Intricacies of the heart

Cherry said it was just a small get–together. “Nothing too fancy, just rich friends of a client getting together.” But when we arrived, the apartment looked like figment of a genius’s imagination. Exposed brick walls, low jazz spilling from hidden speakers, the air was warm with perfume and expensive whiskey. I felt out of place the second walked in. I had to hold on to whatever shred of confidence I had left for the night. Slick suits, glassy smiles, women in silk dresses. Cherry fit right in of course. She always did.A pretty lady elegantly walked up to us, took our phones, and ushered us towards a dimly lit table by the corner of the room. It was furnished with expensive looking padded sofas. An assortment of expensive looking drinks were arranged on the glass table. The men seated around the table appeared to be in their mid to late thirties. All in expensive looking suits, laughing and conversing with no care in the world. When we arrived at the table, they all looked up at us

A new client had reached out through a referral, asking for a private dinner for four. No names just an address in the west loop and a generous deposit. I didn’t think twice, most private clients preferred discretion. The apartment was sleek, all marble glass. A woman who appeared to be in fifties let me in, she introduced herself as Lisa and informed me she was the house keeper. She led me to the pristine kitchen, fully equipped and furnished. It was spotless in a way that made me sad to mess it up by cooking in it. Lisa informed me my client was in a meeting and would arrive before I was finished.Halfway through prepping, I heard the door open behind me, I turned to give Lisa a smile that froze on face when I beheld the person who walked in. His dark hair ruffled like he had ran his hands through it sevrally. His face set in an apprehensive smile. He took two steps forward and leaned against the kitchen highland. Wearing a black t-shirt that hugged his toned and muscled body, a bag

After that night, the one where I finally told him everything, I thought things might have shifted. Not dramatically, not in fireworks and flowers, but… something. I felt free. He knew me now. Really knew me. And part of me expected that to mean something. But days passed. Then a week. Then months.We texted. We met up a lot and had hot steamy sex. Dates, gifts, lots of gifts, long drives, afternoons where the air between us hummed with something unspoken. But he never asked. Not to be official, not even, “What are we doing?” Just… this gentle, constant almost like a relationship vibe but without a label. He’d brush a strand of hair from my face, say things like “You make it easy to be around you,” or “I miss this.” When he’d return from a short trip. But “this” never had a name. And I hated that it mattered to me.I told myself I was fine, that I didn’t want a label, that I wasn’t the kind of woman who needed one. But the truth was, I did. I just didn’t know how to ask what we were

The idea had been sitting quietly in the back of my mind for months. “My own restaurant.” Nothing shiny or extravagant, just cozy, a place where the food offers comfort and warmth. My mornings became rituals of planning. I woke early, made coffee strong enough to hum in my veins, and filled pages of notebooks with my ideas. Menus, suppliers, rent estimates. I looked at spaces on my days off. Small storefronts in Logan Square, an old bakery in Bridgeport, even a narrow corner in Pilsen with a cracked tile floor and peeling paint. The real estate agent called it “character.” Crest had offered to pick me up from my client’s on one Thursday evening. A small family on the North Side. I slipped into the passenger’s seat smelling faintly of rosemary and smoke. Hair pinned up, sleeves rolled to my elbows. I was tired but not exhausted. He smiled and hugged me like he didn’t just see me the previous day. I laughed. "I missed you too.” We rode in silence for a while, the hum of the cit

I heard her before I saw her. That sharp, singsong voice calling my name from the hallway.“Open up Sasha, it’s freezing out here!”I froze, hand still on the counter. I hadn’t heard her voice in almost a year, and hearing it again was like stepping into an old bruise. Familia, tender, not quite healed. When I opened the door, she was standing there, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, in an oversized hoodie, hair shiny and freshly trimmed, skin clear. The version of her that used to stumble through my door was gone. At least on the surface. She looked around with a casual, almost challenging air, as if she owned the space. Which, in a way, she did.“Hey,” she said, voice light, breezy. “I’m home.”“Monica.” I said softly.She grinned, eyes bright, and threw her arms around me before I could think. I hugged her back, awkward at first, then tighter, the memory of every sleepless night flashing behind my eyes. “You look good.” I managed.“I feel good,” she said, stepping back to