“Favorite food,” she murmured, fetching her phone again. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she pressed down, calling him back. It rang once … twice. She paced the length of her living room rug, unsure why she was so nervous.

  “Hey, Charlotte,” came his voice.

  “Grant,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m about to plan dinner, and I wanted to ask if you have a favorite dish. Something you’ve been craving?”

  There was a warmth to the silence that followed, a sense of him smiling on the other end of the line. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but honestly, I’ll be happy with whatever you choose to make. The fact that you’re cooking for me is special enough.”

  “Are you sure?” Charlotte pressed gently, leaning against the wall as if the solidity could lend her the same steadiness his voice carried. “I want this dinner to be perfect for both of us.”

  “Absolutely,” he assured her. “Surprise me. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Okay,” she conceded, a small laugh escaping her. “Surprise it is.” After they exchanged a few more pleasantries and confirmed the time, she ended the call, the finality of the click serving as a springboard for action.

  With renewed purpose, Charlotte went back into the kitchen. Tonight, she would cook something special. She ran her fingers along the spines of the cookbooks that sat on the shelf above her kitchen counter until they landed on the one she was looking for, its cover worn from use and love, the corners frayed, a testament to its place in her world.

  She pulled it down with a sense of reverence and carefully opened it. The pages were familiar friends, some stuck together with the ghost of meals past, others marked by hastily scribbled notes in the margins. She skimmed through the recipes, pausing at a page she knew well. It wasn’t just the steps and ingredients that called to her, but the memories associated with the dish … it was a recipe she had mastered and made countless times for friends, but tonight, it would not grace her table. This evening called for something different, a new memory in the making.

  Continuing to thumb through her cookbook, Charlotte came across a no-nonsense recipe, a classic dish, but one she had never made before: roasted chicken. Simple and unpretentious, yet capable of conveying warmth and comfort.

  “Everyone likes chicken,” she murmured to herself.

  With the decision made, Charlotte sat down to write out a shopping list. She’d have to quickly run to the corner market. First, she checked her pantry. She had potatoes, onions, and garlic. So, she needed carrots, celery, herbs, fresh bread, and of course, a chicken. And flowers. Oh, and a pie and ice cream.

  At the market, Charlotte made her way through the aisles, getting her produce, choosing a nice, plump chicken, picking out two bottles of good wine, and a small container of vanilla bean ice cream. At the bakery counter, the air was thick with the aroma of yeast and flour transformed into artful loaves. Charlotte reached for the Italian bread, its crust crackling softly as she squeezed it gently. She also selected a homemade apple pie. With her basket filled, she headed to the cashier and then hurried home.

  As soon as she returned to her apartment, she got to work. She cleaned and trussed the chicken, rubbing it with butter and herbs and surrounding it with the chopped vegetables. She placed it in the oven to cook and set a timer for sixty minutes.

  Charlotte looked at the time and saw that she had time for a quick shower. She washed quickly, opting not to wash her hair. Once out, she dried off and dressed in the casual ease of well-worn jeans that hugged her form perfectly. She chose an emerald green sweater to complete the outfit. The color made her eyes dance with flecks of gold when the light hit them just right.

  Stepping into the living room, she surveyed the space. It was tiny but neat and artfully decorated with artifacts from Charlotte’s worldwide travels. She set the table in the corner, placing a single candle in the center, thinking it would add to the coziness of the scene. This was her space, her haven, and she felt both nervous and exhilarated realizing that she would be letting in Grant.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlotte glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight, and her heart fluttered with a blend of anticipation and nerves. The apartment hummed with the quiet energy of preparation, every surface polished to a gentle shine, every cushion plumped just so.

  She checked her phone again, the screen lighting up to reveal a new message that had not been there a moment ago. It was from Grant. “Catching the eight o’clock train, it’s running late,” it read, his words brief but sending a ripple of excitement through her.

  “Will you need directions from the station?” she texted back quickly, her fingers tapping out the message with practiced ease.

  “No need,” came his reply moments later. “I’ve got your address, remember? I’ll hop in a taxi. See you soon.”

  Charlotte smiled, set the phone down, and wandered to the window. Streetlights cast pools of amber light onto the pavement where the day’s bustle had given way to the evening’s more languid pace. The thought of Grant navigating these streets to come to her filled her with a warm sense of connection. He’d be here, in this very room, sharing a meal she’d prepared with care, and sharing stories yet untold between them.

  With a contented sigh, Charlotte turned away from the window and moved back towards the kitchen. There was still work to be done; the last touches on dinner, the lighting of the candles. Her movements were lighter, her steps surer. This was no ordinary night, after all. It was a threshold, and she was ready to welcome whatever came next.

  The savory aroma of roasting chicken wafted through the kitchen, promising a delicious meal. But as the minutes ticked by, an undercurrent of unease began to stir within her. She paused as she was putting the finishing touches on a salad, her eyes looking up to the clock on her stove. It read 9:07 p.m. A knot tightened in her stomach. Grant should have been here by now. No, he needed more than an hour; he wasn’t coming from Manhattan, but Connecticut.

  “Traffic in the city would most likely delay him, especially on a Friday night,” she murmured aloud, a half-hearted attempt to quell the disquiet that threatened to bloom into worry. She chewed on her lower lip, considering. He said he was taking a taxi; why wasn’t Ming driving him?

  Charlotte shook her head. No sense imaging intrigue where there wasn’t any. Grant’s trip into the city was at the last minute. Ming probably wasn’t available. Grant was likely in a taxi now on his way to her. She picked up a magazine, absently flipping through it to pass the time.

  After she looked through that magazine and two others, she checked the time again. 9:40.

  “Maybe there weren’t any taxis available,” she reasoned, trying to convince herself more than anyone else. It was Friday. It wouldn’t be fair to assume that the taxi schedules were suited to her or Grant’s schedule.

  With a deep breath, she stood up and looked for something else to keep her busy. She rearranged the silverware next to the plates that sat expectantly on the dining table. She straightened the napkins, folded them just so, and adjusted the centerpiece—a simple vase with a handful of fresh wildflowers she’d picked up along with the Italian bread.

  But no matter the task, her thoughts circled back to the time, to the idea of Grant’s taxi weaving through the city—and to the unspoken question of when he would walk through her door. It wasn’t like Grant to be late without so much as a message, especially not when he knew she was waiting.

  “Maybe I should call,” she murmured, glancing at her phone on the coffee table. She snatched it up, thumb hovering over his contact name, before she set it down again. Did he confuse the time? she asked herself.

  The clock ticked on, each minute stretching out like a taunt. The hands reached ten o’clock, and still, no Grant. Her heart sank. Surely she hadn’t mixed up the dates? His meeting was tomorrow but he said he was coming tonight, right? She was positive she had the date and time right. He had called her and asked her to have dinner with him. She suggested that she would prepare dinner for the two of them. Grant agreed. The thought of dialing his number again tempted her, but then doubt crept in like a cold draft through unseen cracks.

  What if I’m wrong? What would he think? “Probably that I’m crazy,” she whispered to the empty room, her gaze flitting between the phone and the clock as if one of them might offer counsel. “Just another thirty minutes,” she decided with a nod to herself, a silent promise to uphold this made-up rule.

  Charlotte returned to the kitchen, the savory scent of chicken filling her senses and offering a small comfort. It was ready, had been for a while, and yet the plates remained untouched, the candles unlit. She left the pan in the oven on warm and busied herself with trivial tasks: she refilled the water pitcher, wiped an already clean countertop, anything to keep her hands occupied while her mind raced.

  “Another thirty minutes,” she repeated, the mantra giving structure to the wait, even as hope waned and the tick of the clock grew louder in the void of his absence. Her heart clung to the hope that there was still time, that any moment now he would burst through the door with an apologetic grin and a story of unforeseen delays. But her rational mind began to align with her intuition. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this absence than mere happenstance—this weight in her gut was heavy with significance.

  Charlotte waited impatiently, counting down the time until she could call him. As soon as the clock read 10:30, she reached for her phone. She tried his cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Something was wrong. Charlotte could feel it in her gut. Thinking she could call his home in Connecticut, she realized she didn’t have his home number or an address. She didn’t even know where his office was located, other than in Manhattan. And even worse, she had no clue what the name of his firm was.

  Had he played her?

  If so, what had he gained? Just her company and companionship. They’d barely even kissed. No, this wasn’t adding up. She refused to believe that Grant was some callous player, collecting hearts like trophies. In her heart, she knew there was an explanation for Grant not showing up for dinner; she just couldn’t come up with a reasonable one that made sense. And without a trail to trace him—no number, no address, not even the name of his Manhattan firm—she was left floundering in this emotional limbo.

  “Where are you, Grant?” she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely louder than the soft rustle of curtains. The question hung in the air, unanswered.

  She wasn’t one to give up, but it was after eleven, and unlike a typical New Yorker, Charlotte didn’t like to have supper this late. She went to the kitchen, put away the dishes, and the chicken into a container to reheat tomorrow.

  What started as a wonderful day was ruined, she thought as she rinsed out the pan.

  Charlotte flicked off the kitchen lights, the sharp click punctuating the silence that cloaked her apartment. Her fingers lingered on the switch for a moment, as if she were reluctant to let go of the possibility that the evening could still be salvaged. But the shadows that now crept in seemed to solidify the reality; Grant was not walking through that door.

  He better have a damned good reason for not showing up or calling her. Or maybe he was just a jerk.

  Charlotte was tired. She went into the bathroom and pulled her hair into a messy bun. She removed her makeup, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. Once in her bedroom, she slipped off her clothes and got into her pajamas before climbing into bed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Charlotte was jolted awake by a loud buzzing. She looked at the clock on her nightstand. Three a.m. Knowing that whoever was out there wouldn’t be able to come inside unless someone buzzed them in, she rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

  The buzzing continued. “Who the hell …?” Charlotte put her pillow over her head to drown out the noise, but when it persisted, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stomped over to the intercom.

  “I’m going to call the police if you don’t stop. People are trying to sleep.”

  “Charlotte,” came a slurred voice. “It’s me.”

  Grant?

  “Grant, is that you?” she asked, her voice full of anger.

  “Yeah, I need to talk with you,” he said.

  “Go home, Grant. You’re too late.”

  “Come on, Charlotte, let me in,” he pleaded.

  “Go away, Grant.”

  She returned to her bedroom, turned the radio on a classical station, put her earbuds in, and ignored the buzzing that went on for another half hour. Then another hour.

  Unable to stand it any longer, she got up and went to the door. “All right! I’m coming!” she yelled. The hardwood floor felt icy beneath her bare feet, but her anger burned hot enough to keep her moving. How dare he intrude upon her night after such a wretched evening?

  “Charlotte.” The voice was barely recognizable through the speaker. “It’s me, please.”

  “I want you to go away,” she spat, her fury mounting. If he thought he could waltz in now and make up for his absence, he had another thing coming.

  “Come on, Charlotte, please let me in,” he begged, his words slow and heavy.

  “Go. Home. Now.” She enunciated each word, hoping he’d get the hint.

  A moment of silence followed, the absence of noise making her heart race even faster. Had he finally gotten the message?

  “Charlotte, I am sorry for not showing up, but I have a reason, please just let me explain.”

  “Fine,” she spat, finally pressing the buzzer before one of her neighbors realized the disturbance was from someone she knew. As she heard the outside door open, she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. This was not how she had envisioned their evening together, but she wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily.

  She opened her apartment door waiting for him to come up. What she saw shocked her. Normally well-groomed, Grant looked like a bum from Skid Row.

  Before he could get a word out, she held up her hand and cut him off. “Save it! You have no idea what I’ve been through tonight, and now you show up here, completely wasted?”

  She could see the remorse in his eyes, but it did little to assuage her fury. She fought the urge to slam the door in his face, knowing that part of her still cared for him, despite everything. But as he stood there, swaying slightly on his feet, she couldn’t help but think that he deserved whatever wrath she had in store for him.

  “Look, Charlotte, I made a mistake,” Grant began, raising his hands defensively. “I should have called, should have been here. Can we please just talk about this?”

  “Talk?” The word erupted from her mouth like a volcanic explosion. “You want to talk now, after ignoring me all night? Why didn’t you call or text?”

  Grant’s shoulders slumped, and for a brief moment, some of the fire in her heart flickered and died. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. He wasn’t worth the energy it took to be this angry, but she needed answers.

  “Fine,” she said curtly, crossing her arms over her chest. “You have five minutes. Make it count.”

  As he began to speak, Charlotte steeled herself for the confrontation, the storm of emotions still churning within her. All she wanted was the truth, and whatever came after that … well, only time would tell.

  Grant stumbled through the doorway, his coat hanging off one shoulder. The scent of stale alcohol and cigarettes clung to him like an unwelcome second skin. His gaze wavered, seeking out Charlotte’s form in the dimly lit living room where she stood, her posture rigid with expectation.

  “Charlotte,” he began, his words slurred around the edges, “I can explain.” He reached up to steady himself against the wall.

  “Explain. Go.” She knew there was a coldness to her voice, but she couldn’t disguise it. She turned her back on him and went into the kitchen. They both needed some coffee.

  “Look, I ran into an old friend on the train,” Grant said, following her. “Mike—he was a good friend from college—I hadn’t seen him since we graduated, and we … we just got to talking. And one thing led to another.”

  “And then?” Charlotte’s voice sounding shrill to her own ears.

  “Then, one drink turned into … more. We ended up hopping from one bar to another, just catching up, you know?” Grant’s explanation trailed off.

  Charlotte went back to making the coffee. She could barely stand to look at him.

  “An all-nighter, Charlotte,” he finally admitted. “It was never supposed to be an all-nighter.”

  Grant’s hands trembled as he reached out to her, a plea shimmering in the depths of his bloodshot eyes. “Charlotte, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible. She saw his fingers curl around the edge of the kitchen table, gripping it as if it were a lifeline.

  She stood motionless, her arms folded across her chest, her silhouette framed by the soft light spilling from the living room lamp. A frost seemed to seep into the air between them.

  “Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it, Grant.” Charlotte’s voice was steady, but there was a tremor of hurt beneath the controlled exterior. “You made a promise. We had plans, and you …” Her gaze flickered away for a heartbeat, collecting the scattered pieces of her composure before locking back onto his face. “You chose a night of drinking over us.” Maybe she’d read too much into the short time they’d spent together. There wasn’t an us.

  She saw him swallow hard, then look down. The silence stretched taut, a chasm of unspoken pain and betrayal widening with each passing second.

  Finally, he spoke. “Please,” Grant begged, fervent and raw. “I know I messed up, more than I can say. But please, can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  The question hung in the air, a fragile offering laid bare in the quiet of their shared space. The rich aroma of coffee filled the kitchen, a familiar comfort that did little to ease the tension.