"How was the man with the childhood skates?" Bridie asked.
"He fell. I caught him. A stranger photographed us like we were a postcard. We talked about April. We did not solve April. He knows about Minneapolis."
Bridie winced in solidarity. "And?"
"And I told him forgiveness isn't a light switch."
"That's my girl." Bridie uncapped the soup. "You don't owe him a rewritten history. You also don't owe Minneapolis your loneliness as proof you're serious about your career."
"What do I owe myself, then?"
"A Thursday," Bridie said. "Go see the picture. Decide after you've looked at the version of you that wasn't performing for either of your fears."
Rowan ate the soup. It tasted like childhood and bossiness. "If I leave for Minneapolis, will you hate me a little?"
"I will miss you a lot," Bridie said. "Hate is for people who burn bakers' trays on purpose. You are not that. Just—don't leave as a way of punishing last spring. Leave because something there is calling the part of you that still wants to build."
Monday, Theo walked past Bridie's bakery after work and did not go in, then turned around and did. Bridie handed him a scone without being asked.
"I'm not here to pump you for sister intel," Theo said.
"Good, because I bill for that." Bridie's apron was dusted with flour in the shape of a careless handprint. "I'm here to tell you that Rowan doesn't need a grand gesture. She needs consistency with a pulse. Show up when you say you will. Say the hard thing before the silence grows teeth. And if she chooses Minneapolis, don't make your sadness her leash."
Theo nodded. The scone was still warm. "Did Otis send you a script?"
"Otis sent me a muffin apology in May and thinks that settled our almost," Bridie said, dry. "You are not Otis. Try harder and softer at the same time. It's an advanced move."
Tuesday night, Rowan called Theo instead of texting. The sound of her voice in his kitchen made the radiator clanks sound almost musical.