He’d treated everything about us with such caution, with so much care. To say that something like my sexuality, so new that it was still fragile and paper-skinned, was a secret?

It was devastating.

“Things haven’t been going so well,” I say, glossing over the details. “Amy and I found out about the show, your new one, the other day and she—well, we—thought maybe we should apply. I mean, who doesn’t want Camilla Vargas to eat their food, right?”

Technically, I shouldn’t be starstruck at the idea, not after cooking on Pop-Up Kitchen, and considering all the famous people Paul has introduced me to, but even if I’m feeling a little sick about the prospect of being in front of a camera again, the idea of being in the same room as Camilla Vargas is enough to push the nerves down, for right now at least.

“I sent in our application and I wanted to give you a heads-up. I didn’t know if our history completely precludes my involvement in the show. Honestly, I worry some of the producers might like the...” I gesture between us. “Tension.”

I laugh because really, it’s ludicrous to think that anyone would be invested in my relationship history. But then Paul sits back in his chair. He smiles awkwardly down at his hand, now curled in a fist on the lacquered wood. My stomach bypasses my yoga pants completely to sit in my boots with my sweaty feet.

“Why are you making that face?”

He sighs. “I already knew about your application.”

“You knew?” My blood sours with embarrassment. “Why’d you let me blabber on?”

“I didn’t know that’s why you were here,” he says slowly, still not looking at me.

“Why else would I be here?”

He looks out the window, sips his coffee.

Right. I’m a terrible person.

“Listen, Paul, I’m—”

This time he makes the connection between us, covering my hand with his. “It’s fine,” he says quietly. “You don’t owe me anything, Soph. I still owe you so many apologies. I’ll never forgive myself for how I handled things that night.”

The espresso machine screeches and a barista calls, “Abdul, flat white.” Life goes on all around us as we do one more impromptu postmortem on our relationship.

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. There was a time I wouldn’t have hesitated to cry in front of him. Paul handled crying like a pro. But I don’t even know why I want to cry right now, if it’s because he hurt me or because I think I’ve hurt him.

For a long time I thought that if he’d reacted differently that night, we’d still be together. But as I search his familiar face, the scar on his chin and the nervous tic in his right eye, I’m not sure that’s true. We fell hard and fast, but maybe we burned out. Maybe we were always going to end up here, on opposite sides of the table. For months I’ve blamed him, but what if this is how it was meant to be?