"Of course it's not like we just met yesterday."Grace Barron watched Oakley Ponciano flare up, panic crossing her face in a quick, helpless wash. She lowered her eyes as if the words might sound softer if spoken to the floor. "I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. Don't be angry. If you don't like it, I won't say it again."
Off to the side, Evelyn Lu regarded the two of them and couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, a seam tugging within what should have been a smooth curtain.
Had Oakley really only signed an arrangement with Grace, nothing more than a term sheet dressed up as companionship? If it was just that—just a convenient partnership—why get angry over a throwaway comment? Anger of this sort felt like the heat that leaks from a fault line; it made that "agreement" look far less clean.
The truth was, Grace was one of those people who, outside the sphere of managing employees and handling work affairs, carried a courteous distance into everything she did. With almost everyone. Almost always.
Even Evelyn, who had known Grace four or five years, only saw the politeness relax by degrees, like a collar loosened after a long day. At first, no matter what Grace borrowed—a pen, a charger, a sip of water—she always said thank you.
Not just thank you. Grace's stock phrases included: I'm so sorry. My apologies. Pardon the interruption. May I…? Could I use your—? Would I be in your way?
…
Likely a habit trained from childhood. In a family like hers, caution tape ran high and bright; boundaries were tall fences, not hedges.
The downside was obvious: it's hard to build closeness in a hurry when you're terrified of getting in too deep and not finding a way back out. That fear turns into long, patient self-restraint, and that restraint calcifies into a genteel distance.
Evelyn teased her for ages about how stiff it felt—"You'll make people think you're made of glass"—and only then did Grace soften. But it was a softness she reserved for Evelyn. With anyone new, the old scripts returned.
A collected habit, sedimented year by year.
Oakley didn't know why the words rubbed her so raw. "If you don't like it, I won't say it again"—instead of cooling her down, the line made her feel like a fool, like someone twisting another person into a shape they didn't choose.
That wasn't her, not before. Not the self she trusted.
She glanced at the scarf circling Grace's throat and felt the absurd little fire flicker up again, as if fabric could be kindling.
Just then a shadow darted in and a hand clapped her shoulder. "Hey!"
Startled, Oakley jerked, nearly dropping the bag of oranges. She spun and found a petite girl in a caramel coat, already grown into clean, gentle lines, her posture tall and sure.
Grace and Evelyn turned to look as well.
The girl wore her mid-length hair sleek, like rinced silk over small shoulders. A slight figure. A doll's face with wide eyes—a kind of sweetness that seemed to light from within. She radiated a quick, bright cleverness.
She looked like the heroine of a campus comic, a sugar-sweet girl among sugar-sweet girls; like a piece of milk candy. Plenty of people try to paint that look onto their faces with makeup. This girl didn't need to.
Oakley studied her for a slow beat and finally placed her, surprise curving her brows. "Ellisa?!"
Yes—Ellisa Cheney, the girl who had gone to middle school and high school alongside Oakley.
They had never shared a classroom, but Ellisa had been the neighbor's daughter for years, and her parents were the hands-off kind. Naturally, the two girls walked to school together.
They walked for years. Without noticing, the path made them close in a way that felt singular.
They'd done their share of daft things—stories that, even now, could make them laugh until their heads tipped back.
Once, on a whim to go fishing with no gear, they DIYed a trap from string, sank it in the river, and hoped the water would bring them luck.
Another time, craving roasted treats without cash on hand, Oakley took the ribbon from her hair and began bartering up and down the street, trading one thing for another until she had enough in hand to buy a whole roast chicken.
Those years felt pure and feckless and golden. The kind of freedom that comes with a clear sky and a scuffed pair of shoes.
Then something silly turned sharp. A quarrel came out of nowhere, ended badly, and coincidence ended the rest: Ellisa's parents faced trouble at work and moved far away; Ellisa went with them. Phone numbers vanished. Threads were cut. They never saw each other again.
After so many years, Oakley had not expected to meet her here. She'd assumed there would be no second arc to their story; she'd deleted every way back.
Looking over her life, Oakley had to admit that when she was young she was either in the middle of a falling-out or on her way to one.
Ellisa pressed her lips together in a smile that could have been ribboned candy. "It's me—what a coincidence, Oakley!"
Her voice only sweetened what her face already promised—a honeyed lilt with a sunlit, girlish clip to it. The first impression was clarity itself, without guile.
"Are you working here now?" Oakley asked. It couldn't be tourism; before coming she'd scraped the internet for plans and found—not much.
"For the moment," Ellisa said, tilting her head. "But I'll be leaving soon. What about you?"
Oakley realized she hadn't introduced anyone. She gestured toward Grace. "I'm here with my wife. We're in town for her grandmother's birthday banquet tomorrow. And this is her friend, Evelyn Lu."
"Your… wife?" Ellisa echoed, eyes rounding. She shot a glance at Grace.
"Yes. This is Grace Barron," Oakley said, then to the others: "And this is Ellisa Cheney—a friend from my teens."
Grace finally had a lane to speak. She offered a hand. "Nice to meet you."
She was never verbose, especially with people she didn't expect to work with again.
"Nice to meet you." Ellisa returned the light shake, surprise sliding into a practiced sweetness as she took in Grace head to toe, curious and quiet.
Introductions done, Ellisa leaned close to Oakley again. "Do you have plans now?"
Oakley wasn't alone, so she didn't call the shot. She turned to the others. "What do you two feel like doing?"
Grace remembered what her grandmother had said before they left the house—and how Oakley had reacted at the time. "The food street should be in full swing by now. Want to check it out?"
"Sounds good," Oakley said, turning to Ellisa. "We're heading to the night food street. Are you by yourself? Come with us if you want."
"Yes, please." Ellisa brightened. "I was going anyway. They say the snacks there are dangerously abundant."
"Perfect." Oakley told herself she was an adult now. Even if something inside was a little sore and swollen, she could keep the face of things intact.
"It's not far," Ellisa said, already reaching out to thread their arms together. "We can walk."
Oakley hesitated, wondering whether to keep a small, formal space between herself and a female friend. But then she thought of how easy Grace and Evelyn were with each other, the casual warmth of it—proof that this was nothing. She shifted the bag of oranges to her other hand and let Ellisa take her arm.
When their shoulders touched, Grace felt no alarm at all. If anything, she felt a quiet gladness. Oakley needed people. Her work was a closed room; the chance to meet someone kind and familiar was rare. Grace only hoped she would have fun.
She turned to Evelyn. "Shall we?"
"Mm." Evelyn fell into step.
They talked about small things on the way, snips and scraps of the day stitched into talk.
Oakley walked a few paces and glanced back. Grace was smiling, chatting with Evelyn, something easy and bright in her face. Oakley felt foolish, red-nosed clown foolish.
Right. To Grace, she really was just the co-signed name on a page. A partner for logistics. A good set of dates and times.
So it made no difference whose arm Oakley took, who laughed beside her. It was only Oakley who didn't have the sense to accept that, who noticed when Grace stood too close to someone else.
What was she even thinking? They had a legal relationship, not a storybook one.
She let out a small, private laugh at herself, shook her head, tightened her hold on Ellisa's arm, and kept walking.
By the time they reached the food street, the stalls had already rolled out their carts like a chorus line.
They walked through abundance. A man in a blue work cap glossed oil over grilled chitterlings stuffed with scallions until the skins were lacquered and char-kissed. A guy in a teal vest spun a sheet of flatbread in the air, light as a white handkerchief. Another vendor with a polished forehead pressed tiny octopus onto a hotplate, the oil snapping and singing.
Hands moved fast; voices rose and fell; the air was stitched together by scent and smoke, settling over the crowd with a home-fire warmth that made every stomach listen.
From a distance Ellisa spotted a stall selling battered skewers. She nudged Oakley's arm. "Skewers. I want some. You?"
"Absolutely." Oakley paused and turned to call to the others. "We're grabbing skewers. Do you two want any?"
Evelyn waved her off with a laugh. "I'll pass."
Dinner had already been a mountain of spicy beef; any more oil or heat and she'd be undone.
"I'm full too," Grace said.
"All right," Oakley told Ellisa. "Then just us."
They headed for the stall.
There were plenty of skewer stands on the street, and most had a modest cluster of people. Not this one. The line bent like a small dragon down the pavement.
Oakley craned to see the sign: yellow with black letters, plain as bread—Xiangyun Fried Skewers. "Why so many people?"
"Must've gone viral," Ellisa said, pulling up reviews on her phone and handing them over. "Look. Worth the wait?"
"It's already testing my patience," Oakley said, half-laughing. And then, involuntarily, her eyes slipped to find Grace again.
Ellisa slid her phone away and studied Oakley openly.
So much was the same. Oakley was still beautiful. And yet. The baby-sweetness had drained from her face, and the features had sharpened and softened in the right places, the sweetness deepened by a low, quiet note. It was like the shift from banana milk to cocoa—still sweet, but richer.
More dangerous to look at.
Ellisa could never forget certain things. Back then she'd drawn the wrong kind of attention; some boys had teased and shoved and took it too far. And every time, Oakley had shown up, scattered them like pigeons, then marched Ellisa to buy snacks, tears and all.
"Don't worry," Oakley would say, thumping her chest. "My nickname is Chuck Bass Oakley. I run this block. With me here, nobody touches you."
Even now, remembering it warmed Ellisa from the ribs outward. Oakley had been the first person in her life to be that good to her. The first person to walk her into the sun. Leaving didn't change that; there was still a chair for Oakley in the house of her heart.
"Oakley," Ellisa said, unable to hold it in any longer, "so you… really did get married?"