Page 123 of When Lemons Give You Life

I’m tired of being that man. Of still choosing a fake life over the real one.

I read her text again. I know I can’t have her back now, and I can’t control how she feels. But I can stop running. Own it. Fully. Publicly. Without disguise or excuse. Because if I want to be someone she can respect, even from a distance, then I have to stop pretending once and for all. I have to show her that I see the damage and am willing to face it, even though it means giving up my reputation.

I remove an old honey jar from the box and stare at the gray ashes within. In truth, the urn I gave Allison no longer contained Beau but the remains of three roast chickens I’d incinerated in the commercial oven the week before. My Beau will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Outside, a couple of contractors sit on the curb, chewing their way through sad-looking sandwiches that could’ve come straight off the cart at Sunny Glen.

I thought all I had left to give was my kidney. I’ve spent months convincing everyone, including myself, that I’m already gone. That there’s nothing left of me worth saving. But maybe I still have a voice, too. And maybe it’s time I spoke up. I used to believe food could fix anything. That it was love made visible. Now I see it’s also a responsibility, one I can no longer be silent about.

I reach for the phone. It’s time to speak up. It’s time to come clean.

Not only to Lisa. To the world.

80

Lisa

“If that ceramic duck goes for more than fifty bucks, I’ll eat my hoodie,” Frank says, settling his coffee on the arm of the couch.

“It’s probably worth more than you got for your caravan,” I say, glancing up at the telly where Antiques Roadshow is playing. “You don’t regret selling it, do you?”

“And moving in with my hot tornado of a girlfriend? Not for a second!”

I blow him a kiss from the kitchen table. Frank’s guitar strap is laid out across my lap, my latest hyper-focus; a skill I now wear as a badge of honor. It was falling apart at the seams, but I sat down and made one tiny stitch after another. When I looked up at the clock, hours had gone by, and I held not something repaired, but something new.

“Finished,” I say, joining him on the couch.

Frank picks it up, turning it gently in his hands. He runs a finger along the soft felt lining, then spots the tiny lightning bolt I burned into the underside of the leather near the buckle, and beneath that, his initials. “You did this?” he asks.

“Yep.”

“Lisa, this is beautiful. Thank you.”

“I’ve given it some extra length too, as you mentioned once it was on the short side.”

“You remembered that?”

I nod. “I always told you you’re a rock star. Now you have a guitar strap to match.”

“You’re so thoughtful.” He kisses me.

The duck on Antiques Roadshow, meanwhile, is valued at fifteen dollars; the woman is thrilled anyway. The credits roll, and a news update appears. I gasp as a photo of Griff flashes on the screen behind the presenter. At first, I think they must be running an old interview, maybe something from a food segment.

But then footage cuts to a press room, and my brother steps into the frame.

81

Griff

Heat clings to my collar as cameras blink red around me. The lectern presses into my ribs. I take a small step back and clear my throat. “I’m Griffith Barlow. Former head chef and owner of Lorraine.”

A few heads lift. The name still carries weight—enough to get me here.

“In 2024, it was reported I had early-onset Alzheimer’s. That I was unwell.” I pause. “That isn’t true.”

Cameras click rapid-fire. A few murmurs ripple through the room.

“I lied. I faked dementia for eighteen months.”