I sat at the bar at Bar Pomona, nursing a Loire Valley cabe franc.

    I knew about Bar Pomona as Aurelie gushed about it—but hadn’t been here before.

    It was Monday night, which wassagna night, which the café was famous for with the locals. I could smell roasted garlic and herbs.

    I watched as the chef worked the focia before she put it into the oven.

    Eighties music yed overhead, and there were groups of people at the tables already, orderingsagna, which was served with a Caesar sd and garlic bread.

    The couple beside me was sharing braised white beans with focia, which looked darn good, but I wasn’t going to be able to eat dinner at five in the evening.

    A server walked past carrying a conservas board, and I was tempted to rethink my dinner time.

    I half listened to the bartender as she discussed the difference between two Pet-Nat bubbly wines with a customer.

    Behind me were an assortment of jams—fig-jpeno, rosemary tomato, and others, glinting on the shelves like mini challenges for one’s pte.

    I took a sip of wine, resisting the urge to text Aurelie and ask her where the hell she was and why she was fifteen minuteste.

    I’d texted her the night before, asking her if we could meet and talk. She said maybe and then asked me to be at Bar Pomona forsagna night at five. She had a set at Bambos at seven thirty.

    Aurelie came in and greeted half the café—guests and employees—before she settled next to me. Her long braids were piled high, hoops swung on her ears, she wore a pink denim jumpsuit with embroidery, and she looked at me like I was a serial killer.

    A server came by. River, whom Aurelie evidently knew well, because she leaned over the counter and hugged her.

    “I’ll take the chilled red and asagna,” she told her.

    River looked at me enquiringly. I raised my ss. “I’m good with just wine.”

    River set a ce for Aurelie, a small te and silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. She added a water ss for Aurelie and filled both our sses, setting the bottle of water in front of me.

    After Aurelie drank some of the wine that River served her, she red at me. “You’ve got some nerve.”

    “I know.”

    “No, you don’t. You think you know. That’s your problem.”

    I let out a long breath. “You want to talk to me or just gut me with that look?”

    “Depends. You bleeding yet?”

    “Every damn day.”

    That earned me the faintest flicker of a smirk. “Now, tell me why you wanted to talk to me.”

    I told her everything.

    About Lia.

    About the car crash.

    About how I’d built my life around the silence that followed.

    How I touched Naomi like she was mine and left her like she wasn’t.

    How I hadn’t even known I loved her until that evening after I fucked it up at the Mahogany.

    “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” I admitted, giving a small nod as she rolled her eyes. “I just didn’t know how to let it be real.”

    Aurelie took a slow sip, watching me like she was calcting how much more idiocy she had the patience for.

    “You ever try to stop loving her?”

    “What?”

    “You ever actually try? Go on a rebound tour, delete Naomi’s number, put your body somewhere your heart wasn’t invited?”

    I hesitated. “I tried.”

    “No, not after but before, during….”

    “No! I never stepped out on Naomi.”

    “Then don’t pretend you didn’t know it was real. You knew. You just didn’t want to own it.”

    I stared into my wine like it might exin me better than I could. “I didn’t think I could survive it…losing her.”

    Aurelie’s tone softened by a degree—a very small one. “And you’ll survive never having her again?”

    I didn’t answer.

    “You can’t just fix this,” she continued, voice firm again. “It’s not one of your old buildings. You can’t strip it down to studs, polish it up, and p your name on the work. Naomi doesn’t need a fixer. She needs a partner.”

    I eased forward, elbows braced against the counter. “Then tell me how to make her understand that’s who I want to be, a partner.”

    “You can’t tell her. You have to show her. With sweat. With time. With quiet-assbor where no one’s pping for you.”

    She picked up her drink and nodded at the chef who was putting together what looked like a sd ni?oise.

    “She and I, and some others, are running a trunk show at the Marigny Opera House this Friday. It’s gonna be huge. Big turnout. Big pressure. We’re managing vendors, staging, lighting, chairs—all of it. You wanna prove yourself? Be there. Not in a tux. Not with flowers. With a damn hammer and a willingness to shut up and lift something.”

    I nodded, the pressure in my chest tight and real. “I can do that. Also, I hate wearing a tux.”

    She gave me a withering look. “Show up,” she ordered. “Not because she’ll thank you. Not because she’ll fall into your arms again. Show up because that’s what love does.”

    Then hersagna was ced in front of her, and she dug into it, leaving me to process what she’d said, which was that I still had a chance with Naomi, and that was the first win I’d had in months.

    After she was done eating, and I had paid the bill for both of us (Aurelie insisted), she caught my arm as we stepped out onto the pavement. “One more thing.”

    I raised an eyebrow.

    “She still loves you.”

    My chest clenched, making it hard to breathe.

    She met my gaze with quiet, simmering resentment. “But you keep making her wish she didn’t.”hr

    If Aurelie had been tough on me, it was nothingpared to my mother who paid me a visit, which I’d been expecting, the next day at a job site.

    I was halfway through scraping a century and a half of paint off the weather-worn trim of the Creole townhouse on Chartres that was ourtest project, when I saw my mama walking up the block.

    Even in ts and a linen dress, a tote bag slung over one shoulder, De Walker walked like royalty.

    My guess was that she wasing from a Historic Preservation Society meeting nearby—a volunteer gig she’s recently taken up.

    She gave me a hug, not caring that I was dirty as hell. Mama never did care about that sort of thing. She asked me about the house I was working on, and after I gave her the highlights, she squinted up to give it a once-over.

    “This ce has good bones.”

    I wiped my hands on a rag. “You’re always wee toe inspect.”

    She stepped up beside me, nodding at the exposed brick and tall windows. “This one’s got soul. Needs patience. But she’ll shine again.”

    We stood in silence for a beat.

    “I walked by your Naomi’s store.” Her eyes were critically examining the chipping paint on the door.

    Your Naomi!

    Dad had obviously talked to her because I hadn’t mentioned the woman who’d taken up residence in my head and heart to her.

    “What did you think?”

    She smiled and looked at me. “I like the name. Aire Noire. Very…ssy but not stuffy. That window of hers stopped me cold.”

    I arched an eyebrow. Mama was not a prude.

    “It was raunchy without being cheap. Bold. I liked it.”

    I swallowed hard. “You’d like her.”

    “You think?” Her voice was sharp. “But that would only be possible if we were to meet her, wouldn’t it?”

    My eyes lingered on her as my mind searched for the right response…the one that wouldn’t make her box my ears.

    She lifted a hand, asking me to shut the hell up. “How could you treat a woman like that?”

    I was about to speak, but she made a shing gesture with her hand to silence me. “That was a rhetorical question. I am so angry with you, Gage Walker.”

    “No more than I am, Mama.”

    Her eyes gentled me. “Your father said you told Naomi about her. About Lia.”

    I wiped the top step with my rag and invited Mama to sit. She did, and I joined her.

    She nudged my shoulder with hers. “I know how long you’ve been carrying all that happened with Lia. But, baby—grief is a visitor, not a roommate.”

    I swallowed. “Yeah, Mama.”

    “You haven’t ruined everything with Naomi, have you?”

    I tilted my head and smiled at her. “Her best friend tells me I still have a chance.”

    She reached up, smoothed a hand over my stubbled cheek like I was still five. “Good! But you have to do the work.”

    I gave her a solemn nod.

    “Not with talk,” she warned. “Not with charm. With presence. With consistency. You can’t prove yourself in one big gesture. It’s the little ones. Over and over again.”

    “Yeah, Mama.”