ll go a lot smoother if you’re here.”

Claire looked back at her own station. She’d been about to start rolling out shortcrust pastry, but...what the hell, she shrugged. It could probably wait. 

“Sure,” she answered. Glancing around, she assessed how much of a mess Brad had gotten himself into. “Uh, well. First of all. I think we should start over.”

“Followin’ your lead, Claire,” he said generously, wiping his floured hands on his apron. 

Claire leaned over the haphazardly written recipe, studying it and making a few changes to the ratios. 

“Okay, let’s try this,” she proposed, measuring out some flour. 

A warm, fuzzy feeling radiated in her chest. Working next to him like this reminded her of when they’d make meals together in her cramped college dorm kitchen, all bumping elbows and chaos and quick kisses as they went, working as a perceptive, symbiotic pair. 

They’d never had to try to work well together. 

It had always just happened. 

Next to her, Brad leaned down to brace his elbows against the counter, lowering himself to her eye level. 

Her chest constricted. It was something he used to do around her when he’d been hoping to steal a kiss. 

Claire shook herself. Obviously, that wasn’t what he was trying to do now.

“So, Claire. I’ve been thinkin’ about this and I want your opinion. A turkey burger and a turkey sandwich are two totally different things, right?” 

As he planted his feet wide apart, she could feel the side of his foot brush against hers.

“Uh, yeah? That’s not even a question, Brad.”

“Okay, okay, but we’re gettin’ there. So you see, why do Americans not call a chicken sandwich a chicken burger, then, hm? It’s the same concept as a turkey burger, right? It’s not some cold-cut thing. What’s up with that?”

Claire stopped measuring and turned to look at him. “Brad. Only you would think about this,” she laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t you have bigger issues to work through? Like the fact that you call it a rotissererie chicken instead of a rotisserie chicken? Don’t even get me started on that-”

“Hey! Now you know I know it’s wrong. It’s just a habit that stuck, and I think it sounds better anyway-”

Claire suddenly lost track of what he was saying as she realized that Hunzi had shouldered his camera at some point and was now filming them.

“Uh…” she wondered aloud, caught off guard.

“Hunz, when did you start that?” Brad leaned back, straightening up to his full height. “What, you trying to get some cute lil’ b-roll or something? You’re a shark, man.”

“Have you considered having guests on your videos, Brad?” One of the directors asked. “I think it could really up the ante here. Claire, would you drop by sometimes? I think interactions with other chefs could really spice things up, and you guys have great chemistry. So much untapped potential here.”

Great chemistry? Claire’s eyes widened. “Uh-”

“Sounds like a good time,” Brad agreed, nudging Claire’s shoulder. “But only if Claire wants to, yeah?”

He turned to look at her, his mouth quirking slightly as if to let her know that she didn’t have to say yes if she didn’t want to. Did he look...nervous?

Claire knew she wasn’t totally past being camera-shy. The idea of showing up on YouTube, to hundreds of thousands of followers, was a little bit intimidating, to say the least.

But it would only be dropping by from time to time. She knew Brad, and she knew that he’d definitely be the main event for viewers. The star of the show.

And honestly, she really liked working in the kitchen with Brad. Even though he’d been working at Bon Appétit for the shortest amount of time, working on something with him somehow already felt like the easiest collaboration in the kitchen for her.

And if she had to be on camera to do that more often, then so be it. 

“I don’t mind,” she answered, her eyes on Brad instead of the director’s. 

He smiled down at her, his expression softer than she’d expected. 

“Great,” he piped up, clapping his hands together in front of him, sending a small cloud of flour billowing into the air. “Now, what was it you were sayin’ about the mixing?”

… 

“Claire,” Molly exclaimed, bouncing up to her station with a conspiratorial look on her face.

“Hey, Molly,” she greeted her, discreetly checking to see if Brad was in the vicinity. 

“So. I’ve got four tickets to a new brewery opening Friday night. I’m taking Brad, obvs, but I was thinking of inviting you and the new drinks editor guy, too? Alex? Just to try and make him feel more welcome, y’know.”

Claire swallowed. “Like...a double date?” She’d only talked to Alex Delany once or twice, but he gave off really flirty vibes – he was incredibly smooth, and he knew it. She didn’t know if she’d be up to that task.

Molly rolled her eyes. “No, not at all. Just for all of us to hang out. You guys are both single, though,” she remarked mock-innocently, biting into a mini-pretzel from the handful she’d been snacking on.

Claire kept herself from sighing. To have to spend an evening watching Brad on a date with someone else? Absolutely less than ideal. It wouldn’t be a fun thing to stomach.

But she and Brad were friends now, and she was friends with Molly too, and welcoming new employees was a good cause. 

She didn’t see a great excuse to decline the invitation.

“You know what? Sure. Count me in.”

Molly brightened. “Great! We can all just leave together from work, yeah?”

Claire nodded, and, satisfied, Molly shot her a grin and headed off. 

Claire couldn’t help but feel that she’d come to regret the decision, but it was too late for that now. 

… 

Friday rolled around, and for the first time in a while, Claire fretted over what to wear to work.

It might not be a date, but she still wanted to look nice.

(Not for Delany.)

What was casual enough for work, but nice enough for a brewery opening? 

It was nearly summer now, so Claire just decided on a vertically striped, short-sleeved, black-and-white shift dress, elevating it by cinching the waist with a slim belt. 

Should she put on more makeup than usual?

No, she decided. It would be too obvious.

A pat of powder and a swipe of mascara later, and she was off. 

As she strolled into the test kitchen, she heard Brad calling her name as he filmed.

“Hey, Claire! Come test this, will ya?” He waved, motioning her over.

“What is it?”

Brad was stirring some type of golden broth with a long wooden spoon.

“It’s a-” he broke off, glancing her over, taking in her dress. She chalked it up to nothing – he probably just wasn’t used to seeing her in anything that had shape to it. 

He recovered quickly. “Homemade veggie stock! Here, be our first taste tester. Ya think it’s too salty?”

He lifted the wooden spoon to her lips, his other hand hovering underneath it.

Claire sipped it, smacking her lips.

“Just the right amount of salt,” she declared. “Molly might not agree, though.”

She cringed inwardly at herself for saying that out loud, but it barely seemed to register with him.

“Bingo! That’s a wrap, folks. We can go home now,” he whistled at the filming crew. “Claire said it’s good, and that’s good enough for me.”

She couldn’t help but smile. 

Claire sat back off screen, watching Brad close out his video, doing several different takes as he stumbled over his words. Sometimes, he got too excited about things, and couldn’t spit the right words out fast enough. 

She thought it was cute. 

As the filming crew headed out of the kitchen and into the editing room, Brad sidled up to Claire, leaning back against the counter in front of the window and wiping his hands on a dish towel that had been slung over his shoulder. 

“Lookin’ forward to later?” He asked, jiggling his foot as he crossed it over the other. “You’re not still a lightweight, are ya?”

Claire scowled. “So what if I am?”

Brad laughed. “It’s cute,” he reassured her. “Don’t sweat it.”

Claire’s cheeks reddened.

Brad rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at her out of the corner of his eye. “Got all dressed up for a date with Delany, huh?”

Frowning, Claire’s eyes roved up to his. “What? No. I just...haven’t been out in a while and didn’t want to look like a pile of dirty laundry.” She cleared her throat. “Besides, this isn’t even a double date.”

“Does Delany know that?” Brad’s eyebrows raised.

“I certainly hope so,” she scoffed.

Brad grinned at her response. “I’m sure you’ll whip him into shape if he doesn’t.”

“You can count on it. I’m pretty sure the man would flirt with a lamp post, if he knew he could make it smile.”

Brad snorted. “I won’t argue with ya there.”

Claire shook her head. “I’ve gotta go poach some pears, Brad. I’ll see you later, okay?”

As she walked away, she wondered why he’d asked about her dressing up for Delany if he’d known it wasn’t supposed to be a date.

She pushed it to the back of her mind. 

It probably meant nothing. 

…

“Oh my god, is there a limit to the amount of flights we’re allowed to sample?” Claire asked after her third round of them, giggling.

The four of them were settled into a polished wooden booth, crowding around endless glasses of beer, pretentious-looking but ultimately tasty appetizers, and shouting over the noise of the live band that was stationed in the corner opposite them. 

They’d been there for over an hour, and everyone was a little bit tipsy. 

“It’s endless flights until the waiter cuts us off!” Molly said, the tip of her nose flushed with drink as she slumped forward almost comically, leaning on her elbows. 

“We’re all in trouble, then,” Brad half-shouted, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Despite his size, even he wasn’t immune to the flow of drinks they’d been provided with. 

Claire shimmied slightly to the beat of the music. The food was good, and the drinks were good – which was excellent, in her case, as she’d started pounding flights the moment she’d noticed Molly’s hand on Brad’s thigh five minutes after they’d all been seated. 

Delany leaned over to murmur into her ear. “Here, try some of mine. It’s delicious.” He held out a piece of fancy toast to her, topped with goat cheese and caramelized onion. From the way he was holding it, Claire could tell he was expecting her to eat out of his hand.

She was tipsy, and flattered by his flattery, but she wasn’t tipsy enough to indulge him.

It seemed even intoxicated Claire couldn’t get her heart to be less stubborn, less hopeless. 

Smiling at Delany, she took the toast from his hand and fed it to herself. 

“It is delicious,” she agreed, mentally giving him kudos for continuing to smile at her. Even when he was being rebuffed, the boy was smooth, she could give him that. 

Theoretically, Delany was her type. Larger than life, courteous, into food and drink.

The thing is, her type was more specific than that. So specific, in fact, that it was pretty much just one person, she’d learned over the years. 

Over near the band, people had begun to congregate, turning the cleared area around them into a mini-dance floor.

“Claire, you wanna dance?” Delany’s eyes lingered on her face as he smiled at her, holding out his hand.

It was a sweet, warm smile. Almost enough to suck a girl in. Especially a girl whose head was already starting to swim a bit with drink.

Almost.

“Claire doesn’t really dance,” Brad interrupted, glancing between the two of them. “She actually hates it, if I remember right.”

Delany’s eyes lingered on her, waiting for her answer.

She grimaced apologetically. “Brad’s right. It’s not you, it’s me. I know the chicken dance, and how to sway slowly in place. That’s the extent of my dancing expertise.”

Molly jumped in, reaching across the table to swat at Delany’s arm. “Hey. Drinks editor. You wanna go check out the cocktail bar? I’m craving something fruity. If it’s a pretty drink I’ll even let you post it to the ’gram,” she teased. 

“Perfect,” Delany agreed, sliding out of the booth to follow her.

“We’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder.

Seconds after they’d disappeared, Brad lifted his boots, propping them up on the edge of the seat that Delany had just abandoned. 

“He definitely thought it was a double date,” Brad said dryly, popping the remains of a spring roll into his mouth.

“He seems to take rejection pretty well,” Claire shrugged, bright-eyed, wordlessly handing Brad her glass of grapefruit IPA that she’d noticed him eyeing earlier. He nodded in thanks, taking a sip.

“Free top shelf tequila shots, on the house?” A waiter paused at their table, shouldering a serving tray half-full of swimming shot glasses. 

“Nah, thanks,” Brad declined. 

“I’ll have one,” Claire decided, making grabby hands at the waiter. “Who am I to turn down free tequila?”

She probably ought to have, but sometimes, you just had to do what you wanted to, and not what you needed to. Especially when you were on a not-double date watching the love of your life date someone else. 

“Bottoms up,” she giggled, tossing it down her throat. 

She glanced over to Molly and Delany, who were chatting animatedly at the cocktail bar. 

“God, Molly has nice hair,” Claire blurted out, saying the first thing that came to her mind. “So shiny. Amazing.”

Brad laughed at her. “So do you, Claire. No need to be jealous.”

Oh, but she had so many reasons to be jealous. 

“Y’know, Delany is like, the first person who’s flirted with me in ages,” she rambled, completely unsure of why she was saying this. “It’s so weird, right?”

Brad shook his head. “It’s not weird that someone would flirt with you, Claire,” he said, smiling wryly, his eyes on the table in front of him. Claire glanced down, wondering what he was looking at. Confused, her eyes landed on a long, rectangular wild mushroom flatbread instead. Her stomach rumbled.

“Um, were you gonna eat the rest of that?” 

“No,” he said, amused at something she couldn’t quite suss out. “Come over here, we can split it.”

Glancing up to make sure Delany and Molly weren’t coming back yet, Claire hopped up from her seat and shuffled into Brad’s side of the booth. 

“Thank god,” she said, stuffing a slice of the flatbread into her mouth. “All I had for lunch was a botched version of a homemade toaster strudel.” 

“Why were you trying to make homemade toaster strudel?” He asked quizzically. “Shouldn’t you be makin’ somethin’ fancier than that, like, I don’t know...croissants?”

Claire snorted as she licked garlic sauce from her thumb. “Croissants aren’t anything like a toaster strudel, and besides. I just kinda...wanted to see if I could, you know?” She shrugged at him.

He was silent for a moment, lost in thought. 

“Hello?” She snickered, knocking on his head like it was a door. “Earth to Brad!”

Snapping out of it, he smiled down at her. “You’re definitely still a lightweight.”

“Mhmm,” she agreed, beginning to feel the effects of the tequila, dragging her consciousness down into a warm, fuzzy, more slow-moving place. 

Noticing him staring off toward the cocktail bar, she followed his gaze. 

Molly and Delany’s faces were close together in conversation, laughing at something. 

“Does that bother you?” She asked suddenly, biting her bottom lip.

Brad looked down at her. “What? Oh. Those two. Nah, I trust Molly.” 

Claire nodded listlessly, studying the two of them, envying their casual closeness. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure Delany deserves you, Claire,” Brad said suddenly, his voice low.

Claire whipped her head around so fast the room began to tilt.

“What?”

“I just mean that I think he’s looking for a good time, and it’s not that particular about who it’s with, is all.”

Claire frowned. “But what if that’s what I’m looking for, too?”

Brad tilted his head. “I dunno. I guess that would be fine, but...is it what you’re lookin’ for?”

Claire shook her head truthfully. 

Brad nodded at the confirmation. “I mean, he might deserve you sometime, but not right now, I reckon.” He paused, fiddling with the dinner knife on the table in front of him. “I know I didn’t,” he said quietly, his eyes avoiding hers.

Claire’s heart stopped like a record scratch. 

“God, Brad, no,” she objected, hurt to think that he’d ever even thought such a thing. “No.” She swallowed thickly. “If anything, it was the other way around.”

His eyes finally met hers, soft, blue, gazing down at her. 

“What happened...what I said-” she fumbled drunkenly with the words, her intoxication weaving dangerously into very sober, very real feelings. “It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. It was a mistake, ” she emphasized, smacking the bottom of her beer glass onto the table. 

Her heart was beating so furiously in her chest that she could feel her pulse in her fingertips as his hand reached for hers, his thumb grazing the inside of her palm as he held it out in front of him.

“Claire,” he said gently, his voice velvet. “Why d’you still wear the ring?”

Her cheeks flamed. “Y-you can have it back, if you want. Sorry.”

“That’s not what I want,” he shook his head. “I just wanna understand, y’know.”

Claire took a deep breath, annoyed that her vision was beginning to blur. Was she that drunk, or had she started crying without realizing it?

“I just...I didn’t want – I never wanted to take it off. Taking it off felt like letting go. And I didn’t want to.”

Hastily, she twisted it off. “It’s embarrassing, here. You should have kept it in the first place, really.”

She held it out to him. Their eyes met over it for a long beat, serious, unwavering.

Finally, he gently plucked it from her hand and slid it back onto the ring finger it had just left. 

“It was always going to be yours either way, Claire.”

His voice cracked on her name, and it cracked at her heart, too, creating a tiny fissure. Making it bleed. 

“Brad–”

“Hey guys!” Molly interrupted, rushing back up to the table with Delany in tow. “Alex just told me about this amazing jazz bar a few blocks away that’s doing drink specials tonight! You wanna go? Let’s go,” she pleaded, a drunken giggle in her voice. 

Claire felt like she’d come up for air too fast, being ripped out of that conversation so suddenly. Right now, all she could think about was how she definitely wanted another drink. Needed another drink.

“You know what? Yeah, let’s go. Lead the way, Molls.”

… 

 The five-piece jazz band on the small, circular stage in the corner struck up another Sinatra song. 

“I love ‘Fly Me to the Moon,’” Claire exclaimed over her third cosmopolitan, gasping aloud. 

“Claire, this is ‘The Way You Look Tonight,’” Molly guffawed next to her, bracing her elbows against the marble counter of the bar. 

“That’s what I said,” Claire slurred, slurping down the dregs of her drink. 

“But you’re right, it’s so good,” Molly gushed, laughing as a tipsy Delany held out a hand to twirl her in a circle. 

Brad, who’d been strangely quiet, sipped slowly at a beer. 

Claire shifted slightly on her barstool and had the strangest sensation of falling, even though she was still sitting down. Wasn’t she? 

“Whoa, whoa there,” Brad was suddenly saying in her ear, his arms hooking under hers. “Chef down.”

Claire looked down to see that she had indeed slid off the stool and had apparently been falling to the floor. How had that happened?

“Whoops,” she laughed, getting clumsily back to her feet.

“All right guys, I think I’m gonna take Claire home,” Brad announced, shoving his hands in his pockets to dig around for some change. “She’s gonna fall over here in a minute.” 

Delany’s mouth twisted. “You sure? You guys are here together, I can take her.”

Brad shook his head before Delany had even finished talking. “Nah, nah. I got it. I’m a lil’ tired, anyways. It’s fine. You guys keep enjoyin’ yourselves, all right?”

“Brad, you sure? We can all go,” Molly assured him, slightly out of breath. 

“Nah, no need. I’ll catch up with you in the mornin’, yeah? Delany, you make sure she’ll get home safe? I think your apartments aren’t far from each other.” 

Delany nodded fervently. “Absolutely, no worries,” he agreed. 

Molly stood up on her tiptoes to kiss Brad’s cheek. “Thanks, babes. You’re the best,” she told him as she leaned over to grab her martini glass. 

“Talk to you in the mornin’,” he called back as Claire felt him gently guiding her to the door, his hand brushing the small of her back.

“Brad,” she whined, drawing out the vowel of his name for a second or two too long. “I can make it by myself. It’s fine. I don’t. I don’t wanna ruin the rest of your night,” she stammered.

“You’re not, Claire, don’t worry about it,” he reassured her, his voice light as he directed them to the nearest underground station. “I just realized I actually don’t know where you live, though.”

Claire had to rack her brain for a moment before she could remember her address well enough to say it out loud.

“Got it. Claire’s lair, comin’ right up,” he said, ushering them into a train car. 

The train was crowded, forcing them both to stand. Claire grabbed on to a vertical handrail, while Brad loomed over her, clinging lightly to an overhead handle. 

They faced each other, standing close, and as the train jolted forward, Claire lurched, stumbling.

And suddenly Brad’s hand was on her waist, his fingers splayed against the curve of her side, holding her steady.

“I got ya,” he murmured, and she could smell his aftershave now, and in her drunken haze, she wanted to reach for his face and pull it down to hers and kiss him until nothing else mattered. 

But she’d never.

She couldn’t do it to Molly.

And besides, she was almost certain Brad wouldn’t have wanted her to, anyways. 

So instead she sighed, settling for resting her head against his chest and closing her eyes against her blurring vision. 

He wrapped his arm tighter around her, resting his chin on top of her head, not moving until they reached her stop. 

She fought to hide her disappointment when he finally let go. 

… 

“Mm, this is gonna be so good in like...three weeks,” Claire laughed, peering into the jars of finely shredded cabbage.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Brad agreed, screwing the lids shut one by one. “Who doesn’t love a heap of sauerkraut on a nice smoked brat, huh? We’re gonna have to do that when this shit is finally fermented.”

Brad glanced back up at the camera, his elbows knocking into Claire as he gesticulated at Hunzi.

“Now, like I said, folks, you gotta let this get funky for 20 days, minimum,” he stressed, wiggling a smaller jar in his hand to show it off. “But after that? Bingo, you’re in for a treat.” He winked at the camera, but it ended up just being a two-eyed blink. 

Claire nearly snorted with laughter, leaning over the counter and hiding her face in her elbow. 

“Well, uh, I guess I’ll check back in in three weeks. As you can see, Claire here is havin’ a real good time,” she heard him say, and she felt his hand pat the spot between her shoulder blades a few times. “So i’ll see ya in a few weeks! Or a few seconds, for you, I guess,” he amended, smiling. 

“And cut,” Hunzi called, laughter in his own voice. 

“I’m sorry,” Claire wheezed, straightening back up to full height. “It just kills me any time Brad tries to wink, I can’t,” she laughed some more. 

“Aw, I’m doin’ my best, okay? We can’t all be good at everything, y’know,” Brad defended himself, teasing her.

Claire felt a light tap on her arm.

It was Gaby. “Claire? Sorry to interrupt, but Rapo wanted to see you in his office,” she said, giving her a sympathetic look.

“What?” Claire said, her giggly mood dissipating at light speed.

“I’m just passing on the word,” Gaby shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Oh my god, I wonder what I did,” Claire muttered, wiping her hands nervously on her apron.

She couldn’t think of a single reason Rapo would want to talk to her. She’d been diligently finishing all of her recipe assignments, and dropping in on Brad’s video filming like the directors had asked.

Of course, that wasn’t the primary reason she’d dropped in. She just liked hanging out with Brad whenever she could. 

Maybe she’d been popping on screen too much. Maybe Rapo was annoyed with how much he’d had to see her in their new YouTube series.

“You look like you’ve just been called to the principal’s office,” Brad laughed.

“That never happened to me at school! Ever!” Claire replied, horrified. 

Brad waved his hand. “Aw, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re a good employee, Claire, no need to sweat it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Claire grumbled.

“Just trust me,” Brad reassured her, giving her a small nudge.

Steeling herself, Claire gave him one last long-suffering look and headed off toward the office.

She was loath to leave Brad’s side. After her drunken night out with him, Molly, and Delany a few weeks ago, she’d been scared that somehow she’d ruined something, made things weird between them. But the Monday morning after, everything had seemed totally fine; Brad had even been whistling while he prepped his recipe, a sure sign of his good mood.

Everything had been fine. Well, as fine as things could be while Brad was still dating someone else. Which really wasn’t fine at all, but still.

And so Claire had begun visiting his station more, and when he wasn’t filming, he’d been visiting hers, helping her with heavier baking equipment, giving her an extra, bigger set of hands and a morale boost. 

Claire had actually started looking forward to coming to work each day.

 But now, her stomach lurched with nerves. What did the boss want to see her for? She scrambled through her memories, trying to figure out what exactly she could have done to cause this. 

She tentatively knocked on the door, even though his office was made completely of crystal-clear glass walls and doors. 

“Claire! Come in, come in,” Rapo beckoned, motioning for her to have a seat across from him over his sleek, modern, expensive-looking desk. 

“Hi, Adam,” Claire replied, sitting down stiffly, perching at the edge of her seat.

“You look nervous,” he laughed, shuffling some papers in front of him. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”

Claire felt her shoulders fall slightly in relief. Thank god.

“I’ve actually asked you here to pitch our second YouTube series to you,” he said abruptly, giving her a smile.

Wait.

What?

“To me?” Claire asked, deeply confused.

“Yes! You. We’ve noticed you popping up regularly in Brad’s series, and everyone seems to love it. Tons of comments asking for more Claire, all the time. You haven’t seen them?” Rapo cocked his head.

“I usually avoid them, to tell the truth,” Claire admitted. She’d read through them once, early on, and realized that it weirded her out a bit to see so many people – for lack of a better word – thirsting over Brad in the comments. That was her Brad. At least, she wished he was.

Rapo shook his head. “Well, they love you. And we love to give the people what they want, so our next series idea...it’s starring you.”

Claire made a conscious effort not to let her jaw hit the floor. “Me? Doing what?” 

Claire couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She just didn’t consider herself...interesting? She was much quieter and much less laid back than Brad. She had weird hair and a dorky personality. If she’d had to pick a chef in the kitchen for a second series, she wouldn’t have even ranked herself in the top ten. 

“Well, given your baking expertise, we’re pitching an idea of you, the gourmet pastry chef, trying to recreate gourmet versions of snack foods.”

Claire raised her eyebrows. “Uh huh, right. Okay. You saw me trying to recreate the toaster strudel a few weeks ago, huh? Wow. I never thought something like that would lead to something like this, but-”

“It was actually Brad who recommended you for it,” Rapo interrupted, folding his hands together on the desk in front of him. “He brought it up to me last week when I met with him for more video ideas, and it was really just the pitch we were looking for.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Brad suggested it?” Claire repeated, sure that she hadn’t heard right. 

“Quite enthusiastically, I might add,” Rapo confirmed with a smile. 

Claire sat quietly for a moment, leaning back in her chair, absorbing this double-whammy of information.

They wanted her to star in the next series. And it was Brad who believed she was the best one for the job. 

“Wow,” was all she could bring herself to say in reply.

“So, what do you think? A higher paycheck would come attached to the deal of course, with even higher earning potential depending on views. You’d have reduced recipe duties, and filming would likely be a few days a week, every couple of weeks. Maybe more, maybe less, depending on the initial response. Sound good to you?” He asked nonchalantly, as if the deal was already all but sealed. 

“Adam, I’m sorry, but I really just don’t think I have the right charisma for this kind of thing,” Claire replied, waffling. She honestly wasn’t sure what her decision was. 

He brushed off her response. “I think you don’t give yourself enough credit, Claire. You’ve really come out of your shell lately, and everyone has noticed, including the viewers. Especially the viewers. We all know you’ve got the skills for it. Just focus on that! Let the rest come naturally. If the series flops, it won’t be continued, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Claire held back a grimace. She wasn’t nervous about it flopping. She was nervous about having to carry a series on her shoulders in the first place.

Could she do it?

She couldn’t deny that the concept itself sounded interesting – challenging. And with challenges usually came achieved goals, and with those came boosted confidence and validation.

And Claire absolutely thrived on that.

What did she really have to lose? 

“I uh…” she began, a bit unsteady. “Uh, you know what? Sure. I’ll give it a shot. Yes.”

Rapo beamed. “Excellent. Now, there’s just some quick paperwork to sign…”

… 

Claire was spending her afternoon in the break room, researching popular snack foods, when Brad wandered in, an almost shy look on his face.

He sank into the seat next to her, sprawling out a bit.

Claire was always a little bit in awe of just how much of Brad there was. Of how much space he took up.

It was distracting.

“So I take it you said yes, then?” He said, nodding toward the images of Twinkies she was scrolling through.

“I did,” she answered, turning to look at him fully. “Brad, I can’t believe you suggested it.”

His face fell. “Oh. You – you’re not mad at me, are ya?”

Claire shook her head. “No, of course not. I just...I just don’t know if I agree with the suggestion. Brad, I’m like, kinda boring. Especially compared to your personality.”

Brad frowned. “You’re not boring, Claire. Not even close. That’s nonsense. You n’ me, we’re just different. You’re too hard on yourself.”

“I just don’t know if I’m interesting enough to carry my own show like you do,” she said, voicing her insecurities for the second time that day. 

“You’re plenty interesting enough. You’re a star, Claire. Full stop. You just need the right place to shine, is all.”

Claire bit her lip to tamp down on a smile.

“That’s sweet of you to say, but I just don’t know.” She turned back to her laptop screen, scrolling without paying very much attention at all. “Thanks for believing in me, though. Really.”

“Always have,” he said, gently mussing the top of her head as he stood up. “Let me know if you need someone to bounce any ideas off, okay? And I’ll be around when you’re filming. For moral support, n’ shit. Like you are for me, yeah?”

Claire simply smiled at him as he walked away before ducking behind her laptop screen. She hadn’t trusted herself to speak. Not with her heart so twisted up in knots, the way that it was.

As he disappeared through the doorway, Claire’s eyes fell to her lap, where she twisted the ring on her right hand over and over, helplessly.

Wondering how she’d ended up in a such a lovely, painful mess.

… 

“The shape of these things! Are absolutely fucking ridiculous!” Claire whined, shaking a Toblerone box in frustration toward the camera. 

“Well, that’s gonna have to be bleeped out,” Brad said as he sidled up to her, leaning onto his elbows over her workspace. “What’s the problem, Claire?” 

Claire groaned. “Exactly what I just said. Look at the shape of these! How am I ever supposed to replicate that, huh?” 

Brad let out a low whistle. “You just need a fancy-shmancy mold, I reckon,” he remarked, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I can help ya build one,” he offered, amusement in his voice.

“Wait, really?” Claire’s shoulders sagged in relief at the offer of help.

“Yeah,” he reiterated, readjusting his backwards ball cap. “You seem a little stressed. Why don’t ya take a load off and let me help out? Friendly neighborhood handyman, n’ all,” he grinned. 

“I have no idea how it’ll work, but please do,” Claire sighed, twirling her hair around her finger for a moment before she realized what she was doing and stopped herself.

She scolded herself internally. Could she be any more obvious? God. 

Toblerone was going to be her third Gourmet Makes episode. The first two videos had garnered an unexpectedly positive response, though when Claire watched them back, all she could see was her nerves and disgustingly moony-eyed looks toward Brad. She’d been too afraid to read the comment sections, but, according to Rapo, the analytics were looking great – definitely good enough to continue the videos. 

Claire’d been right. She really enjoyed the challenges it presented. One of the best things about college, and about culinary school too, had been that sense of accomplishment and pride when she’d achieved something she thought she couldn’t do.

Even better was the praise given to her by others when they recognized her achievements.

Some days, she felt like Tinkerbell. Maybe she needed validation to keep going.

And she hadn’t had this much validation for quite some time. 

It was Brad’s that affected her the most, because of course it did.

He’d made it a point to drop by constantly when she was filming – to taste, to critique, to help, to encourage, and sometimes just to randomly churn up a conversation out of nowhere, as he was so wont to do. He’d been popping in so often that they had to cut out some of his footage, just to establish that this was a Claire-hosted show, not a Brad-and-Claire show.

She loved every minute of it.

When she was filming with Brad, that was the only thing that was on her mind. The task at hand, and Brad by her side, leaning down on the counter, nibbling at her creations, lifting her mood. 

In those moments, she didn’t have to think about anything else. Not even the fact that it was late summer, pushing into fall, and Brad and Molly were still an item. 

No, those pains and worries were reserved for other times, alone and far from the cameras.

“Claire, I’ve never seen you laugh so much,” Gaby had told her after she’d finished filming her second video. “It’s Brad, no? He’s like medicine for your soul. So much happiness and energy all rolled up in one big person.”

Flushed, Claire had nodded in agreement. 

“Earth to Claire,” Brad laughed, knocking his shoulder against hers.

“Hm. Right,” she shook herself mentally. “Right. Yeah, let me test the textures of everything really quick before we work on a mold, yeah? I just wanna pour this tempered chocolate over the honey and almond nougat.”

Giving her chocolate a stir, Claire bent down, carefully attempting to coat the nougat before the chocolate started setting.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Brad exclaimed from somewhere above her. “You’re about to dip your hair in chocolate, Claire. I gotcha.”

And out of nowhere, she could feel his fingers against her neck, sweeping her hair back and looping it around his hand as he held it out of the way for her. 

“There ya go,” he reassured her. “Pour away.”

Claire had to remind herself to breathe.

She wondered if he could see the goosebumps that had raised on her arms. 

The warmth of his hand brushing the sensitive nape of her neck, the way he’d threaded his fingers through her long hair…

This would be her undoing, right here on camera.

Shit.

The cameras.

She’d have to ask them to edit this out later. 

As she straightened back up, she felt her hair sieve back down her back as Brad moved away.

She tried to tamp down on the disappointment sinking in her chest.

“Let me know when one’s ready to taste,” he reminded her, smacking his fist against his hand in enthusiasm as he lumbered off. 

Claire glanced around the kitchen, trying to calm herself down, regain focus.

Instead, she was distracted by the sight of Molly and Delany sitting down to eat their lunches together at the window across from her. 

They were sitting rather close together. 

Over the past couple of months, Claire had noticed the two of them finding their way into each other’s company more and more, always smiling about something, sometimes sharing a drink.

Molly was just a friendly person, Claire had always known that. But still, she had to give Brad credit. He seemed totally fine with this new development. It was a testament to his security in their relationship, and his own self-confidence. Claire knew that if she’d been in his situation, she would never have been able to remain so cool and collected about it. 

Biting her lip, she dragged her eyes away from her giggling friend and back toward her Toblerone prototype. 

She’d massively overpoured the chocolate.

“Motherfucker,” she muttered, knowing it would be censored out all the same. 

… 

“I can’t lie, Claire, I expected these cookbooks to be like, alphabetized or somethin’,” Brad called from the corner of her living room. 

Claire dusted off her hands as she packed the last of her crockery into a box marked “fragile”. Given her increased paychecks, she’d finally taken the plunge and signed a lease for a bigger apartment, something she’d been wanting to do for the last year or two but just couldn’t bring herself to commit to.

Brad, ever the gentleman, had volunteered to help her pack up the last of her things before the two of them went to the Bon Appétit Labor Day kickback later that afternoon. 

“Oh, they were once,” she called back, wandering back into the living area, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “I just kept getting more, and kept getting lazier, and that’s how they’ve ended up where they are today.”

Brad cracked the cover of one open. “Emeril signed this one?” He let out a low whistle.

Claire shrugged. “He stopped by the office a few years ago and I couldn’t help myself.”

Brad gently tucked it into the gradually filling box. 

“Y’know, this place looks kinda exactly like I imagined a Claire place,” he said, gesturing around the now mostly-empty room. 

Claire cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, Brad,” she laughed.

“Just an observation,” he said. “It’s cute. Cozy. Somehow both cluttered and organized all at once. Very ‘Claire’.” 

She tried not to smile. 

As Brad reached up to the shelf, the corner of a particularly thick hardcover book slipped, jamming into the top of his hand between his finger and thumb.

“Shit, Brad,” Claire exclaimed, snatching the book off the floor and tossing it uncharacteristically carelessly into the box. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he reassured her, his voice casual. “I got some nerve damage in my hands. I barely even felt that.”

“What?” Claire sputtered. “What happened?” 

“Eh, I fucked up my wrists in a car accident a few years ago. They got snapped back by the airbag and screwed with some of the nerves in my hands. Ain’t no biggie anymore.” He wiggled his fingers at her as if to prove it.

Curious, Claire reached for one of his hands, pulling it down closer to her level. The mention of the nerve damage, the car accident just served as another reminder that there was so much about those missing eight years that they didn’t know about each other. The blank spaces of time between them tugged at her chest, making some melancholy nostalgia for what she never knew well up in her heart. 

She held his palm in hers, tracing the back of his hand with her fingertips. “Can you really not feel this?” She asked.

“I can a little bit, but not too much,” he answered lightly, looming over her. 

“And here?” She trailed her finger over his knuckles.

“Some,” he shrugged, his voice quieter now. 

She flipped his hand over, touching the tips of her fingers to his, passingly marveling at how his hand dwarfed hers, making it seem tiny, childish in comparison. “What about now?”

Slowly, he laced his fingers between hers, clutching her hand to his. 

“I can feel more than you think, Claire,” he said in a low, almost hushed voice. “It’s not so bad.”

Claire had to concentrate very hard to make sure the next breath she exhaled wasn’t shaky. 

It was as if they were in some kind of bubble – silent, warm, tender, with no one else around them and nothing to stop anything they wanted to do. Claire was suddenly very aware that she and Brad were alone in this apartment together. It was as if all of the oxygen had been sucked out of it.

Her heart thudded wildly, as if it demanded to be acknowledged. 

Their fingers still intertwined, Brad turned his wrist up to check his watch.

And the spell was broken.

He dropped her hand. “Shit, I didn’t realize the time. I gotta go pick up Molly to head to the Labor Day thing,” he announced, readjusting his cap. “Damn. Sorry, but I gotta go. See you in like, an hour or two though, right? You gonna swim?”

Disoriented, it took Claire a moment to remember that there was a party this afternoon, and that it was in fact at a rented-out rooftop pool. 

“Uh, I’m thinking about it,” she answered noncommittally.

In fact, she’d more than thought about it. Last week, she’d gone out and bought a new swimsuit for the first time in three years, just for this occasion. 

“You should,” he grinned, walking backwards toward her front door. 

As he headed out of the building, Claire was left standing in place in her living room, her stomach in knots. 

It felt like high school all over again. 

The nerves of having to wear a swimsuit in front of everyone. The excitement of hoping to see the boy that you were crushing on, but also the terror of worrying about how to interact with him.

The conflicting feelings of dying to be around him, but heartbroken in knowing that it was another girl he’d set his sights on. 

Claire shook her head, rolling her eyes at herself.

She needed to get a grip.

She walked back to her tiny, overstuffed closet and yanked her new bathing suit from its hanger. 

…

“Claire!” Christina yelled, waving her over to the drinks table. “Isn’t this great?”

Christina immediately thrust a strawberry daiquiri into Claire’s empty hand. 

The party at the rooftop pool was already bustling. Delany was over in the corner, fiddling with the sound system. Rick was reclining on a swan float, sipping his drink, his neon pink nails glistening in the late afternoon sun. Andy, Chris, and Carla were laughing about something next to the snack spread. Priya, Sohla, and Amiel were swimming up to their shoulders in the pool, snorting over something Sohla had just said. Gaby was on the other side of Christina, waving and sipping on a piña colada. 

And Brad and Molly...Brad and Molly were sitting across a deck chair, giving each other a quick smooch as she sat on his lap.

Claire couldn’t help but look, even though it hurt to look.

Brad was in just his swimming trunks, his faded shirt already stripped off and abandoned over the back of a chair. His arms were wrapped loosely around Molly, hitching at her hip. Broad, tanned arms that practically dwarfed whoever they were wrapped around. The sun-kissed skin of his chest looked golden against the back of the white deck chair, and his smile was sweet, a little bit buzzed. 

A vise wrapped around Claire’s heart, twisting mercilessly. 

She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw her flip-flop at something. She wanted to leave.

She shouldn’t have come.

Forcing herself to look away, Claire sipped her daiquiri and wrapped an arm around Christina, giving her a brief hug.

“How’s it been?” She asked, pushing her tone toward what was hopefully nonchalance.

“Many drinks. Hot,” Gaby answered from the other side of Christina, fanning herself with her hand. “We are too far north for it to be this hot in September. I don’t understand.”

“Delany has surprisingly good taste in music, we’ve learned,” Christina nodded, refilling her own glass.

Claire squinted across the pool toward Delany, and was surprised to find him in turn squinting across the pool at Brad and Molly, a small frown on his face. 

Claire was starting to get the feeling that she wasn’t the only one hurt at the sight of them. 

“Poor Alex,” Gaby said, shaking her head. She’d noticed Claire’s gaze, it seemed. “For all of his smooth moves, it looks like even his heart can be sick over someone too.”

“They’d be super hot together,” Christina remarked over her drink. Claire let out an involuntary snort. 

“What?” Christina asked. “You know I’m right.”

Claire nodded. “Yes, you are. Can’t argue there.”

“Time will tell,” Gaby said sagely, nibbling on a carrot stick. 

Claire wasn’t sure she wanted to go down this path of conversation. In fact, she didn’t feel particularly chatty about anything at the moment. 

“I’m gonna go lay out and try to catch some sun,” she said breezily, grabbing an extra drink and nodding toward the deck chairs. “It’s my last chance to stop looking like a ghost before summer is gone, I guess.” 

“Don’t burn,” Christina called out behind her. 

Drinks in hand, Claire settled onto a relatively isolated deck chair, wishing she’d brought sunglasses. Shyly, she began to unbutton her pale pink cotton shirt, trying to remember the last time she’d worn a swimsuit around other people. Over the past few years, she’d grown more and more apathetic about her social life, and she hadn’t really had many opportunities like pool parties to even attend. 

She tugged out of the sleeves and slung the shirt over the back of her chair, leaving her athletic shorts on and trying not to think too much about it. 

It’s not like she’d even worn anything particularly scandalous. It was a plain, navy one-piece; the only noteworthy thing about it was the very low-scooped back that disappeared into the waistband of her shorts. Nothing to see here, thank you very much.

As Claire got to the bottom of her first drink, she tried not to stew about Molly and Brad. 

She was failing miserably.

She wasn’t angry, exactly. 

She was just tired. A bit bitter. 

Mostly, she was sad.

Claire knew that she had no one to blame for herself for her current situation, but it was hard not to wallow, not to dwell on the past, not to wonder what this moment would be like if she hadn’t made such a monumental mistake at the tender age of 22 years old. 

Claire tried to turn off her brain by relying on her senses, instead.

The dangerously sweet, fruity taste of her frozen cocktail.

The sound of the steel-drum-heavy tune that was wafting from the speakers. 

The smell of chlorine and sunscreen hanging in the air – a smell inseparable from childhood, she found.

The warmth of the sun on her bare legs as she leaned back in the deck chair, keeping only her face in the shade. 

The sight of...Brad.

Standing in front of her. Alone. 

“Ya doin’ all right, Claire?” He shot her a half-grin, his brows drawn low over his eyes, hands on his currently shirtless waist. 

Claire swallowed. “Mhm,” she lied, shading her eyes as she gazed up at him, standing there in his towering height. 

“Are you sure?” Instead of waiting for an answer, he bent over and gently picked up her feet, moving them aside so he could sit down, and replacing them over his lap, his hand falling on top of her pale, crossed ankles. 

Claire’s stomach tightened. 

“You looked a little down, If I’m bein’ honest,” he continued, lightly squeezing her ankle. Such a simple thing, to send her head into such a tailspin. 

Claire shrugged. “I’m fine. You know me. Not always a social butterfly, and all.” She was not fine. But she was better now that he was here, alone.

He studied her for a moment, but seemed to decide her response was good enough for him. For now, at least. 

“Hey, we’re gonna play Chicken in the pool. You wanna come?”

“Uh…”

“You should come. Don’t make me throw ya in,” he threatened, waggling his eyebrows at her. 

“You wouldn’t,” she accused, narrowing her eyes at him.

“All right, fine. I wouldn’t.” He laughed. “But you should still come in. Really.”

Claire already knew she was going to give in.

Who was she to ever turn Brad down for anything?

She winced, realizing that yes, she had once, and it had ruined everything.

Yanking her mind away from that train of thought, she lifted her ankles out of his grasp and stood up. 

“Fine,” she grumbled, giving him a half-smile.

“Excellent,” he clapped, standing up as well. “You’re on my team.”

“I haven’t even played Chicken in like, a decade,” Claire rolled her eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “You’re small and plucky. Less likely to topple over.”

Claire had to admit this wasn’t what she’d imagined when she thought about her legs being slung over his shoulders, but apparently she was desperate enough to take whatever scraps she could get.

She turned to look up at him as he gazed out over the pool, shouting something to Delany. 

There was just so much of him. Wide shoulders, thick arms, long, sturdy legs, broad back. He towered almost a foot over her. 

It was intoxicating, how much of him there was. 

Remembering she still had shorts on, she stepped out of them and tossed them aside, walking ahead of Brad to the edge of the pool. 

It seemed Molly and Delany had teamed up.

“You’re going down, Claire-Bear!” Molly called from the water below, pointing at her. 

“If you say so, Molls.”

Claire turned back to look at Brad to find his eyes flickering, as if he’d averted his gaze at the very last second. 

Brad stepped around her, heading toward the shallow end of the pool. As he passed behind her, squeezing between her and a deck chair, his fingers grazed across the bare small of her back, brushing along her skin as he sidled past. 

Claire had to stop her eyes from falling shut at his touch. 

She was so, so done for.

Molly was already climbing onto Delany’s shoulders as Brad and Claire waded into the pool. 

“Sorry in advance for handing your asses to you,” Delany, who was clearly a bit sloshed, grinned. 

“Not so fast, wonder boy,” Brad said in mock-menace. Next to her, Brad squatted low in the water, gesturing for Claire to climb on.

“Let’s go, Claire. Just hang on, I got ya.”

Claire couldn’t believe she was doing this, even as she proceeded to do it. 

Bolstered by the water, she looped her legs forward so that she was sitting on his shoulders, her legs on either side of his neck. He reached up to grab her hands, holding her steady as he slowly stood. Once he was sure she was balanced, he wrapped his hands over her thighs, just above the knee, to keep her anchored to him.

Claire wiggled her toes. Her brain was vacillating between losing sanity over how much of her bare skin was currently touching his bare skin, and derision at the fact that they were doing this.

She wasn’t a kid anymore.

Coming back to herself, Claire realized that Molly had scrunched her nose, giving Claire a goofy, competitive look. 

“Let’s do this, Baz,” Claire challenged, trying not to laugh herself. 

“Holy shit, this is high up,” Molly laughed. “These boys are too tall.”

“All the more reason to make sure I don’t lose,” Claire said. 

“All right, it’s time,” Delany announced, wading closer to Brad as they faced off. “Three, two, one!”

Molly and Claire reached for each other, wobbling in the air and shouting with laughter.

Claire grabbed for Molly’s arm and missed. As she swayed, she felt Brad’s hands tighten on her legs, holding her to him. 

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that, Saffitz,” Molly warned, laughter still in her voice as she reached for Claire’s arm. 

The two of them grabbed hands, wrangling at each other with locked elbows, each trying to push the other off. 

“Get ‘em, Claire!” Brad’s voice shot up from below her. 

Somewhere off to the side, she heard a few of her other coworkers exclaiming, laughing, watching. 

Claire half-growled in frustration. She didn’t mean to get so competitive about everything, but it always seemed to just happen. Brad must have heard her, because he inched forward, allowing her to throw Molly off balance. 

“Shit,” Molly hollered, her arms flailing as she struggled to regain balance for a second or two. “Okay, payback time.” 

The determined look in Molly’s eye spelled trouble. Claire knew her friend had the advantage of a few inches in height on her, and she was out for metaphorical blood.

Claire’s downfall – literally – happened to come from an unexpected source, however.

Below her, Delany splashed water up into her face, catching her off guard. 

“Fuck-” Claire yelled as she floundered, completely losing her balance and falling backward.

She plunged into the cool water below, time slowing down as she sank for a moment before kicking, trying to push herself to the surface. 

Thanks to the height of the boys, it turned out they were in a part of the pool much deeper than Claire could stand up in.

But suddenly, there were hands around hers, tugging her toward the surface. 

A dripping Brad greeted her above water, reaching forward to gently push her drenched hair out of her face. He gave her an apologetic smile, brushing a few stray strands from her eyes with the pad of his thumb. 

“Delany here plays dirty,” Brad shook his head, disapproving. “Sorry ‘bout that. You good?”

Claire nodded, coughing up a stray mouthful of water. “Yeah.”

Noticing her sputter, Brad reached below water, rubbing his sprawling hand over the bare skin of her back. 

“Delany, you menace,” he called at him, shooting him a scowl as he laughed, Molly still held upright on his shoulders. 

“I’m getting another drink,” Claire announced, paddling her way toward shallow waters.

Trying not to think about the imprint of feeling that lingered where Brad’s hands had been holding on to her thighs. The gentleness of his thumbs against the tender skin of her face. 

As she exited the pool, she turned to see that Molly had come down into the water, and was now reaching up to plant a conciliatory kiss on her boyfriend’s mouth.

Claire turned away abruptly, the temporary high in her heart dissipating like smoke.

…

Claire adjusted her headband and turned her focus back down to the warmly-spiced, steaming pastry pocket in front of her.

“God, I can’t wait to try these,” she exclaimed, dusting a cinnamon-sugar topping over them. 

They were deep into fall – it was the first week of November – and Claire had been temporarily taken off Gourmet Makes duty to do a pumpkin spice-themed video. She’d already made pumpkin bars, pumpkin cake doughnuts, and for the last item on the menu, she was making pumpkin spice turnovers. 

She hadn’t eaten yet today, and the spicy, buttery smell of them made her mouth water. 

She cut a cross-section of the turnover, holding it up for the camera to see, in all of its orange-golden glory. 

“Bon Appétit,” she said, mustering some cheer as she waved away the camera.

“And cut,” Kevin called. 

As soon as the film crew was gone, Carla sidled up to Claire, snatching at one of the pastries. 

“Can I try one?” she asked, taking a bite before she even waited for the answer.

Claire laughed. “Doesn’t look like it’s up to me.”

The two of them turned around, leaning their backs up against the counter ledge and facing the rest of the kitchen. 

Something odd cropped up in Claire’s line of sight. 

In the corner near the computer, Delany had leaned down to kiss Molly on the cheek, his hand lingering rather low on her back. 

What?

Carla followed her gaze. “I would say that’s an interesting development, but I think we all saw it coming, yeah?” 

Claire spluttered. “I – I’m sorry, interesting development? Have I missed something?” Her stomach wobbled, thrown for a loop.

Carla leaned toward her, squinting in confusion. “Wait, you don’t know?” 

Claire inhaled. “Know what, Carla?”

Her coworker’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. I was sure you already knew.” Carla cleared her throat. “Brad and Molly broke up like, two weeks ago now? Maybe three? Apparently Molly realized she had feelings for Alex, so she’s giving that a try. I think it was an amicable split, honestly. You don’t notice Brad sulking around the kitchen or anything.”

No one had told Claire a thing. 

She’d been so busy filming, and – quite frankly – trying to avoid any chance she might have to see Molly and Brad together, that she hadn’t noticed a thing until now, either. 

Maybe everyone had assumed that she already knew.

Brad wasn’t dating Molly anymore.

Brad was unattached.

“Claire, honey, are you okay?” Carla’s voice yanked her back out of her head.

“I um, I need a minute,” she muttered, trying not to rush out of the room.

Making sure the coast was clear, she locked herself in the individual bathroom.

A racking sob burst out of her, and she wheezed, trying to catch her breath as tears streamed down her face. 

She’d never sobbed like this before – with such relief.

Brad wasn’t dating anyone else.

He wasn’t completely lost to her.

Maybe there was still a chance for her.

The thought overwhelmed her, and she gasped for air, unable to control the tears leaking from her eyes. Her hands shook. She balled them into fists, trying to regain control of her traitorous body.

She’d never felt relief like this – visceral, heartrending. 

Hopeful.

She tried to suffocate that feeling rising in her chest. Just because Brad was single now didn’t mean he was feeling fancy-free to date around. It didn’t mean he was ready to bounce back. And it certainly didn’t mean that he wanted her, just as she wanted him. 

Nothing was certain. But the potential that had just been laid in front of her – it was impossible for her heart to ignore. 

Maybe what she’d had eight years ago – what she’d regretfully, devastatingly cast aside – could be hers again, one more time.

As she splashed cool water over her blotchy face, she made a promise to herself that she’d give Brad space. Give him time. 

Not only did he deserve that, but it also came from a place of fear. 

If he didn’t want her back, giving him space would allow Claire to delay her heart getting shattered all over again. 

Inexplicably, Brad was in the hallway when she walked outside.

“Hey,” he frowned, walking toward her. “Claire, is everything okay? You look like something’s upset you. I saw ya run off a minute ago, you had me worried.”

He clasped a broad, warm hand over her shoulder, and Claire almost laughed.

He was the last person in the world she could explain her tears to. She could barely explain them to herself.

“Yeah, yeah.” she nodded. “Just stressed out. One of those days, you know?”

“Is there anything I can fix?” He asked, his voice earnest, genuine. Her heart did another somersault in her chest.

She was so in love with him.

“Just...keep being Brad,” she shrugged, smiling faintly, her eyes stuck on his sweet, open face. She found herself wishing she could jump in his arms, use that proximity to rub her own smooth cheek against the stubble of his. To drink him in, to find home in his embrace.

“I can do that,” he grinned. “But really, Claire. Tell me if there’s anything I can do. Any time, Claire.”

She lifted her hand to rest on top of the one clasping her shoulder. “I will.”

… 

“Thanks so much for hosting, Brad!” Sohla said by way of greeting, depositing a bottle of wine and a covered hot dish onto his already cluttered counter. Claire, who’d arrived at the same time, followed Sohla shyly into the kitchen, a pie in each hand.

“Ain’t no thing, Sohls,” Brad smiled, motioning her into his crowded living room, where most of the test kitchen was already hanging out, sipping on pre-dinner drinks. 

It was the Monday before Thanksgiving, and Brad, sweetheart that he always was, had offered to host “friendsgiving” at his place this year, just to bring everyone together with good food and a good time right before they all broke for the holiday. 

Claire’s nerves had been in knots all the way over here. She’d never been to Brad’s place before, and, anxious, she’d settled on the open-air deck of the ferry, setting the tote full of pies at her feet, and shivering under the chilly twilight sky. 

“You’re lookin’ a little windswept, there, Claire,” Brad observed, grazing a knuckle over the tip of her pink nose. “Tell me you didn’t stand on the open-air deck, you little lunatic.”

“I just felt like it,” she shrugged, self-conscious of the warmth in her windburned cheeks. She was sure she looked like a little tomato in a green turtleneck sweater right now. 

“Well, this kitchen sure is hot, so you’re in luck.” He took both of the pie boxes off her hands. Giving her a serious look, he nodded down at the pies, leaning his hip against the counter. 

“Please tell me one of those is pumpkin.”

Claire laughed. “A pumpkin and an apple,” she confirmed. She reached for the box containing the pumpkin pie, and felt Brad’s eyes on her as she moved some things around in his fridge to make room for it there on a shelf. 

“You liked them cold. I remember,” she said, faintly embarrassed. 

The last time she’d had pumpkin pie around Brad was at her extended family’s big Thanksgiving dinner during her senior year, where a lot of random family members had asked Brad why he didn’t go to college. 

“I do,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Claire suddenly couldn’t bear to keep hold of his gaze. “Um, need some help in here before we sit down, or anything?”

Brad shook his head. “Nah. I didn’t even have to do much, since you all brought so much along. Just waitin’ for the turkey to finish resting, is all. But hey, you wanna pop open this bottle of bubbly? They’ve already polished off the first three, those greedy lil’ monsters.” He nodded toward the living room. 

“Yes, please,” she rubbed her hands together in anticipation. 

A glass or two of alcohol would definitely make this a bit easier. 

Brad held the bottle out in front of him, his other hand clutching a knife that he was preparing to snick into the bottle’s cork.

Because he was Brad, and of course he could open a bottle of wine that way. 

Fucking showboat, Claire thought warmly. 

As the sweep of the knife caught the cork, there was a loud pop, and somehow, in the seconds afterward, Claire found herself drenched in champagne fizz.

“Oh, shit,” Brad swore as Claire yelped. “It was supposed to fizz over the sink, not all over you.” Brad pawed at the wet part of her sweater, just over her stomach. Claire gulped.

“Hey, you can borrow a sweater if you wanna hang that to dry. My bad, big time, Claire,” he shook his head. “Bedroom is first on the left. Check the top drawer of the dresser. Pick any one you want, all right?” 

Claire chuckled, shaking her head at him, only faintly annoyed about her dripping sweater. 

Brad always did his best. 

Silently, she slipped into his bedroom, flipping on the light. 

It was small, a bit dim, and a bit cluttered, but not nearly as messy as she’d imagined. It may have taken him eight years, but it looked like Brad had finally learned how to clean his room.

Making sure the door was shut behind her, she tugged her wet turtleneck over her head and draped it over his small drying rack in the corner. 

As she yanked open the top dresser drawer with some coaxing, she found just what she was looking for.

All of Brad’s cold weather clothing, stacked in small piles.

She ran her hands over the soft wool of his sweaters, eventually choosing a black-and-white striped v-neck. It draped over her body like a blanket – it was far too big. She had to roll up the sleeves, and it came down halfway to her legging-clad knees. 

It smelled like Brad’s laundry detergent. She pulled the collar of it up to her face, inhaling deeply, drinking it in. 

She wished she could curl up and sleep inside this essence of Brad. 

But the actual Brad was out there, waiting for her, and she needed a drink. 

As she padded in sock-feet back into the kitchen, he sized her up, a glass of wine in his hand.

“You should just keep that,” he suggested, smiling as he took a sip of his drink.

“It is cozy,” she allowed, wrapping her arms around herself as Brad poured her a glass.

She could hear the chatter of the rest of the group out in the living room. It sounded cheerful, warm.

She also found that she had little desire to go join it. 

Brad handed off the glass to her, and began digging around in his knife drawer.

Claire decided, against her better judgment, to test the waters.

Her heart had decided to go full hostile takeover, silencing her head tonight. 

“I heard about you and Molly,” she began, sipping from her glass and leaning against the counter next to him.

The clatter from the drawer ceased as his hands fell still. 

“I’m really sorry about that,” she continued, fibbing a bit. She wasn’t sorry that they’d split, but she was sorry if he was hurting over it. “It must suck, watching her all over the kitchen with Delany, so soon.”

Brad resumed rifling through his cutlery, finally pulling out a knife long enough to carve up the turkey with. 

He glanced at her furtively as he shrugged. “Eh, ya know. It’s not too bad. We were never too serious, or anything. Just havin’ a good time. She really seems to like Delany, from what I can tell. They seem to be a good match, n’ all.”

Claire caught herself before she let her shoulders sag visibly in relief.

He didn’t seem too broken up about it. 

Brad set the knife down next to the turkey and leaned against the counter next to her, his elbow brushing hers.

“Besides, I don’t think my heart was ever really too free in the first place,” he said quietly, his eyes gazing down at her. 

Claire’s entire universe screeched to a halt, like tires on wet pavement. 

The magnitude of Brad’s words crashed down on her like a flood. Like a deluge from the ocean, roaring into Brad’s little kitchen and over her like a great wave. 

Did he mean what...what she thought he meant?

She could feel her heart vaulting  into her eyes as she turned her gaze up to his, biting down hard on her lower lip to stop herself from making any kind of hasty, embarrassing sound. 

“Brad,” she breathed, his name coming to rest on her lips like a blessing. She savored it. 

His eyes danced between hers, the look on his face raw, overwhelming.

He looked at her like he wanted to consume her. Body and soul.

It sent a shiver down her spine. 

Molly, Andy, and Rick suddenly rounded the corner, startling Claire so badly that she almost dropped her wine glass.

“Makeshift table’s all set!” Molly chirped.

“Yeah, can we please eat now?” Andy said petulantly, eyeing the turkey.

Brad had hoisted himself off the counter, turning his back to Claire.

It was for the best. This way, the rest of them couldn’t see her as she tried to talk her heart down and back into her chest, into beating at a normal rate. She tried to force herself to breathe like someone who hadn’t just found out that she might have a chance to fix the worst mistake of her life. To find happiness, here again, with the only man she’d ever loved.

“Yeah, let’s do this shindig,” Brad clapped in front of her, his back still to her. “Let’s go get the rest of you whippersnappers so everyone can set out their dish.”

Just before he walked away, Brad wrapped his arm behind his back, splaying his hand out toward her.

She brushed the tips of her fingers against his palm as he left the kitchen.

… 

Usually, the cacophony of warm laughter in a crowded living room during the holidays would bring joy to Claire’s spirit.

Tonight, however, every second that passed without someone getting up to go home grated on her. 

Her patience was hanging on by the tiniest of threads.

The potluck meal had washed past her in a complete haze. She’d barely tasted any of the food she tried, and found herself unable to follow any threads of conversation that were being woven around the table. 

Her attention span had been absolutely obliterated by the confession Brad had made in the kitchen just before they’d sat down. 

How he’d said that his heart wasn’t free to love someone else. 

It took Claire an absolutely herculean effort to sit through the meal. To sit through the after-dinner conversation in his crowded living room.

Adrenaline wouldn’t stop flooding through her veins. She needed to scream, or run around, or something.

In the few moments that she’d managed to keep herself present around the table, she’d noticed that Brad wasn’t eating much either.

Was it possible that he felt sick with anticipation, with possibilities, just as she did?

God. If everyone didn’t start leaving in the next ten minutes, Claire thought she might throw a hissy fit. 

She got up to refill her wine glass, just to give herself something to do. 

She paced in circles around the kitchen for a moment, now that she was out of everyone’s sight. 

Get your shit together, Claire, she chided herself, gulping down most of her wine refill in one swig.

As she meandered back into the living room, she noticed that her seat in the armchair had been requisitioned by Delany and Molly, who’d crammed themselves side by side into the seat, their legs overlapping.

They looked wonderfully cozy. Claire just wished they’d go and be cozy somewhere else.

There weren’t any other free seats left. Even Gaby had had to improvise, sitting down cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, nibbling on her slice of apple pie. 

So instead, Claire walked over to Brad’s recliner and perched on the wide, cushioned arm, leaning against the edge of the chair’s back. Inches from Brad’s arm.

She felt rather than saw him go still next to her. 

She wished she could be like Molly. She wished she could slide down off the armrest and into his lap, to curl her arms around his shoulders and tuck her head under his chin.

But Claire had always been a more private person when it came to public displays of affection, and loving Brad felt too vulnerable, too monumental to do in front of everyone else. 

Especially when the very relationship between the two of them was still hanging in the air, completely unresolved, unsettled. 

Somehow, the hour ticked past, and though it felt interminably slow, guests finally started to make their excuses, to take their leave and filter out. 

“Brad, do you need any help cleaning up?” Chris called, rising stiffly from his low seat on the couch. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he waved Chris and a few others off, smiling.

“I’ll stay and help him,” Claire spoke up, making her way toward the kitchen. 

When she looked up, the eyes of her coworkers caught hers. Gaby’s sweet, proud little smile. Carla’s knowing smirk. Rick’s grin, which he hid quickly behind a yawn. Sohla’s wink. Molly’s flushed nod of the head, understanding and telling her it was okay. 

Claire’s cheeks grew warm. Had they all known? Had her heart really been that obviously on her sleeve? How embarrassing.

And yet, they all seemed to be happy. To be silently cheering her on. 

Heat prickled behind her lower lids as she suddenly felt the strange urge to cry. 

Instead, she simply waved goodbye and quickly ducked into the kitchen, turning on the sink to heat the tapwater for scrubbing dishes. 

Claire could hear Brad chatting at the door, wishing people a happy Thanksgiving and clapping them on the back like the perpetual friendly giant that he was. 

She almost didn’t hear him walk into the kitchen over the rush of the running water.

“You don’t gotta do all that, Claire,” he said, appearing at her side, bracing his arm against the counter and leaning forward so that he was closer to her eye level.

He reached down and took the dripping plate from her hands, tucking it onto the drying rack.

“I don’t mind,” Claire said, genuinely. Going home was the last thing in the world that she wanted to do right now. The thought of it made her physically ache. 

“Well let’s at least team up so it goes a lil’ faster,” he reasoned, grabbing a dish towel and tossing it over his shoulder. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

As they stood side by side at the sink, silently washing up, Claire could feel the tension building in the room, thick and palpable in the air around them.

They’d gone so long without speaking that Claire felt like the moment to say anything had passed. And yet, she still felt so keyed up. So much unsaid, but no clear way to say it.

As Brad dried the final wine glass, Claire wiped her hands on a spare towel and leaned forward against the sink, her arms bracing the countertop. Trying to figure out if she should try to kiss him, or if she should just leave. The moment around them felt like a massively significant crossroads, and she was absolutely horrified of taking the wrong step forward. 

Brad placed the last glass into the cabinet and quietly walked away. 

So that was it, then. 

She’d probably mistaken his words. What he’d said earlier, it likely had nothing to do with her. 

Claire felt her heart sinking like a stone to the bottom of a river. 

But then.

But then, she felt two giant, gentle hands wrap over the curves of her sides, so large that his fingertips grazed her ribcage just below her breasts. 

She froze, her pulse pounding through every inch of her skin.

A beat passed, and then she felt soft, warm lips pressing against the exposed skin where her shoulder met her neck, the stubble of his beard tickling her sensitive flesh. 

The feeling all but dissipated from her legs as they turned to water. She was grateful for his broad, strong hands, holding her up.

“I was so angry with you when you turned me down,” he murmured in a low voice, his breath fanning against the base of her neck, sending a tremble down her spine. “And I held on to that feeling, that anger, cuz I was too scared of how I’d feel when I let go of it.”

He gently spun her around to face him, his hands still tangled up in his sweater that hung loosely against her body. 

His expression was so gentle, so vulnerable, his blue eyes unusually serious. It never once crossed her mind to look away. 

“But eventually, y’know, Claire, I couldn’t hold on to that anger anymore. And once it was gone, underneath all that, there was still just...love. I just couldn’t shake ya, no matter what I did. I looked for you in other people, lookin’ for that same feeling, and it was just never the same. And maybe I wasn’t angry anymore, but I sure did resent you for makin’ me still love you. Hell, I still did that first day when I walked into the kitchen and realized you were there. I couldn’t believe my fuckin’ eyes, and I don’t think you could, either.”

“Brad,” Claire interrupted, lifting a hand to rest on his forearm. She had to tell him. 

Tell him how the place for him in her heart had never closed, not for one single day out of those eight long years. 

“Hang on,” he protested, giving her waist a gentle squeeze. “You know ’m not too good at talkin’, but I gotta say all this.” He inhaled. “I saw you in that kitchen, just as fuckin’ beautiful as the day you broke my heart, and it was too damn much. I felt that hurt all over again. I thought I didn’t want nothin’ to do with you, but I was just lyin’ to myself.”

Claire swallowed thickly, her heart somersaulting wildly in her chest. “What about Molly?”

Brad frowned. “Molly was...I wasn’t doin’ the right thing there. She was cute, and I think I was just tryin’ to convince myself that I could be happy with someone else. It"d never worked before, y’know, but I felt then, with you around, that I really oughta try again. Take my mind off you. And it went on for too long, and I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t fair to anyone, really. But hey, luckily it turns out she’d really set her cap at the other tall handsome man in the test kitchen,” he half-laughed. 

Claire could hear the same nerves in his voice that she felt in her own veins.

“Anyways, I think...I think when I saw that ring on your finger, that’s when it started. Made me wonder about things. Made me hope again. I just...don’t wanna make a mistake here. I don’t think my heart can take that again. It can’t take bein’ broke by you twice, Claire.”

She felt a hot tear well over in the corner of her eye and slip down her cheek. 

“Brad I – I could never do that to you again. Not ever.” Absentmindedly, she reached down to twirl his ring around her finger. “What I said back then – it was the worst mistake of my life, Brad.” He winced, his mouth tilting down. “I mean it. I never wanted to lose you in the first place. I was young, and stupid, and I let other people’s opinions change my mind like a goddamn moron. And I’ve regretted it. Literally every day since. I tried to fix it, but – but you were gone, and-”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “I was young too, y’know, and I was hurt, and I didn’t want to face anything that hurt me, and you know me, Claire, sometimes I’m just an idiot-”

“No,” she said emphatically, lifting her hands to cradle either side of his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into her touch, one of his hands coming up to wrap around her wrist. 

He would be her undoing.

“No, Brad. Don’t apologize. It’s me that’s sorry. I’m so sorry.” Claire was crying more now, her feelings threatening to overwhelm her and hold her by the throat. “I know I shouldn’t get a second chance, but god-”

His eyes opened, locking onto hers as he began to shake his head. “Everyone deserves second chances, Claire. And I think we do, too. Both of us. Especially us.”

And with that, he leaned down, trapping her between his body and the sink, and pressed his mouth against hers.

Claire didn’t hesitate. How could one hesitate when you’d finally gotten something you wanted after years of believing you never would again?

He kissed her slowly, purposefully, as if he wanted to relearn every contour of her mouth. His hands skated up her body and wrapped around either side of her neck, holding her steady as his tongue grazed her bottom lip. He pressed soft, gentle kisses against her mouth, over and over, like he was tasting her, savoring her. 

She could no longer contain the relief, contain the joy. She smiled against his lips. 

“What is it?” He asked, pulling back only an inch or two, trying to catch his breath.

She let out a shaky exhale. “I just love you so damn much, that’s all,” chasing his lips with hers. 

Trying to make up for lost time. 

“Always have,” she murmured against his jawline, relishing in the chafe of his beard against her cheeks, her mouth. 

After a moment, she pulled back to drink in his face. His expression was devastatingly soft, and she was surprised to see a hint of unshed tears in his eyes. 

“God, I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I just...I didn’t know that until now. What you just said.” He sniffed. “I thought it was just me, all this time, pining after ya, feelin’ like all this love leftover in my heart had nowhere to go.” 

“No,” she reassured him, gripping the fabric of his flannel sleeves in her hands. “Not just you.”

She ran a finger down his throat. “I am, and always have been, yours.”

Something in his eyes darkened, and a growl caught in the back of his throat as he hoisted her up against him, his hands hooked under her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, gripping tight. Her face was now inches from his, and he nuzzled his nose gently against her before descending on her mouth again, his lips faster, hotter, hungrier. 

Claire looped her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against his. She didn’t want a single inch of breathing room left between the two of them. She’d been touch-starved, not only in general, but more importantly, by him, for years and years now. Her skin was burning for him, and she didn’t want to let go. 

Gripping her against him and deepening the kiss, Brad guided them toward his bedroom, stumbling a bit before he sank down onto the bed. Bright moonlight was streaming through his window, illuminating them in a blue-white glow. 

Claire shifted her knees underneath her so that she was now kneeling in his lap. She could feel her center, already unbearably hot, pleading for friction, for attention. She grinded against him as she pitched forward, cradling his head as she kissed him fervently, their mouths colliding with hot sweetness and a wildfire need to revive what they thought had been lost. Her fingers dove into the soft, messy curls at the back of his neck, something she’d been dreaming of for months. 

“God, you look hot in my clothes,” Brad muttered between kisses, his hands snaking underneath her sweater and clutching at bare skin. “But I wanna see you out of them more.” He tugged the hem upward, pulling it over her head. 

Claire felt suddenly self conscious as he stilled for a moment, studying her bare skin, her plain black bra. 

“What is it?” She asked tentatively, fighting the urge to cross her arms over herself. 

“Nothin’,” he reassured, sieving his hand through the roots of her hair, smiling. “It’s been a while, and I just wanted to look at ya, is all.”

Claire’s already warm cheeks flushed even more as he reached around to unhook her bra and gently slide it off of her, tossing it to the floor. 

His eyes descended on her bare breasts, and Claire felt her nipples harden in the fresh, slightly  chilled air. 

There was something incredibly vulnerable about being held in his lap, with his hands on the bare skin of her waist, as he just looked at her, taking all of her in. 

“Just as pretty as I remembered,” he murmured, sliding a hand up her waist and over her ribcage, bringing it to rest on the side of her breast as he gently brushed the pad of his thumb over her nipple.

Claire couldn’t stifle the soft groan in the back of her throat. 

“God, that’s so hot,” he muttered, leaning forward to suck on her neck as his thumb rubbed up and down over her sensitive, pink flesh. His stubble scratched at the hollow of her throat, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes back into her head a little. 

He remembered exactly what she liked. What she wanted. The kind of attention she craved.

And clearly, he was still very enthusiastic about letting her have it. 

He bent his head, trailing kisses down her neck, across her collarbone. She writhed against him, nearly blind with pleasure already. 

No one knew how to love her body like Brad knew how to love her body. 

“Someone’s a little eager,” he teased her, his voice vibrating against the skin of her shoulder. 

Taking mercy on her, he twisted around, lowering her down onto her back against the mattress. 

Greedily, Claire reached under his shirt to run her palms across the skin below his navel, feeling the soft hair, the soft skin there.

Brad froze for a second, her touch clearly doing something to him as he inhaled sharply. 

“Take your shirt off,” she ordered, tugging at the hem.

He breathed out a laugh as he leaned back, doing as she asked. 

As he leaned over her, bracing his forearms against the bed on either side of her body, she reached up to pull off his hat, too, running her fingers through even more of his soft curls. 

His eyes locked mischievously on hers for a brief moment before he lowered his mouth to her breast. His hot, wet tongue lapped over her nipple lazily, teasing. Once. Twice. A third time. He kissed the same spot with parted lips, his eyes closed as he lost himself in the contact between her skin and his mouth. 

A whine caught in Claire’s throat. 

He laughed against her and simply shifted over, giving the same attention to her other breast. 

“You remember,” she gasped at the flick of his tongue, “you remember my weaknesses too well, dammit.”

“Could never forget ‘em,” he smirked, working his way down, kissing the space between her breasts. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said between open-mouthed kisses against the soft, pale skin of her belly. “So much.”

“I’ve missed you m-” Claire couldn’t finish her sentence as Brad started peeling her leggings off, his warm hands running down the tops of her thighs. Her knees turned to jelly as she felt him hook a finger around the waistband of her underwear, grazing the skin of her abdomen tantalizingly with the tip of his finger. 

He knew what he was doing.

“Brad, please,” she whined, wiggling her hips slightly under his hand. 

“Well, since you asked,” he grinned, dragging her underwear down and tossing it to the floor. 

His eyes darkened with lust as he sat back for a moment, drinking in the sight of her totally bare before him. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, resting a hand over her knee. “Perfect.” 

Claire’s heart felt as if she might combust under his heavy, devouring gaze. 

He climbed toward her, sliding a hand up the back of her thigh and bending it outward. He nuzzled the skin inside her thigh for a moment before planting a kiss there, sucking lightly.

Claire clenched so hard that it sent a tremor to her knees.

“God, you’re so ready, aren’t you,” he said, faint wonder in his voice. “Don’t worry. I’m all over it.” 

He began kissing up the inside of her thigh, higher and higher, his wet mouth and scratchy chin sending her into torturous raptures. She gripped the blankets next to her tightly in her fists to keep from shaking. 

“You’re so wet,” he muttered, and Claire’s vision nearly blacked out as his mouth lowered over her, his hot tongue sliding between the folds there. 

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you,” he said, his words vibrating against her. 

She whimpered, threading her fingers through his hair desperately, needing something to anchor herself with. 

“Yeah, that’s it, babe,” he said as she bucked her hips against him at the feel of his finger sliding slickly into her. Slowly, he added a second finger, moving them in and out of her with an agonizingly lazy tempo. 

He lowered his mouth down and lapped his tongue over her again, tracing slow, hot circles around her clit. 

Claire’s entire lower body was shaking with unfathomable anticipation. She raised her knees to squeeze them around Brad’s shoulders, but he shook his head, pushing them back out and flat against the bed, pinning her there. Keeping her trapped, bared to him as his tongue swept and flickered over her soaking wet bundle of nerves. 

And suddenly, there was nothing. He pulled back, grinning, pressing kisses to the inside of her thigh. Knowing exactly what he was doing. 

“ Brad,” she groaned in frustration, slapping her balled fist against the mattress. “Brad, don’t stop.”

“I’d never leave you hanging,” he reassured her lightly, and with no warning, his mouth lowered once more, covering her, his tongue probing, licking, swirling in a mercilessly unpredictable pattern. She was hovering on the edge, her legs now trembling uncontrollably.

“Come,” he murmured against her, an unmistakable demand, before he returned to flick his tongue rapidly over her clit, his fingers sliding quickly in and out of her.

The order was impossible to disobey. 

Ecstasy gripped her like a vise, like a lightning bolt, and she shook as she came around his fingers, the seconds of shattering bliss pulsing by as she bucked against the hand that held her down. 

She panted, twitching as he ran a finger down her leg, from the top of her thigh to the inside of her knee.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to make the world stop spinning. “Oh, my god.”

Finally recovering, she raised herself up on her elbows, her gaze landing on Brad, who was lounging at the end of the bed, just watching her. 

Her eyes ran over his prickly cheeks, his broad, tanned shoulders, the soft hair rising above his waistband. 

The heady look in his eyes, full of lust.

Full of love, too.

It was too much.

“I want you inside me,” she said in a low voice, her voice slightly hoarse. 

His eyes didn’t leave hers as he removed his jeans, then his boxers.

Claire’s gaze roved downward.

He was big in more than just his height.

She remembered.

And he was more than ready for her. 

“Come here,” she beckoned, reaching for him. His eyes dragged up her body as he climbed forward, hovering over her. He paused, the tip of his nose brushing against the tip of hers. 

“I love you,” she whispered. “So fuck me.” 

His mouth fell over hers, kissing her feverishly. “Such a pretty little mouth,” he groaned. As his hips lowered, she felt the tip of his cock graze against her abdomen, and she shivered in anticipation. 

“Please,” she whispered, bending her head to suck gently at his throat. 

A low, guttural groan escaped his lips, and she felt him reach down, guide himself to her. 

“You sure?” He asked, his eyes flickering over hers.

She nodded fiercely. 

His eyes didn’t leave hers as he slowly pushed in, going easy on her, taking his time. 

Claire had forgotten just how big he was, how it felt when he stretched her inside, how full it felt. 

“Okay?” he asked, his voice a bit strained.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured, tracing her nails over his shoulder blades as he braced his arms on either side of her head. 

Her walls pulsated, adjusting to accommodate his astounding size, his girth. 

There was so much of Brad, and right now, all of him was hers. 

“Fuck me,” she urged him again, her eyes locked on his. 

His head fell to her neck as he began to thrust, slowly at first.

With each long, leisurely thrust, he pressed a kiss to her mouth, to her jaw, to her neck. He lifted a thumb, circling her nipple again, treasuring every inch of her body that he could reach. 

Her eyes rolled shut with bliss.

“Hold on,” he said roughly, slipping his hands between her and the blankets to press his palms against her back. Holding her tight, he rolled them over, so that she was on top, straddling him as he remained inside her.

“Wanted a better view,” he said with a soft smile, his hands settling over her hips. 

Claire grinned back at him, leaning down to give him a lazy kiss, bracing her hands against the bed. Slowly, she began to thrust on him, gyrating her hips, grinding against him. 

“Christ,” he muttered, his hips pitching slightly up against her, his eyes clouded with want. “Just look at you.” He lifted a long, muscled arm up, cupping one of her breasts as it swayed with her movement, squeezing it gently. “Look at you. ”

He sat up, sending his cock deeper inside her, making her gasp. He sucked at her breast, wrapping his arms around her back, cradling her to him as he thrust up into her, with less and less measured control. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, his voice thick, heady. Her hair fell around them like a curtain as she leaned down to kiss him, their mouths open, imprecise, hungry. They breathed heavily against each other, hips bucking toward a fever pitch. She draped herself over him, biting at his shoulder as he frantically pumped his hips, only moments before he lost all control, went senseless. He buried his face between her breasts as he stifled a cry, release rocking through his body as he thrust one last time, his hips pushed hard up against hers. 

They collapsed on each other, sweating, breathing hard, still joined together even though they were both spent. 

Claire smiled softly at the feel of her bare breasts against his naked chest. It was such a simple thing, but it felt so safe to her, so intimate. 

Her body was Brad’s, and she knew that he treasured it.

As his belonged to her. 

“Please don’t ever leave me again, Claire,” he said quietly beneath her, his chest rising and falling under hers. “I love ya too much for that. Just as much now as I did back then.”

She tilted her head up, searching for his beautiful, earnest eyes, her hands drifting to his jawline.

Eight years.

Eight years to find a happy ending. Finally, here it was. In her hands.

“Never,” she promised, bending to kiss him again.