Part 2The Box of Unopened Promises

“The assistant booked the wrong name. It’s not a big deal, Elena.”

Nate dropped a new ticket onto the dining table. The destination was still Cape Point, but the date had been pushed back by three months.

I didn't touch it. “Three months from now is hurricane season.”

“Then we’ll reschedule.”

“You said ninety days.”

“The shoot needs pick-up shots. We can’t lock in a date yet.”

Nate’s mother, sitting at the head of the table, pushed a plate of grilled shrimp toward Serena. “Work isn’t a game, Nate. It’s generous of you to offer her a make-up trip at all. Elena can’t expect the world to revolve around a postcard.”

This dinner was supposed to be my send-off. Tomorrow, I was leaving for the Pacific Northwest to archive a series of old travel journals. Mrs. Holloway had insisted I come over tonight, saying it was "family time."

Now, my usual seat was occupied by Serena’s pill organizer. Her cardigan was draped over the back of the chair.

“Elena, dear, sit over there,” Mrs. Holloway said, pointing to a small chair near the kitchen door. “Serena’s digestion is delicate; she needs to be close to Nate so he can look after her.”

Nate began peeling a shrimp. He did it with practiced precision—snapping the tail, then sliding the vein out. I was the one who taught him that. I used to be terrified of the sharp shells.

He dropped the clean meat into Serena’s bowl.

“Nate, stop,” Serena giggled. “Elena is leaving tomorrow. You should be taking care of her.”

“She can feed herself,” Nate said without looking up.

Mrs. Holloway smiled. “They’ve been together eight years, Serena. They don’t need all that fuss. You’re the guest. Don’t be shy.”

I pulled out the chair by the kitchen. The table leg pressed against my ribs. It was so cramped I could barely move my elbows.

Nate glanced at me once, then swapped my water for a bowl of soup. “No chives, just the way you like it. Drink it while it’s hot.”

It was wild mushroom bisque, my favorite. The small porcelain spoon rested against the rim. He remembered that I only liked using the short-handled spoons.

I took a sip. The temperature was perfect.

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” he asked.

“Seven in the morning.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Doesn’t the crew meet at six?”

“I’ll drop you at the station first, then head to the set.” His hand found my knee under the table, squeezing gently through my skirt. “Elena, I know you’re upset. When I get back, we’ll finally do it. We’ll have the wedding.”

I gripped the spoon. “Do you actually want to get married, Nate?”

“It’s been eight years. Who else would I marry?”

Mrs. Holloway set her fork down with a sharp clack. “We can talk about the wedding, but the public announcement has to wait. The show is in its peak promo cycle. We can’t have Serena looking like the 'other woman' in the press.”

Serena immediately pushed her bowl away. “Mrs. Holloway, it’s fine. Maybe I should just quit the show. My health might not even hold up for ninety days anyway.”

Her pill box tipped over, spilling white tablets across the tablecloth. Nate stood up instantly to help her gather them.

“The doctor said you need to stay calm,” Nate said, his voice laced with genuine worry. “Don’t joke about quitting.”

“But Elena doesn't like me being here.”

“She didn't say that.” He snapped the pill box shut and turned to me. “Elena, tell her.”

Two pairs of eyes bore into me.

I pushed the soup bowl away. “I don't like my life being sidelined. That doesn't mean I don't like her.”

Mrs. Holloway’s face darkened. “It’s a seat at a table, Elena. Serena saved Nate’s life during that rockfall. She’s fragile. What exactly is it costing you to be a little bit graceful?”

The rockfall. Every time Serena needed something, someone brought up the time she pulled Nate out of the way of a slide on a hiking trip years ago.

“I can give up a seat,” I said quietly. “I can’t give up being his fiancée.”

Nate’s brow furrowed. “Nobody is asking you to.”

“Then announce the engagement tomorrow. Before the show airs.”

Serena gripped the edge of the table. Nate’s mother beat him to the punch.

“The show is branded as a 'Perfect Pair' romance. You want Nate to blow up the production and ruin Serena’s reputation just for a status update?”

“I just want the truth.”

“The truth is that I’m marrying you,” Nate said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “What’s the difference if the world knows today or in three months?”

I looked at him. “There’s no difference for you. There is for me.”

He picked up the new train ticket, folded it, and tucked it into my coat pocket. “Wait ninety days. Just stop bringing it up.”

After dinner, he actually did drive me home. He even came inside and made me a bowl of noodles. No cilantro, one perfectly poached egg.

He handed me the chopsticks. “You haven’t eaten since the table. You’ve been doing that since we were twelve—starving yourself when you’re stubborn.”

I stayed silent. We grew up on the same block. He knew every one of my triggers, and he knew that a simple bowl of noodles was usually enough to make me stay.

Halfway through the meal, his phone rang. It was the director.

“Bind the cards according to the route? Yeah, that’s fine. Just don't lose them.”

I snapped my head up. “You can’t bind them.”

He covered the receiver. “It’s just a hole punch and some twine, Elena. It’s for the shots.”

“The paper will tear.”

“I’ll buy you a new set after the show.”

I put the chopsticks down. “There is no ‘new set’ of those cards, Nate.”

Nate didn't answer me. He spoke into the phone. “Go ahead with the plan.”

The assistant arrived ten minutes later with a confirmation slip. At the bottom, it stated that the owner of the materials authorized the production to cut, punch, and style the ninety-six postcards.

Nate signed it and capped the pen.

I reached for the paper, but he had already handed it back to the assistant.