Page 39 of Engaged to Her While Loving Me
The mango crepe ingredients from my Boston friend arrived.
Late night in the rental, I tore open the box. The mangoes were vacuum-sealed, the crepe mix and coconut milk neatly stacked. The kitchen was tiny. I could barely turn around. The stove could only fit one pan. I propped my phone on the spice rack and pulled up a tutorial. The chef moved fast. I watched it three times before I started.
"Damn it..."
Pancake number twelve, ruined. The temperature was impossible to nail. Either too thin to hold the batter, or too hot—edges curling up, burned black in seconds.
I used to think money could buy anything. Now, trying to make something for Casey with my own hands, I realized these fingers that had signed multi-million dollar deals were as clumsy as a toddler learning to walk when it came to holding a silicone spatula.
A sharp pain shot through my fingertip. Lost in thought, I'd pressed my hand against the scorching rim of the pan. The skin swelled instantly, a small blister forming. I didn't run it undercold water. Just stared at the wound, feeling something almost masochistic. This pain—what was it compared to the despair she must have felt when she left alone all those years ago?
Besides the mango crepes, I kept practicing Hawaiian coconut rice balls from a YouTube channel. That was the taste I remembered Casey loving most. Rolling the sticky rice, my head filled with images of her back then—curled up on the couch with a bowl of dessert, eyes bright as she looked at me. I remembered she liked it sweet but not cloying, so I cut back the sugar and added a pinch of sea salt.
By five in the morning, the first decent batch of coconut rice balls finally took shape. I arranged them carefully in a bento box—the white rice soaked in coconut milk, smelling exactly like memory.
The horizon just starting to pale gray, I drove to Casey's block. These past few days, while Tommy was out, I'd been working nights in the backyard of the old place I'd rented next to her apartment, installing a children's safety fence. All solid wood. I'd sanded every corner over and over, making sure there wouldn't be a single splinter to hurt Tommy.
I'd also put in a bright yellow slide. The space wasn't big, but when the sun hit it, the place looked like a little sanctuary. I hauled in boxes of picture books and Legos, moving quietly, afraid of waking the neighbors upstairs. More afraid of waking her.
At Casey's door, I set down the bento box. A pale blue Post-it stuck to the lid: Good morning. Keep your chin up today.
The first three days, the boxes I left ended up in the trash bin at the end of the hall. Food untouched. But today, when I came back in the evening, my heart skipped. No bento box by the door. Just the corner of the doormat slightly lifted. I held my breath and found the plastic container behind the fire hydrantnearby. It had been washed clean, water spots dried, sitting there quietly.
She'd accepted it. I picked up the box with trembling hands. This kind of joy surpassed any business win I'd ever had.
From that day on, my Post-its multiplied. Does Tommy like coconut pudding? I'll try making some tomorrow. It rained last night—remember your umbrella. The bluebells on the roadside bloomed today. I wrote each note slowly, weighing every word, terrified of saying something that might scare her off again.
That evening, the sunset stained the alley a heavy orange-red. I sat in my car, window half down, watching the corner Casey had to pass on her way home from work. I wanted to see her. Talk to her.
But a gray sedan beat me to it, pulling up below her building. The door opened. A man in a dark gray coat stepped out. He looked refined, wire-rimmed glasses, carrying a familiar thermos.
Mark. I watched him press the buzzer like he'd done it a thousand times, that natural ease cutting deep.
"Mark!"
The door opened. Tommy's young, bright voice spilled through the crack. I saw that small figure throw himself into Mark's arms. Mark laughed and lifted him high—that intimacy only fathers and sons shared. Casey appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a smile on her face I'd never seen before. Calm. Peaceful. The kind you only showed someone you completely trusted.
I hid behind the steering wheel in shadow, jealous to the point of madness. That should have been my spot. The one who grew up with Tommy, the one who made Casey feel safe—that should have been me.
An hour later, Mark came out. I didn't hide. Just pushed open the car door and stood at the stairwell exit. He walked overand stopped a few meters away. I looked at him. He really was gentle. The kind of person nobody ever disliked.
"You're Paul Vincent?" he asked.
"Yes. You're Dr. Mark?"
He nodded, sizing me up. "I've seen you. At the community center meal service."
"Right."
He went quiet for a moment, choosing his words. "Mr. Vincent, Ella's had a tough six years. She's finally built a new life. You know what I'm getting at."
"Her name's Casey."
He paused. "Sorry. She told me her name was Ella."
"She's used that name for six years. But her real name is Casey."
He looked at me but didn't take the bait. Just kept going. "I don't know what you're trying to do by showing up now, but her life is stable. Tommy's adjusted. You suddenly appearing—it doesn't help her at all."
