Page 105 of Smoke and Glitter

I didn't put her in the picture today.

That's the part that catches me.

This place existed before Autumn. I wanted it before I knew her name, but somewhere in the months between meeting her and losing her, the future I kept picturing stopped belonging only to me.

The agent comes around the end of the bar. "So?"

I turn toward her.

"Still want it?"

A few weeks ago that question would have barely deserved an answer.

Now I look around again. Autumn is four thousand miles away. She may stay there. She may come back to Chicago and still never come back to me. Whatever happens next isn't something I get to decide for both of us.

The bar is.

"Yeah," I say. "I want it."

Her smile comes fast. "That sounded more convincing."

"It should."

She starts talking about closing dates and what she needs from me next, and I listen this time. There are documents coming over this afternoon, a final walkthrough once the agreed work is done and enough signatures left between me and the keys to make me reconsider every lawyer joke I've ever made.

None of it changes my answer.

I want the bar.

Wanting Autumn doesn't make that less true.

I spent enough time treating wanting something as a problem I could solve by refusing to name it.

I'm not doing that with this.

Summer comes into Vibes a few days later, one hand under her stomach and the other holding her phone.

"You look uncomfortable," I tell her.

"Thank you. That's exactly what every pregnant woman wants to hear."

"I meant the chair."

"You did not."

I come around the bar before she can argue with me about whether she's capable of sitting down and pull out the stool with the back instead. She gives me a look but takes it.

"Better?"

"I'll decide in ten minutes."

I put soda water with lime in front of her. "You hungry?"

"Maybe."

"That means yes."

"It means pregnancy has destroyed my ability to make long-term commitments."