Chapter 21
Despite my clear rejection, Ethan began coming to Marina Blue almost daily, sitting for hours with a single cup of coffee at the corner table by the window. He never approached me again, never tried to engage me in conversation. He’d arrive around 10 AM, order his drink from whoever was at the counter, and sit
quietly reading books or working on his laptop until early afternoon.
i
My staff grew curious, exchanging glances whenever he arrived.
Finally, Tyler worked up the courage to ask, cornering me in the storage room. while we unpacked a shipment of mugs.
“So… Mr. Dark and Brooding by the window,” he began, trying to sound casual. “Is he someone from your past? Ex–boyfriend? He watches you like he’s memorizing your movements for some creepy shrine or something.”
I smiled without answering, sorting cups by color.
Tyler scratched his beard in confusion. “It’s seriously weird. He barely touches his coffee, just sits there staring at you when you’re not looking.”
I sighed, putting down the mug I was holding. “He’s my ex–husband. It’s
complicated.”
Tyler’s eyes widened. “No shit? Wait till I tell Maya. She thought he was a corporate spy scoping out our business model.”
“Well, now you know,” I said, hefting a box of saucers. “And it doesn’t need to be gossip fodder for the whole staff.”
“He bolted out of here pretty quick yesterday,” Tyler continued, ignoring my hint. “I mentioned your date tonight with that architect dude, and he practically knocked over his chair getting out.”
“I don’t have a date with any architect,” I said, confused.
Tyler grinned. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.”
I didn’t correct this well–intentioned lie. Maybe it would finally convince Ethan to
stop his vigil.
It didn’t. The next day he was back, his routine unchanged.
As dusk fell and I prepared to leave, flipping through orders for the next week’s
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pastry delivery, I spotted Ethan outside,, leaning against a streetlight. When I emerged, he fell into step beside me, keeping a respectful distance.
“Kate’s moving back to Chicago,” he said without preamble.
I continued scrolling through emails on my phone, barely acknowledging him. The familiar street stretched before us,, brownstones glowing warm in the evening light.
“She’s been calling me for months,” he continued, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Showing up at my apartment, at my office. But when she got an offer for some big promotion, she took it without a second thought.”
I finally glanced up, surprised by the bitterness in his voice. Did he still care for hen after all? Was this display at my cafe just another way to make someone–anyone
-pay attention to him?
“At least she’s choosing to go this time.” I said, “not getting shipped off by my
dad.”
He grimaced, looking away. ““I know. It just hit me all at once…. everyone’s game. Kate, who actually loved me. You, who I… anyway. Nobody’s left.”
The words stung more than I expected. After everything, he still counted her as “the one who loved him“? As if I hadn’t spent years trying to be what he needed!?
But I said nothing, continuing toward the subway entrance that would take me
home.
He asked softly behind me, “What time will you open tomorrow?““”
I pretended not to hear him, descending the steps into the station without looking
back..
That was our last encounter. The following day, his corner table remained empty. And the mext, and the next after that.
A week passed, then two. I found myself glancing at the deer whenever the bell chumed, then feeling annoyed at my own response..
I never told him I had hired a manager to run Marina Bilure while I opened a secon location in Boston. The expansion had been in the works for months, a new adventure I was genuinely excited about. I’d found a space in Cambridge, near
st would be nartarr for my vẪN
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21
My parents hosted a small dinner party to celebrate, just family and a few close friends. I was happy, relaxed, telling stories about my hunt for the perfect location, when my hand knocked against my wine glass, sending it tumbling over. The red liquid pooled across the white tablecloth like blood.
“Oh, Liv,” my mother sighed, already reaching for napkins. “Some things never change.”
I laughed, helping to mop up the spill. “At least it wasn’t a customer’s lap this
time.”
At that exact moment across town, Ethan Marina was bleeding out on a sidewalk in the East Village.
I wouldn’t learn about it until the next morning, when Patricia called me, her voice thin and breaking.
“Ethan’s in the hospital,” she said without greeting. “It’s bad, Liv. It’s really bad.” According to the police report, he’d been at the same bar for nearly six hours before stumbling to the liquor store next door to buy another bottle. The bartender told police he’d cut Ethan off after watching him down one drink after another, muttering about “missed chances” and repeatedly taking out a worn. photograph from his wallet–a picture of me from college that he kept showing to strangers. When he left the liquor store, he was approached by a man asking for money. Witnesses said Ethan, clearly intoxicated and agitated, had immediately become confrontational, shoving the man and yelling incoherently. The argument escalated quickly, ending with Ethan on the ground with three stab wounds to his abdomen and chest.
He’d dragged himself along the sidewalk for nearly a block, leaving a trail of blood before collapsing outside a boutique flower shop.
People later said he had been crawling in the direction of Marina Blue, which was six blocks away.
The irony that Patricia couldn’t stop mentioning between sobs: there was, an urgent care clinic in the opposite direction, less than fifty yards from where he was attacked.
“The doctors said if he’d gone there, he might have…” she couldn’t finish the
12:59PM Mon 10 Mar
21
sentence. After a long pause, her voice broke. “He didn’t make it through surgery. He’s gone, Liv.”
I stood in my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, feeling strangely hollow. “I’m sorry for your loss, Patricia,” I said, the words automatic, distant.
“He loved you,” she whispered. “In the end, that’s what he wanted me to tell you. He loved you.”
After we hung up, I sat on my couch for a long time, staring at nothing. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel much of anything.
Eventually, I got up and made coffee, watching the morning light filter through my kitchen window.
Ethan Marina was gone, and I was still here. Still breathing. Still moving forward. That afternoon, I signed the lease on the Boston location and booked my flight for the following week.
Life goes on. Mine would too.
