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“From what?”

“You’d be surprised how many hours a week I’m spinning that damn jump rope before a boxing session,” he says, resting his head on the seat behind him.

We drive the next few blocks in a more comfortable silence. The dancing lights outside reflect off the windows casting shadows across his sharp jawline. I watch Miles stare aimlessly outside but after a moment I feel his hand tighten around mine. “Jonas hustled me at poker one night,” he says. I frown at him confused but he stays focused on the city outside. “We were in college and I won six games back to back. During the last game, he lost all his money and I had the hand of a lifetime so we made a bet.” His thumb brushes over the top of my hand where it still holds him in my lap. I squeeze his hand back, waiting to find out where this story is going. “A tattoo of the other person’s choosing.” My eyes blink rapidly and Miles finally looks at me. “Needless to say, I lost. We went out that night because there was no way I could be sober while getting a tattoo Jonas picked out. When we got to the tattoo shop at 3 a.m. he fell asleep looking through the book. I could tell the artist was getting annoyed and instead of leaving and coming back the next day—I chose the dragon. I told him to make it different from the one in the book but other than that he could do what he wanted with it. It wasn’t until later that I found out what a Japanese dragon tattoo symbolized.”

Considered to protect and guard families and homes.I remember what Miles told me about his parents. I’ve often thought about how he’s told me from the beginning he never wanted a relationship. Knowing a little bit about what he witnessed growing up, it doesn’t surprise me that he would have an aversion to relationships. His choice could have very well been a fluke. A random chance accident. But I’d like to believe it was something more.

Our car pulls up outside his building, and Miles gets out, extending his hand to mine. When my hand slips into his, his grip tightens. His body towers over mine when he reaches behind me to close the door. His head drops to the crook of my neck and I inhale his homey smell while his lips graze across my ear. Every hair on my body stands straight up as I hold my breath.

“No more avoiding me, Camila.” His fingers lock with mine and I stare at his retreating back as we make our way inside.

Miles

“What—what is all this?”

Even with my back to her, I can hear the smile in Camila’s soft voice. I turn from my espresso maker to see her hand covering her mouth, which has fallen open with a disbelieving smile. I look around the kitchen as Rosa pulls out a tray of hot muffins with a mixture of blueberry and crumble on top. They really do look like something out of a magazine. I can tell she's just as concerned with where she's going to put them as I am. I look across the expansive kitchen island and I can not see a single square inch of the marble underneath. Everywhere I look there is some kind of breakfast pastry. Hot butter, chocolate, and almond croissants. Coffee cake, scones, cinnamon sticky buns, french apple turnovers, and some kind of strawberry jam biscuits.

“Rosa… She got on one of her baking kicks again, I guess.”

“Ah, yes. It’s concerning how often I wake up with the urge to turn your kitchen into a pastry shop.” She whips her hand towel at me and rolls her eyes. “I’m going to put these in the wash and then I’m going home.” She fixes me with a stare as if to tell me she won't be back tonight. I don't blame her, I textedher late last night asking her to come over and bake any and every kind of pastry she knew how. But when I look at Camila with that ear-to-ear smile on her face, it’s completely worth it.

I hand her the hazelnut latte I’ve made her while she grabs a blueberry scone and sits down at the island. I finish making my own coffee before I come around to sit on the stool beside her. “So, how are you feeling today?” she asks, breaking off a piece of her scone. “After the promotion. I mean name partner. That's a big deal, right?”

Guilt sinks in my stomach like a boulder holding me down. Of course, I should be excited about this. Her excitement for me would be contagious if I hadn’t known about this for weeks. I don't mention that the officialness of it has been dependent on whether or not I could convince my boss that this marriage was legitimate.

“I mean my job is still the same, it's more so the prestige that comes with it, I guess.”

“So are you happy?”

Her question catches me off guard. “What?”

“I mean, at the end of the day, and bydayI mean, your life. In fifty years are you going to point and sayThe day I got my name on the door was the peak highlight of my life. That's what made me happyor is there more?”

If yesterday was supposed to be the peak of my life, then I’ve been doing it wrong. Because after holding Camila in my arms at the bar last night, the partners meeting with the official announcement wasn't even the peak of my day. And goddamnit, that thought alone is alarming.

“I used to think it would be.” I drink from my steaming mug before turning in my stool to face her. “I’m not sure anymore though.” She gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Like I said, a lot of my goals in life have been slightly misguided and lately it feels like maybe I’ve focused and given my attention to things that actually aren’t that important.” I don’t know why I’m saying any of this. Especially because it’s not so much my job that isn’t as important as this never-ending grudge that causes me to do things I never would have thought I would do. But when I look at Camila her expression is thoughtful when she nods her head in understanding. “What about you? What's the moment you're going to point to knowing that was your highlight?”

Her middle finger idly runs along the rim of her mug, “I don’t know.”

“That seems to be your go-to answer.” Her finger stops as she audibly swallows. “Okay then, where do you see yourself in fifty years?”

“Well, first of all, I’ve got at least sixty left in me. You're the elderly one in this house.” She playfully bumps my knee with hers. “I guess, if I really think about what would make me happy, I see myself as a happy little abuela. My kids and their kids come over for Christmas dinner and I look over at my husband in our matching pajamas and know that someone can be happy with me. And I’m not pretending to be happy for someone else, I want to know in my bones that we’re genuinely happy together.”

“You want your future husband to wear tiny silk pajama shorts?”

Her head falls forward when she laughs and I’m positive there's never been a more beautiful sound.

“Who knows, maybe in fifty years I’ll be the gray sweatpant-wearing kind of girl.” Her eyes dip to my sweatpant covered legs and the feelings of jealousy I have at the thought of her life with someone else quickly turn into a feeling I can't for the lifeof me figure out.

“I’d like to see that,” I say.

Her lips push into a small smile before she takes another small sip. “So, this isn’t your usual coffee time.”

“No. It’s not. Jonas bailed on me this morning.”

“Ah. And I’m assuming you don’t like to box with others?”

“Not particularly, no.”