1
NOW
“So, just to make sure I have this right,” I say, glancing up from my notes to look at our client’s earnest face. “You’re going to be dressed as Princess Fiona, your husband is going to be Shrek, and your bridal party will be dressed as…?”
“A fairy-tale character of their choosing!” she finishes, clapping her hands gleefully. “I’m not one of those crazy bridezillas who’s going to force her friends to all wear the same gown! They should be free to choose an outfit that embraces who they really are: the Gingerbread Man, a little piggy, or even Donkey!”
“Well, let’s hope no one makes an ass of themselves,” I reply. Asha, our company’s lead wedding planner, kicks me under the table.
“I think your guests will adore it,” Asha says. She tucks a glossy strand of black hair behind her ear and gives the bride a megawatt smile. “And I love that your wedding theme is so personal.”
The bride beams back at her. “Felix and I met three years ago at a Halloween party. I was dressed as Fiona, and he was Shrek.” Her expression turns dreamy. “As soon as our eyes met across the room, I knew I’d met the man I’d spend the rest of my life with. I guess you could say I was head ogre heels!”
She lets out a little giggle, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Shrek says ogres are like onions, but I’ve always found Felix to be more of an eggplant.”
I bite down hard on my bottom lip and Asha discreetly nudges my water bottle toward me. I snatch it, taking a long gulp to keep the retort on the tip of my tongue from erupting like lava.
“The Visionary Art Museum is the perfect venue,” I say, once I’ve recovered. “Such a creative space for a wedding that is so … whimsical.”
The bride bobs her head enthusiastically. “So, what’s next on our to-do list?”
Asha consults her iPad. “We still need to book your hair and makeup trial, and then schedule a cake tasting. Are you good to meet again next month?”
After Asha schedules the bride’s upcoming appointments and escorts her to the exit, she returns to the conference room, crossing her arms and giving me a pointed look.
“What?” I ask. “I thought I exhibited exceptional self-control, all things considered.” She rolls her eyes in exasperation. I just shrug. I’m right, and we both know it.
“Although,” I add, “I think it’s safe to assume that the groom’s costume will be anatomically accurate. They seem like the sort of couple who pays attention to detail.”
Asha groans.
“Do you think when she lay awake in bed as a teen, fantasizing about her wedding night, she imagined it would include getting railed by a green penis?”
“Ali!”
Asha massages her temples as she slides into the blush pink chair next to me. “Remind me again why a person as cynical as you wants to become a wedding planner?”
“Because, despite my withered heart and hopelessly bleak outlook, the creative process thrills the sliver of soul I’ve got left,” I remind her. “And you’d be jaded too if you’d spent half a decade dating in New York.”
“That would suck the romantic out of anyone,” Asha concedes. “Tell me again about that mime who didn’t break character during sex?”
“The point is,” I continue, “my cynicism is hard-earned, so kindly leave me to my disillusionment. Not all of us find true love on the first day of college like you and Nadia did.”
Asha’s eyes soften at the mention of her wife. I can’t blame her. The two of them are the epitome of couple goals.
“Speaking of true love,” she says. “Now that you’ve moved back home, maybe you can rekindle things with that kid you dated in high school. The one who was a bit of a pyromaniac?”
It’s the way that she says “kid” that reminds me how long Asha and I have known each other. She and my older sister have been best friends (and occasional rivals) since middle school. Growing up, she spent so much time at my house that I think of her as a bonus sister. On the one hand, it’s nice to have grown up with so many people who cared about me. On the other, it means that part of her still sees me as the reckless teen who needed to be picked up at a house party after drinking too many Smirnoff Ices and peeing in a birdbath.
Also, it’s not my fault that my ex had a fascination with fireworks that bordered on pathological.
“On that note,” I say, standing up. “I’m going to grab some lunch. Want to join?”
Asha shakes her head. “I’m good. Nadia packed me lunch today.”
“Of course she did.” Asha’s wife is one of Baltimore’s most successful ob-gyns. When she isn’t working crazy hours running her own practice, she somehow finds time to be an amazing home chef. I’ve been trying to get my hands on her baba ghanoush recipe for years. We learned how to make the dip back when I was in culinary school, but it’s nowhere near as good as hers. “I’ll be back in twenty.”
I breathe in happily as I step out of our office and onto West 36th Street. As much as I miss New York some days, there’s a reason why Baltimore is called Charm City. There’s something undeniably enchanting about the office’s Hampden neighborhood, with its array of thrift stores, antique shops, kitschy boutiques, and hip restaurants. The fact that Baltimore, unlike New York City, has never needed to appoint a municipal rat czar doesn’t hurt either.
My gaze drifts across the storefronts as I pop in earbuds. Even though the mid-September air is still sticky with humidity, most stores have already started decorating for the season. Their windows are lined with artificial leaves and plastic pumpkins, spiderwebs and decorative crows. It’s a Halloweentown fantasy brought to life.
My favorite window display features an Edgar Allan Poe lamp. And whatever you’re picturing, I promise it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. A bust of Poe’s head serves as a base, with a hyper-realistic raven lampshade, its wings spread in glorious splendor. But the cherry on top is the anatomically correct heart encompassing the bulb. This city never lets its patrons forget Poe’s Baltimore legacy. Especially around spooky season.
My reverie is interrupted by a sudden vibration in my purse. I check the name that flashes across the screen: Babs Cell.
“Hello, Mother,” I say, as I pick up the call. In the background, I hear the whir of her KitchenAid mixer and the faint murmur of voices drifting from the television. Even without being able to see her, I can picture her in the kitchen, busying herself with her Friday morning ritual of baking challah while blasting reruns of Grey’s Anatomy.
“Hey, Al,” my mother yells over the mixer. Because why move away, or better yet, call after she finishes? “I just wanted to remind you to stop by the wine store on your way home and pick up a bottle of white for dinner. But make sure not to get that stuff in the blue bottle. It gives your father gas.”
I suppress a groan as I round the corner and head toward Spruce, my go-to lunch spot. My mom has hosted Shabbat dinner every Friday night since I was a kid, and growing up, I absolutely loved it. The attention she put into curating every detail of the meal is one of the reasons I fell in love with cooking. As I got older, I adored the weekly ritual of preparing the food alongside her and adding my own creative touches. Family dinners are less thrilling, however, when you’re a fully grown adult who’s just moved back in with her parents.
Oh yes, did I neglect to mention that at age twenty-eight, I’m once again sleeping in my childhood bed? Because after five years in New York, I decided to abandon the years I’d put into culinary pursuits and venture into event planning. It seemed so exciting at the time. So long, brutal restaurant hours! Goodbye, arrogant, masochistic chefs! I’m off to live out bigger and better dreams. That is, until I realized that most companies require internship experience, and quitting my job as a hotel line cook to become a professional fetcher of coffee meant I could no longer afford the rent for my Murray Hill studio. Moving home was the only option.
Luckily for me, my bonus sister, Asha, is a senior planner at Antoine Williams Events, one of Baltimore’s most well-respected event planning services. She got me a gig as an intern, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of my past three months with the company. But if I’m ever going to move out of my parents’ house and get a place of my own with a shred of my dignity still intact, I need to land a full-time gig—and fast.
As I step through Spruce’s doorway, the air is braided with the overlapping scents of coffee and freshly baked bread. An espresso machine whistles loudly in the background. The small space is stuffed to the gills with the noon lunch crowd as I step into the line, which is so long it nearly extends to the dining area. Still, it moves quickly as I busy myself sorting through emails, and before I know it, there’s only one person ahead of me.
He approaches the counter and orders a flat white and a croissant. At the sound of his voice, I glance up. Pleasure flickers through me as I clock his British accent. It’s been eight years, but the sound of it sends me straight back to my study abroad semester in college.
Heat floods my cheeks as I remember one Brit in particular. My right hand subconsciously drifts to my hip, brushing over my permanent souvenir from that fateful evening.
A strange sense of déjà vu washes over me as I stare at the man’s back. From behind, he sort of resembles my Brit. He’s even got the same mop of dirty blond hair and that rigid posture, like he’s forgotten to take the coat hanger out of his jacket. In fact, he looks a lot like him. It’s kind of unsettling. It’s also ridiculous because that man lives in London. And last I checked, there’s no wave of British tourists flocking to see the sights of downtown Baltimore.
That’s why it isn’t remotely plausible that he’s currently standing a foot in front of me, ordering coffee at my favorite café. Yet the longer I stare at the back of his peacoat, the more the sense of certainty seeps into my pores, until it’s no longer possible to deny the six feet of reality standing right in front of me.
The barista stares up at the man in front of me and asks, “Can I get a name for the order?” at the exact same moment I hear myself say, “Benedict?”
2
The man in front of me freezes. My mouth goes drier than the Sahara as my heartbeat echoes in my ears. Then, slowly, he rotates his body, turning toward me. My jaw drops open as I stare up at a face I never expected to see again.
It’s not that I haven’t thought about him over the years. No matter how many dudes you sleep with, it’s hard to forget about a guy when a permanent reminder of the night you spent together is literally branded on your skin. Especially when that reminder is a half-pig, half-unicorn that still scares the hell out of you every time you catch a glimpse of your post-shower reflection in the bathroom mirror. Eight years have done nothing to temper that jump scare.
No. I haven’t forgotten about him. In fact, I’ve thought about him so often that I’ve sometimes wondered if I’ve built him up in my memory. Maybe he wasn’t half as attractive as I remember. Maybe ninety percent of his appeal was his accent and that inexplicably charming cardigan. But the face staring back at me negates every lie I’ve told myself in the past decade.
I let myself stare. Gawk, even. My eyes drink in every feature. Pink, pouty lips. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of a well-shaped nose. Cornflower blue eyes, wide with disbelief behind those same thick glasses I remember. Fuck, why are his glasses so sexy? Have I somehow gone my entire life not knowing I have a spectacles fetish?
“Ali?” he finally asks. His eyes have gone wide, but the hopeful tone of his voice conveys something more than surprise. Is it possible that he has thought about me too, that he’s wondered what might have been? Speechless for once, I simply nod.
“Sorry, did you say your name is Benedict?” the barista interrupts.
He shakes his head, the spell broken as he turns back to the register. “No, sorry, it’s actually—”
“Graham.” I finish for him.
Graham whips back around, the shock still evident in his face.
“What are you doing here?” he asks after a beat.
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”
“What are any of us doing here?” a voice says from behind us. Now we both turn to see a short, balding man giving us a death stare.
“Personally, I’m trying to get lunch, so if you’re not going to order anything, maybe you two could take this little reunion elsewhere.”
“Oh, right. Lunch.” I’m so disoriented that I’ve completely lost track of where I am, and what I’m doing here in the first place. Swiveling back to the counter, I order on autopilot. It’s the same lunch I’ve had nearly every day this month: a pumpkin spice latte with a grilled gouda and apple sandwich.
“Pumpkin spice, huh? I guess everything they say about Americans is true.” We slide down to the other end of the counter to wait for our food.
“First of all, it’s September, which means it’s my prerogative—nay, my responsibility—to consume as many artificial gourd flavors as possible. And second, um, hi? Care to explain why you’ve gone so far out of your way for coffee?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I live here. My office is a few blocks away. I come here for lunch a few days a week. Now you’re all caught up. Your turn.”
Our orders slide across the countertop. Picking up our trays, Graham and I find a two-seater table close to the back of the restaurant. Once we’re settled, Graham takes a small sip of his coffee.
“I moved here about three months ago to help my grandmother with the family business. She and my grandfather managed it for over thirty years. After my grandfather passed away last November, it fell into a bit of financial trouble.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. I’m fortunate to be able to help her. My grandparents have done a lot for me over the years, and it feels good to give back.”
“I’m sure your grandmother is happy to accept the free expertise of her grandson, the London School of Economics alumni.”
Graham’s lips quirk. “Something like that.” He fixes his eyes on mine, and we stare at each other for a long moment, a current crackling in the air between us. My stomach cartwheels. I clear my throat, dispelling the tension.
“Well, I’d love to catch up. Want to grab a drink tomorrow night? I know all the best spots in the city, so you really don’t want to pass up this opportunity.”
Graham feigns a look of horror. “A drink with you? Sounds dangerous.” His eyes drop to where my tattoo hides, and his cheeks go pink. My skin ignites beneath the fabric.
I mask it with a laugh, reaching forward to give his forearm a good-natured shove.
“You’ll be fine. The post-cocktail belly button piercings are completely optional.”
Graham’s gaze shifts to my hand on his arm, and I watch as something indiscernible crosses his face. For a long, mortifying beat, I’m positive I’ve misread the situation. I double-check his left hand for a ring. It’s bare. So why the hesitation? Am I misremembering the chemistry we had eight years ago? I mean, I’d been drinking that night, but I didn’t think I was that wasted.
With a tangle of mixed emotions in my chest, I realize I’m desperate for him to say yes. Worse yet, I’m terrified he isn’t going to.
Copyright © 2025 by Lindsay Hamerof