Page 14 of Window Seat for Two

TWELVE

THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

The morning light cut harsh angles through the bakery windows as Ari stood watching Nate's apartment across the street.

His hand hovered near the glass, caught between the impulse to wave and the memory of yesterday's unanswered gesture.

The envelope in his back pocket seemed to burn against his skin with each heartbeat.

Nate was moving around his studio—probably sketching, maybe drinking that terrible instant coffee he kept stashed somewhere.

Maybe drawing anything except the face that had apparently been filling his canvases for months.

Ari pressed his fingertips to the cool glass, leaving brief fog marks that disappeared as quickly as they formed.

Marcus's offer weighed on him like a physical thing.

Fifteen thousand dollars. Enough to catch up on everything, to breathe again.

All he had to do was pretend the past six months hadn't changed him, that Nate's smiles and easy conversation hadn't carved out spaces in his chest he'd forgotten existed.

His reflection stared back from the window—same sharp angles, same pale skin, but something hollow around the eyes.

Sofia would have called it "borrowed trouble," the way she had when he was seventeen and spiraling over college applications.

"Ari, my heart, you carry tomorrow's problems like they belong to today. Put them down."

But the problems felt immediate now. Real.

Nate's hurt expression from yesterday still made his stomach clench.

The careful politeness when he'd claimed to oversleep, when they both knew it was a lie.

The measured way Nate had declined dinner, like he was already pulling back from whatever fragile thing they'd been building.

Routine carried him through the morning prep. His hands moved without conscious thought—measuring flour, checking the yeast, heating ovens—while his mind replayed Marcus's confident touch, the way he'd invaded Ari's space like the past six months were just an inconvenient interruption.

The croissant dough fought him, too warm and overworked because his hands were shaking. Sofia would have made him start over, would have reminded him that pastry could sense anxiety. "The dough knows when you're rushing, Ari. It feels your hurry."

He scraped the ruined batch into compost and pulled fresh dough from the cooler, forcing his breathing to slow. Even baking felt wrong today, like he was playing a part in someone else's life. Marcus's words echoed: "You're hiding here, playing house with museum recipes."

Mrs. Vasquez appeared at the door as the first pastries went into the oven. Ari managed what he hoped was a normal expression before letting her in.

"Good morning, Mrs. V."

She paused near the counter instead of heading for the display case, studying his face through her wire-rim glasses. "Ari, dear, you look terrible. When did you last sleep?"

"I'm fine. Just busy." He retreated behind the counter. "The usual? Fresh almond croissants in ten minutes."

"Busy, yes." She settled into one of Sofia's mismatched chairs. "And something burned earlier, didn't it?"

Heat climbed his neck. Of course she'd noticed. Mrs. Vasquez had been buying pastries here since before Sofia took over; she could identify every stage of baking by smell alone.

"Small mistake. Nothing serious."

"Hmm." Her folded hands somehow conveyed volumes. "Sofia used to get that look when she was trying to solve three problems at once instead of dealing with them one at a time."

The timer saved him from responding. The croissants emerged perfect despite everything—golden, flaky, proof that muscle memory could succeed when his mind couldn't focus.

"Beautiful," Mrs. Vasquez observed as he bagged her order. "Your troubles haven't reached your hands yet, at least."

"I don't have troubles."

The words came out sharp. He immediately softened his tone, but she was already glancing meaningfully toward the front windows.

"That artist across the street has been pacing all morning. Seems like he can't settle to his work either."

Ari's hands stilled on the espresso machine. "I wouldn't know."

"Of course not." Mrs. Vasquez's tone was carefully neutral. "Well, I hope whatever's bothering both of you resolves soon. This neighborhood works better when people talk to each other instead of staring across the street looking miserable."

After she left, Ari found himself at the windows again despite his better judgment. Nate was pacing, his tall frame cutting restless paths across the bright studio. He'd stop at his easel, make a few marks, then step back with visible frustration and resume pacing.

The slow lunch crowd gave Ari too much time to think. He reorganized the display case twice, cleaned spotless equipment, started prep work only to abandon it halfway through. Every door chime made his pulse jump with irrational hope that it might be Nate.

Instead, Marcus returned.

He swept through the door at two o'clock, bringing expensive cologne and that particular energy that assumed the world would rearrange itself around his presence.

"Ari." His smile was warm and calculated in equal measure. "I hope you've reconsidered our discussion."

The casual presumption—as if Ari could have thought about anything else—tightened something in his chest. "I told you I needed time."

"Of course. But I also know how practical you are." Marcus moved closer to the counter, every gesture deliberate. "Fifteen thousand, Ari. No strings."

The lie sat between them like a third person. There were always strings with Marcus, usually attached to outcomes that served his interests first.

"It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" Marcus leaned against the counter now, close enough that Ari could see the expensive weave of his shirt. "You need money. I have money and want to help someone I cared about deeply. The math is straightforward."

*Cared about.* Past tense. It stung more than expected, even though Ari had been the one to leave, to finally recognize the difference between being wanted and being valued.

"You left, Marcus. You made it clear this wasn't enough for you. That I wasn't ambitious enough, successful enough."

"People change. I've changed." Marcus's fingers brushed Ari's wrist where it rested on the display case. "What we had was good, Ari. Really good. Maybe I got distracted by possibilities that turned out to be less fulfilling than expected."

The touch felt wrong in a way he couldn't name. Not unwelcome exactly, but foreign, like clothes that used to fit before his body changed. Six months ago, Marcus's return might have felt like vindication. Now it just felt like another problem.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Say you'll let me help. Say you'll give us another chance." Marcus's thumb traced across his knuckles. "Take the money, save the bakery, and let's see what happens."

Movement outside caught Ari's eye. Nate, returning from wherever he'd escaped to. The timing was catastrophic—Marcus leaning close, voice intimate, hand warm on Ari's skin. From outside it would look exactly like what Marcus wanted: a reunion, a reconciliation.

"Marcus—"

"You're scared. I understand." Marcus's voice dropped to a whisper, breath warm against Ari's ear.

"But look around. You're drowning here, trying to preserve something meant for two people.

Sofia had the community, the established base.

You're starting from scratch in an economy that kills small businesses. Let me throw you a lifeline."

The words hit too close to unspoken fears. The shrinking customer base, impossible margins, the daily uncertainty about whether he was preserving Sofia's legacy or slowly destroying it through inadequacy.

But then he saw Nate outside, close enough that his expression was unmistakable. Pure hurt flashed across his features, followed immediately by resignation. Their eyes met through the window for one devastating moment before Nate turned away, shoulders set with finality.

"I have to—" Ari started toward the door, but Marcus's grip tightened.

"Let him go, Ari. You and I need to finish this."

The presumption crystallized everything. That Marcus could dictate who he spoke to, that whatever was happening with Nate mattered less than Marcus's agenda. Ari pulled his arm free, harder than necessary.

"No. You need to leave, and I need to fix what you just helped me break."

But when he reached the door, the street was empty except for Mrs. Vasquez's cat picking between cobblestones. Nate had vanished.

"Ari." Marcus's voice held patient frustration. "You're being emotional. Come back and let's discuss this rationally."

Standing in the doorway, Ari felt the pull of competing futures. Marcus represented the known—complicated, sometimes selfish, but offering a clear path through his crisis. Nate represented risk, vulnerability, the possibility of something better with no guarantees.

The envelope felt impossibly heavy in his pocket.

"You should go," he said without turning. "I can't take your money, Marcus. And I can't pretend these months didn't happen."

"You're making a mistake."

"Probably." Ari looked back at him, taking in the careful composure that didn't quite hide Marcus's irritation at being denied. "But it'll be my mistake. That has to count for something."

Marcus gathered his coat with precise, dignified movements. "The offer expires, Ari. I can't keep it open indefinitely while you figure out whether you want to save this place or watch it fail out of stubbornness."

After he left, Ari stood alone in the suddenly quiet bakery, surrounded by the weight of his choices. Through the windows, Nate's apartment remained dark, its occupant either absent or simply done.

The distance between their windows had never felt wider.