The following Saturday arrived with the kind of golden Los Angeles sunshine that usually made Emma feel guilty for being sad. But this morning, as she pulled into the cracked parking lot of the Italian bakery in Silver Lake, her heart wasn't heavy. It was racing.
She walked inside. The smell of yeast, powdered sugar, and burnt espresso hit her. She moved toward the corner booth—the one with the "J + E" scratched into the wood, now faded by five years of cleaning chemicals and time.
She sat down and checked her watch. 8:58 AM.
For five years, she had sat here alone. She had memorized the patterns of the flour on the floor and the way the sunlight hit the pastry case at 9:15. She waited.
At 9:01 AM, the bell above the door chimed.
A woman walked in wearing a simple white linen shirt and jeans. Her hair was down, waving around her shoulders, and she wasn't carrying a briefcase or a laptop. She looked like the girl from the Mexico beach photos.
Jenna walked straight to the booth and sat down across from Emma.
"You're late," Emma teased, her voice thick with emotion.
"I had to find this," Jenna said. She reached into her pocket and placed an object on the table.
It was a small, tarnished silver key. The key to their old penthouse.
"I never threw it away," Jenna admitted, her gaze dropping to the table. "Even when I told Maddie to sell everything, I kept this in my jewelry box. I told myself it was so I could go back and check for mail, but I knew. I knew I was keeping a way back to you."
Emma reached out, covering Jenna’s hand with her own. "We don't need that key anymore, Jen. We’re building a new house. A better one."
The waitress came by, glancing at the two of them. "The usual, Emma? Two black coffees?"
Emma looked at Jenna. Jenna smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached her eyes.
"No," Jenna said to the waitress. "Make it two lattes. With extra foam. And a box of those lemon cannolis. We have a lot of celebrating to do."