Chapter 6

• Chapter Six
• Serena POV
• The Bundt cake was a bad idea.
• I knew it the second I stepped off the ferry, wind slapping me in the face like the universe was already judging me.
• But I couldn’t show up empty-handed. You don’t walk into Lidia’s kitchen without a peace offering unless you want to get hit with a wooden spoon and the guilt of six generations.
• Still… a Bundt cake though?
• I can practically hear his voice in my head.
• “A Bundt cake, babe? That’s what we’re doing now? Not even a cheesecake? Not even a box of those sketchy Italian rainbow cookies from the deli with the shady cat?”
• I smile despite myself.
• Julian always had something to say. Always with that smug, playful smirk like he was two seconds from making me laugh or ruining my entire day.
• “Bundts are for PTA moms and church potlucks. You couldn’t grab a cannoli like a real New Yorker?”
• He’s not wrong.
• God, he’s never wrong.
• Which pisses me off even more.
• I haven’t been able to shake him since the magazine cover showed up like a punch to the gut.
• And now, even my damn dessert is haunted.
• I knock once and walk into the apartment without waiting, something I’ve done for nearly a decade. Lidia’s already yelling from the kitchen about how the meatballs better not be touched before dinner. My dad’s in the living room, wearing mismatched socks and humming along to some old Sinatra record.
• “Smells like home in here,” I say, closing the door behind me.
• “Damn right it does,” he calls back. “What’d you bring? And if it’s store-bought, I reserve the right to judge you silently.”
• I hold up the cake. “It’s a Bundt.”
• A beat of silence.
• Then he peers around the corner, eyes narrowing like I just announced I’d brought a convict instead of dessert.
• “A Bundt cake?”
• And just like that, Julian’s voice overlaps in my head again.
• “Told you.”
• I sigh, setting it on the counter like it personally offended me. “Yeah, I know. I’m already regretting it.”
• Dad shrugs. “You know Lidia’s gonna roast you, right?”
• “She’d roast me if I brought a homemade croquembouche.”
• “She’d respect the effort though.”
• I toss my coat on the chair, already loosening up under the weight of tomato and garlic and the love that never left.
• It’s safe here.
• And somehow lonelier for it.
• Because every corner of this place still remembers him.
• And I hate how much I do, too.
• Lidia didn’t even wait until I took off my boots.
• “A Bundt cake?” she said, standing in the doorway to the kitchen with her apron dusted in flour and disappointment. “Madonna mia, Serena.”
• I smiled, small and sheepish. “I panicked.”
• She shook her head like I’d dropped out of medical school. “I’m putting it in the back. Maybe someone drunk enough will eat it after the espresso.”
• I laughed, because what else could I do? That’s Lidia. Ruthless with dessert, ferociously loyal with everything else.
• I stepped into the kitchen and kissed her cheek, breathing in the scent of slow-simmered heaven and home. My dad sat at the table, slicing fresh mozzarella with all the reverence of a surgeon, glass of red in hand, Sinatra still crooning faintly from the living room.
• “This sauce is criminal,” I said, dipping a spoon into the pot before she could stop me.
• “It’s gravy,” she snapped, slapping my wrist lightly with the wooden spoon. “And that spoon wasn’t even clean.”
• “It’s clean now,” I said through a mouthful.
• “Julian used to pull that shit too,” my dad muttered from the table. “Always trying to sneak a bite. Got away with it half the time ‘cause he’d make that pitiful face.”
• I froze for a second, the name hanging in the air like smoke. Neither of them looked at me when he said it. He didn’t even say it to me.
• But it landed just the same.
• He hadn’t come up in weeks. Maybe months. It was an unspoken rule. We didn’t talk about the ghoul unless we were ready to feel the cold of him settling into the room.
• I grabbed a loaf of bread and started slicing it like it owed me rent.
• Dinner was good. It always is. Too much food, not enough room on the table, laughter echoing off the walls like we’re in some sitcom that just refuses to get canceled. We are in syndication now.
• But every once in a while, I’d catch Lidia glancing toward the front door. Or my dad watching me for a second too long.
• Like they were waiting.
• Like they still hoped.
• And every time, they didn’t ask.
• They didn’t say a word.
• They just gave me that gentle look. The one that says you don’t have to talk about it, but we know it still hurts.
• Lidia reached across the table when she passed the Parmesan. Her fingers brushed mine. Just a second longer than necessary. Just enough.
• And my chest tightened.
• Because I loved them.
• Because I hated what he took with him when he left.
• Because part of me still wanted him to walk through that door and pretend five years hadn’t happened.
• And because I knew he wouldn’t.
• ***
• Julian POV
• The gravy’s been simmering for hours.
• The kitchen smells like everything I miss and nothing I deserve.
• I lean against the counter with a bowl in one hand and a slice of semolina bread in the other, chewing in silence while the Yankees game plays faintly from the living room.
• We’re up. Seventh inning. Tight lead. Bullpen looks shaky. I can already hear Serena screaming at the TV.
• “Don’t you dare bring out that rookie, Boone. I will hex your whole family tree.”
• I used to laugh until my stomach hurt when she got like that—standing on the couch, hair wild, wearing one of my old hoodies, and yelling like the stadium could hear her.
• God, she made everything feel alive.
• Even the games I didn’t give a shit about.
• Even me.
• The camera pans to a fan holding a “THIS IS OUR YEAR” sign. The chant goes up, “Let’s go Yankees”, and for a moment, I swear I can feel the warmth of her thigh pressed against mine, her cold toes sneaking under my leg, her voice half-hoarse from arguing with her dad about player stats over Sunday meatballs and sauce.
• Gravy, I correct myself. She’d kill me for calling it sauce.
• I carry my bowl to the living room. Sit on the edge of the massive sectional I never use. The fire’s not on. Madison isn’t here.
• Thank fucking God.
• She wouldn’t get it anyway.
• She doesn’t know that this isn’t just baseball.
• That this isn’t just dinner.
• That this, is everything.
• This is the life I had.
• The life I walked away from.
• The life that tasted like garlic and love and ridiculous yelling matches over which stadium had the best hot dogs.
• This was Sunday.
• And now?
• Now I’m a billionaire eating lukewarm pasta in a cold museum of a home, watching a team I used to love with the woman who used to be mine still etched in the seams of every fucking memory.
• And I can’t get her out.
• Not from my head.
• Not from my ribs.
• Not from my goddamn bloodstream.
• The screen blurs for a second.
• I blink. Hard.
• And say it out loud, because the silence is deafening.
• “I miss you.”
• And I swear, just for a second
• It doesn’t echo.
• I pack up all the food except for one small container.
• Gravy. Meatballs. Sausage. Enough pasta to feed an army.
• It was never meant for one.
• It never felt right eating it alone.
• I scoop a generous portion into a labeled container and slide it into the fridge. Rosalie’s name on the front, written in thick black Sharpie.
• Madison once referred to it as “leftovers for the help,” like I hadn’t just spent five hours coaxing flavor into something that kept me tethered to the world.
• But Rosalie deserves better.
• And she loves the food.
• I see it in her eyes on Mondays when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
• I change into jeans and a plain t-shirt.
• No logos. No gold watches. No curated image.
• Just me.
• I head out the back entrance. Madison would throw a fit if she knew I still used the truck.
• It’s old, beat up, and loud as hell.
• But it was mine before the money.
• Before the suits and private jets.
• Before I became someone who needed five people to sign off on a press release just to announce I’d taken a piss.
• She hates this thing.
• Keeps threatening to “accidentally have it towed.”
• But this truck?
• It’s still real.
• Still me.
• I load the food into the back, secure the trays, and climb in.
• I drive past the beachfront estates and hedge-lined streets, out past the gates and the curated perfection of privilege.
• To the other side.
• To the places where silver platters don’t exist, and nobody gives a shit what your last name is or how many commas are in your bank account.
• To reality.
• The shelter’s quiet when I pull up, but the lights are on.
• Nina’s there, the night manager. She meets me with a tired smile and takes the trays like she always does. No fanfare. No fuss. Just a quiet “Thank you, Julian,” and a hand on my arm.
• They’ll eat well tonight.
• Maybe tomorrow too.
• I don’t stay long. I never do.
• This isn’t about feeling good.
• This is about feeling something.
• As I pull away, I glance in the rearview.
• One streetlight flickers behind me. The rest are dim.
• It’s not glamorous. It’s not pretty.
• But it’s real.
• And real’s the only thing that reminds me I’m still alive.