I gave him a please look. My heart was racing out of my chest, and I just needed a second to compose myself. Because, sure, I had pushed him away. But in my heart of hearts, hadn’t I hoped and prayed that he would come back to me? Hadn’t I spent more nights than I could count missing that laugh of his, that smile, the way he always had an arm around me, a hand in mine, as if he could protect me from the world? I knew I had. I wanted to close my eyes and lean into this and rewind like no time had passed. But I was a woman with too many scars. “Are you serious, Elliott?”

“Have I ever, ever lied to you?”

I took a step closer to him, the only thing between us the ladle.

“Nothing’s changed,” I whispered. I thought back to that night on the beach, crying into the sleeves of my sweater. “You don’t understand,” I had sobbed to him. “I’m cursed. Every man who loves me dies. I love you too much to hurt you.”

He had held me to him. “Al, that’s ridiculous. You aren’t cursed. Unlucky, maybe, but not cursed.”

He couldn’t convince me. And as much as it had broken me to watch him walk away, I felt like I had saved him.

Now he said, “You’re right. Nothing has changed.” He put his hand to my cheek. “This thing between us is still very, very real.”

“But…” My heart was thudding too loudly in my ears to finish, my pulse pounding in a rhythm that wanted only Elliott. “Is this ladle for me?” I asked, trying one last time to deny the connection I felt with him.

He nodded. “I fixed it. That’s what I do, Al. I fix things.”

Elliott’s family owned a huge antiques importer just a few hours away where people came from all over the country to shop for authentic pieces they couldn’t find anywhere else, from true one-of-a-kind heirlooms—chairs sat in by Louis XIV or campaign chests that once resided in George Washington’s battle tent—all the way down to inexpensive trinkets you might find at a flea market. When we dated, he was always bringing me some token of his affection, and it was always perfect. A four-leaf clover preserved in glass, a vintage locket that happened to bear his initials (that was underneath my dress right now, still close to my heart), a set of incredible china that he insisted I use every day, an antique sewing basket that perfectly held my magazines. In his professional role, he had learned to fix and repair any number of priceless old objects, to save them from destruction.