11. Winter

Chapter 11

Winter

The Following Day

I stir my coffee slowly, watching the swirl of cream blend into the dark liquid, a perfect distraction from Orson's piercing gaze. The Fifth Street Cafe buzzes around us with the muted clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversations from other tables, helping make this meeting feel less intense.

Orson takes a sip from his cup, his eyes never leaving mine. "So," Orson starts, a small smile playing on his lips, "how are your parents? Did they ever forgive you for driving cross-country to see me in California?"

I laugh, a light, airy sound that I hope masks my discomfort. "You mean when I thought it was a good idea to surprise you with concert tickets for your twentieth birthday? My dad still brings it up whenever he thinks I’m making a bad decision."

Orson chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "That was incredibly dangerous, but it’s still one of the best concerts of my life.”

“It was definitely memorable," I agree, shifting the topic away from the past's more emotional traps. "And how's work been for you? Do you have any movies coming out next year?"

Orson nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, one is in spring, and a second is due to release just before next Christmas. I’ve just finished filming a third, and plan to take a break from filming until summer. I don’t know why I thought being an actor would be glamorous. I spend most of my time bored in meetings or exhausted on sets. But I’m grateful nonetheless." His eyes twinkle with passion when he talks about his work—this is safe ground.

"I’m thrilled with your success," I say genuinely, feeling an old fondness tug inside me before I quickly push it aside. "I’m typically so busy that I rarely get a chance to go to the movies, but I have caught a few of yours. I’ll admit it’s strange seeing you on the big screen—a good strange though."

"How's the music world treating you? Your success amazes me. I can’t believe how many number ones came out of your last album. Actually, I do believe it. You deserve every accolade." Orson tries to keep the discussion light but throws in words of praise that make me uncomfortable. He was always heavy with compliments.

I don’t think I was prepared for how few we get under normal circumstances. The few men I’ve dated fawned over superficial things that had nothing to do with me as a person. After eight years, I’ve forgotten what genuine admiration feels like.

“The music world is good. I’ve been more fortunate than most, but everything has downsides. I’m glad to be home for a while. I’ve missed New York.” I avoid the intensity of his gaze by fixating on my cookie.

Orson smiles a little, stirring his coffee. "I saw you in concert when you played the Hollywood Bowl. You were incredible." The pride in his voice resonates with me more than I wish it did.

"Thank you." I nod, taking another sip and feeling the warmth spread through my chest. "Glad you enjoyed the show."

He pauses, his spoon clinking softly against the cup. "What about jazz? You always said that was your goal. I saw how much you enjoyed singing that standard last night. Do you miss it?"

“I do. Maybe someday soon I can get back to it.”

A brief silence falls between us as we sip our coffees. I can tell Orson’s holding something back and wanting to dive deeper than our current surface-level chat. It hangs in the air, unspoken and heavy. He sets down his cup a little too hard. "Winter," he starts hesitantly, "do you believe in second chances?”

Seized with panic, I ignore his last question and immediately change the subject. “I forgot to ask about your parents. Do you know your mom still sends me a birthday card every year? My mother gave her my address in Manhattan, and without fail, every year, I get a card and a $20 gift card to Starbucks. It’s so thoughtful. It’s become one of the highlights of my day. I have a box of handmade thank you cards I found in Scotland dedicated entirely to her. She’s such a sweetheart.” I realize I’m rambling when his loving gaze transforms into utter confusion.

“No, I didn’t know. Mom’s never mentioned it. In fact, she called me a day late for my birthday last year,” Orson admits, running a hand through his dark hair.

I stir my coffee slowly, the spoon clinking against the mug in a tiny symphony of deflection. I’m such a coward. Unable to stand the awkward silence while he gathers his thoughts, I start talking about places I’ve visited, ones I think he might like—the random Parisian cafes I frequent, the Scottish Highlands, and the hidden gardens in Kyoto. No doubt I sound insane, but as long as I keep talking, he can’t bring up second chances and starting over.

Unfortunately, Orson remains silent and forces me to continue prattling. "I think you'd really like Kyoto in the spring," I say, my hands wrapped tightly around my mug, seeking warmth. "The cherry blossoms are something else."

"You never answered my question," he says, his tone light but his eyes piercing. "Second chances—do you believe in them?"

I press my lips together, buying time. The steam from my cup fogs up my glasses—the ones I deliberately wore to appear less attractive—highlighting my hazy thoughts. "It depends," I finally say. “Some things, maybe. But some mistakes are too big to fit into a 'second chance' box."

Orson leans back and folds his arms. He looks at me, really looks at me, and it feels like he's peering straight through to my cautious, scarred heart. "What if it wasn't a mistake? What if it was just timing?"

Timing. The word hangs between us, another notion I'm unsure I want to explore. Wading in the shallow waters of pleasantries and casual conversation is safer. Venturing deeper feels dangerous, like the ground could shift beneath me at any moment.

"Timing is everything," I reply softly, almost whispering. My own voice surprises me—it sounds resigned but wistful.

"Isn't that the truth?" Orson laughs gently, but it's not mocking—there’s an undertone of something sincere that makes my heart ache painfully. "Maybe we got our timing wrong before. Maybe now is the time to make things right."

I look away from him then out of self-preservation—his gaze is too intense, too hopeful. Although it scares the hell out of me, I want to leap into that hope with him.

"But what if one of us gets hurt again?" I find myself saying before I realize I’m opening doors that I locked long ago. What am I saying?

Orson nods slowly, understanding coloring his features. "We know better this time.” He rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly as if sharing a secret. "But even if we do get hurt again, isn’t it better to have tried at the right time than to always wonder 'what if'?"

His question digs at a hidden part of me—a part that yearns deeply for another chance at getting things right with someone who once meant the world to me. But I can’t risk my heart again. It’s been eight years, and I’m still not back to normal. Another round with Orson Frost could destroy me.

Orson parts his lips to continue his plea, but I wave him off with a small gesture, softening my voice to keep everything friendly yet firm. "Orson, it’s really nice seeing you again and hearing about all your success. Let’s not dredge up the past."

Orson’s face falls slightly, and my heart stings with regret for what we both know will remain unsaid today. I tell myself it’s for the best.

"Yeah," Orson says after a moment, swallowing hard as he resets his expression into something easier. “You’re right—today's about catching up as old friends.”

We steer back into friendly banter—talking about my tour, my music, his future projects, mutual acquaintances, and TV shows we've both gotten hooked on—keeping nostalgia at bay while gently nursing the fragile connection that still exists between us. I fall back into our rhythm much easier than I expected, and for a while, it feels nice. As we part ways outside the cafe, the chill of early winter bites through my coat and reminds me why sometimes it’s better to leave certain doors closed.