It Ends with Us

Chapter Twenty-Five
I smell toast.
I stretch out on my bed and smile, because Ryle knows toast is my
favorite.
My eyes flick open and the clarity smashes down on me with the force
of a head-on collision. I squeeze my eyes shut when I realize where I am
and why I’m here and that the toast I smell is not at all because my sweet
and caring husband is making me breakfast in bed.
I immediately want to cry again, so I force myself off the bed. I focus on
the hollowness in my stomach as I use the bathroom, and tell myself I can
cry after I eat something. I need to eat before I make myself sick again.
When I walk out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, I notice
the chair has been turned so that it’s facing the bed now instead of the
door. There’s a blanket thrown over it haphazardly, and it’s obvious Atlas
was in here last night while I slept.
He was probably worried I had a concussion.
When I walk into the kitchen, Atlas is moving back and forth between
the fridge, the stove, the counter. For the first time in twelve hours, I feel
an inkling of something that isn’t agony, because I remember he’s a chef.
A good one. And he’s cooking me breakfast.
He glances up at me as I make my way into the kitchen. “Morning,” he
says, careful to say it without too much inflection. “I hope you’re hungry.”
He slides a glass and a container of orange juice across the counter toward
me, then he turns and faces the stove again.
“I am.”
He glances back over his shoulder and gives me a ghost of a smile. I
pour myself a glass of orange juice and then walk to the other side of the
kitchen where there’s a breakfast nook. There’s a newspaper on the table
and I begin to pick it up. When I see the article about the best businesses
in Boston printed across the page, my hands immediately begin to shake

---

and I drop the paper back on the table. I close my eyes and take a slow sip
of the orange juice.
A few minutes later, Atlas sets a plate down in front of me, then claims
the seat across from me at the table. He pulls his own plate of food in
front of him and cuts into a crepe with his fork.
I look down at my plate. Three crepes, drizzled in syrup and garnished
with a dab of whipped cream. Orange and strawberry slices line the right
side of the plate.
It’s almost too pretty to eat, but I’m too hungry to care. I take a bite and
close my eyes, trying not to make it obvious that it’s the best bite of
breakfast I’ve ever had.
I finally allow myself to admit that his restaurant deserved that award.
As much as I tried to talk Ryle and Allysa out of going back, it was the best
restaurant I’d ever been to.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask him.
He sips from a cup of coffee. “The Marines,” he says, placing the cup
back down. “I trained for a while during my first stint and then when I
reenlisted I came on as a chef.” He taps his fork against the side of his
plate. “You like it?”
I nod. “It’s delicious. But you’re wrong. You knew how to cook before
you enlisted.”
He smiles. “You remember the cookies?”
I nod again. “Best cookies I’ve ever eaten.”
He leans back in his chair. “I taught myself the basics. My mother
worked second shift when I was growing up, so if I wanted dinner at night
I had to make it. It was either that or starve, so I bought a cookbook at a
yard sale and made every single recipe in it over the course of a year. And I
was only thirteen.”
I smile, shocked that I’m even able to. “The next time someone asks
you how you learned to cook, you should tell them that story. Not the
other one.”
He shakes his head. “You’re the only person who knows anything about
me before the age of nineteen. I’d like to keep it that way.”
He begins telling me about working as a chef in the military. How he
saved up as much money as he could so that when he got out, he could
open his own restaurant. He started with a small café that did really well,

---

then opened Bib’s a year and a half ago. “It does okay,” he says with
modesty.
I glance around his kitchen and then look back at him. “Looks like it
does more than just okay.”
He shrugs and takes another bite of his food. I don’t talk after that as
we finish eating, because my mind wanders to his restaurant. The name of
it. What he said in the interview. Then, of course, those thoughts lead me
back to thoughts of Ryle and the anger in his voice as he yelled the last
line of the interview at me.
I think Atlas can see the change in my demeanor, but he says nothing as
he clears the table.
When he takes another seat, he chooses the chair right next to me this
time. He places a reassuring hand on top of mine. “I have to go in to work
for a few hours,” he says. “I don’t want you to leave. Stay here as long as
you need, Lily. Just . . . please don’t go back home today.”
I shake my head when I hear the concern in his words. “I won’t. I’ll stay
here,” I tell him. “I promise.”
“Do you need anything before I go?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
He stands up and grabs his jacket. “I’ll make it as quick as I can. I’ll be
back after lunch and I’ll bring you something to eat, okay?”
I force a smile. He opens a drawer and pulls out a pen and paper. He
writes something on it before he leaves. When he’s gone, I stand up and
walk to the counter to read what he wrote. He listed instructions for how
to set the alarm. He wrote his cell phone number, even though I have it
memorized. He also wrote down his work number, his home address, and
his work address.
At the bottom in small print, he wrote, “Just keep swimming, Lily.”