I think about my job, about the deal chasing and the endless need to deliver faster, bigger, more. About my father’s voice onthe phone, pushing me toward the next role, the next title, the next version of the man he thinks I should be. Settled. Perfect on paper.
And then I think about Manuela. About how she looked at me in the dark this morning, silent but certain. About how she makes me want to be someone who notices the process instead of just the result.
By the time the dough is resting under a towel, I know two things: one, I’ll never hear the end of it if Banks finds out I voluntarily took a baking class. And two, when I get back to New York, something has to change.
Because if I keep going the way I’ve been going—if I keep measuring myself against expectations I never asked for—I’ll burn out for good.
The sun is alreadyhigh by the time I leave the main building, the gravel warm under my shoes as I walk the short downhill path back to the house. The paper bag crinkles under my arm with every step, the loaf still radiating faint heat through the thin layers. The front door’s propped open with a rock, voices drifting faintly from inside, slow and unhurried.
Manuela’s on the steps, one knee bent, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice carries across the quiet lawn, rapid and certain, threaded with a laughter I don’t hear often enough. Something in my chest pulls tight before I can stop it.
She catches sight of me as she hangs up and places the phone screen down on the step. “You’re up early,” she says, her face studying me.
“I felt you sneak out of my bed,” I say, letting it come out low, easy. “Couldn’t fall back asleep after.”
Color creeps into her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “So you got up instead? It was, like, four in the morning.” She chuckles to herself, and the image makes me smile. Her sitting on the front stoop, a faint breeze running through her hair.
“Figured I’d make the most of it,” I reply, holding up the crinkled paper bag. “I took a baking class at the resort."
Her mouth curves. “That’s… I didn’t know you baked.”
I lower onto the step below hers, setting the bag on my lap. “I don’t.”
Manuela laughs, tipping her head back slightly, like this is the most amusing thing she’s heard all week.
“I’ve tried before. At home. They’ve all been disasters,” I continue, wanting to spill all my secrets to her. How I’ve been trying different things to see if I can find myself again. How nothing is sticking. “Maybe if I learned from someone who actually knows what they’re doing instead of trying to copy people from the Internet, I’d finally get it right.”
“And?” There’s a shine in her eyes and a smile so big that the corners get crinkly, and I think it’s the most genuine one I’ve seen yet.
“Not even close.” I let out a breath, leaning back on my hands. “But I don’t care. It felt good just doing it, for me.”
Her mouth softens, and for a moment, she just looks at me, quiet in a way that feels new. Then her gaze flicks toward the lake.
“Who were you talking to?” The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. It’s not casual at all and doesn’t sound like me. Because I never ask things like that. I’m not one to ever want to know more than what people choose to offer.
But with her, I do.
I want to know who is calling her this early, who can make her laugh like that. What her mornings are usually like, whatsongs she hums when she’s distracted, what she reaches for when life caves in. All of it.
She blinks, surprised, like she wasn’t expecting me to care. “My old boss,” she says after a beat. “From Buenos Aires.”
“Yeah?”
“She said there’s an opening at the agency. If I want it.” She pulls at a loose thread on her sleeve, not looking at me. “It’d be a good move for my career. But…”
The words hang there, heavier than she probably meant them to.
“Do you want it?”
“I don’t know,” she finally says, her voice low. “Probably not. I like my job in New York, despite my asshole boss.”
I watch her, the morning light sharp on her cheekbones, and something twists low in my chest before I can stop it. She draws her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them, eyes still on the lake.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind us. Someone calls her name—Amelia, judging by the voice—and Manuela stands, brushing her hands down her leggings like she’s shaking something off.
“Guess we’re officially awake now,” she says lightly, offering me a small smile before heading toward the house.
I stay where I am a moment longer, the paper bag still warm on my lap, before I push myself to my feet and follow.
