Chapter 22: The Dinner

Willa's POV

My flat over the bakery had one room and a stove with two working burners.

The table by the window was small enough that our knees touched under it.

I had put a white cloth on it and borrowed two real plates from the baker.

The chicken was black on one side.

Mitch looked at it, and then at me.

"It's a rustic style," I said.

"It's very rustic."

"Say you'll eat it."

"I'll eat it," Mitch said, and he cut into the pale side and ate it with great seriousness.

I laughed until I had to sit down.

The window was open an inch for the smell, and the whole room smelled of bread from downstairs.

We ate everything that could be eaten and the baker's rolls besides.

When the plates were empty, Mitch put his fork down and took an envelope out of his coat.

It was thin, and the paper had gone soft at the corners from being carried.

"I wrote these in November," he said. "I never mailed one."

I did not touch it.

"I'm not asking you to read them tonight. I'm telling you they exist."

His voice was careful.

"On October twenty-fourth I sat in a lobby for three hours. Your brother told me you didn't exist, and I walked out."

"I know."

"I want to say it plainly. I should have written to you the next morning."

"You had my email."

"I had your email and your number. I took your brother's word over two years of your voice on the phone."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry for the lobby, Willa. I'm sorry for every day after it."