Apparently, Jeremy Chen is the exception to the only cry in front of Mom’s house rule. Or maybe Jeremy just has the same energy. He and my mom always got along well.

“I’ll still give you a job if you want it. But I just thought you should know you might not have the job for very long. I’m a failure, Jeremy.”

He makes an angry noise, ducking into my field of vision. “That’s the last thing you are. You only fail if you give up. And you’re not doing that. I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that, Amy?”

I bury my face in my sleeve until the urge to cry again passes. Then I wrap my arms around my friend. “Thank you, Jer.” I squeeze him until he squeaks.

“Please. Release,” he croaks, tapping out on my shoulder.

We separate laughing. “This has been helpful, Amy. Thank you.”

“Did I do anything? I think you ended up helping me.”

“Naw.” He stands up, shaking out his arms, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You inspired me. I’m going to keep going. Push through. It’s only failure if I give up, right?”

“Are you sure? If you’re not happy...”

“No, you’re right. I’m not happy but this is something I’ve wanted since I was fifteen years old. I can’t give up when it gets tough.”

I follow Jeremy to the door with my hands tucked into the sleeves of my sweatshirt and lock it behind him. I don’t know what’s going to happen to my restaurant next. I only know what I can do about it.

Not give up.

No matter what happens, I’m not going to give up. I’m going to keep doing what I’ve done since before we opened: make the best decisions I can to protect my restaurant and staff. And Sophie.

Sophie steps into my office, closing the door behind her even though it’s far too early for any of our staff to be here yet. She’s come straight from the gym, her hair curled from sweat and in a bun, messy from movement and exertion rather than artfully so, but she’s already changed her clothes into the comfortable, practical kitchen wear I’m used to seeing her in. She sets a to-go coffee cup on the desk and sits in the chair by the door.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “About talking to Paul about our business.”

“No. I’m sorry.” The sudden rush of relief that we are making up takes my breath away. “I was embarrassed, and I took it out on you. You didn’t deserve that.”

We smile, shyly.

“You didn’t come over last night.” I try not to make it accusatory but it sounds that way regardless.

She peers down into the hole on the lid of her own coffee cup. “There was a lot to unpack after my talk with Paul. I needed some time. To think.”

I take a deep breath, sitting straighter in my chair. That sounds ominous.