I lean against the window of my office, admiring the view of the Manhattan skyline. It’s a spectacular thing, that view. Worth every penny we spent for this office space.

If all goes well, in the next couple of years there’ll be another tower there on the horizon. Another skyscraper joining the flock, preening against the sky. The tallest residential building, taller even than 432 Park Avenue. Courtesy of GoldLake Developments. Courtesy of me.

I wonder if my mother would be proud?

The thought comes to me unbidden, and I draw back from the window. I search my office, as if I might see her standing there. Her image flickers in front of my eyes, almost real, like a hologram. Her ash blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her warm smile. She’d be wearing either her diner uniform or the jeans and purple knit sweater she used to wear the rest of the time. I’m sure she had more clothes than that, but those are the only two outfits I can recall these days. She wore that purple sweater so often that the cuffs were all frayed, the back of the neck torn a little from yanking it over her head so many times. God. If I close my eyes, I swear I could even smell it — that familiar scent of fabric softener and black coffee and her.

I don’t know why I’ve been thinking about her so much lately. Usually she comes to mind on holidays, anniversaries, her birthday, mine. The rest of the time I can get on with my work without those memories haunting me. Lately though, my mother’s memory has been lurking constantly, always just around the corner of my mind.

It’s been happening since I saw Rori, I realize.

I suppose it’s natural that spending time with her means I’m going to think about the past a bit more. Going to Fran’s Diner didn’t help either. It’s been years since I’ve been to an place like that, and the deluge of memories had hit me as soon as I’d sauntered in. The same way they had when I’d walked through the laundromat the other day. The smells, the sounds, even the squeak of my expensive shoes on the weathered linoleum floor brought back visceral memories I didn’t even realize I was still carrying around with me.

That life is supposed to be behind me now. But suddenly it seems to be very much in the present.

Rori, too, has become a very real part of my life again. I thought I’d be able to handle that, but now even thinking her name calls up a picture of her delicate face, the sparkling sound of her laugh, and that’s enough to knock me back down into my seat. Rori. The realness of her is a much stronger force than the idea of her I’d been holding onto all these years.

Lunch at Fran’s hadn’t gone exactly how I’d expected. I should have known when she suggested we meet there that she was shooting for something loud and public, where she wouldn’t be tempted to reenact our antics from the other day. I just hadn’t realized that she felt so strongly about the issue that she would want it codified into a contract. A no-sex contract. I shake my head, a smile on my lips. I’ve signed a lot of contracts in my life, but I can honestly say I’ve never before signed a no-sex contract. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

Look, do I want to sleep with Rori again? I don’t know — do dogs bark? Does A. Testoni make the best men’s shoes on the planet? Am I a man with eyes in my head and a dick in my pants?

So yeah, I want to sleep with Rori. But maybe she’s right — maybe that’s a mess neither of us should wade back into. I mean, look how well it had ended last time. Sure, I’m a different man than I was back in high school, but that doesn’t mean Rori and I would be any better for each other now. I don’t do relationships, and she clearly doesn’t do casual sex, so maybe it’s good that we’ve got the contract keeping everything nice and neat.

Although, other than the sex part, there’s not much chance of me wanting to do any of the things on that list. Going on dates? Talking about high school? Neither of those things are happening any time soon, that I’m a hundred percent sure of.

I don’t have time to ponder the situation any further, because then Levi is at my door.

“Got a minute?” he asks.

I nod and gesture for him to come in. He slips into the seat across from me and crosses his legs.

“How’s everything going with Marigold?” he asks. His voice is casual, but I can tell he’s still uneasy about this whole arrangement, especially given that Rori and I have history. Which means there’s definitely no way I’m letting him know about the other contract we signed.

“Great. I met with Rori and they’re going to have a fully specced proposal to us by next Friday.”

Levi nods, pleased. Good. Maybe that will get him off my back for a little while.

We wrap up a few more items of business and then Levi heads back to his office. I lean back in my chair, folding my hands behind my head. This is good. Everything is working out the way it’s supposed to. If we can succeed in getting this project off the ground, we’re going to be very wealthy men. This is life-changing money. Buy-a-private-island kind of money.

Mom would be proud, I think. Wouldn’t she?

She always believed in me. Even when I was really small, she was always telling me that I was going to grow up to do something amazing. I think she secretly hoped I’d become a doctor or something — someone who helped people. Real estate developer isn’t exactly that, but still. I’d made something of myself. Transformed my entire life. From nothing to a 5th Avenue penthouse. That’s something to be proud of.

Right?

I keep myself busy the rest of the afternoon. I have a full schedule, in and out of meetings, and between that, I’m answering emails and returning phone calls. I work straight through dinner, until it’s nearly eight o’clock. That’s not unusual though. I’ve always been what you’d call a workaholic, but I consider that a good thing. You don’t succeed in this industry without putting in hard time. Some day, maybe I’ll have the freedom to slack off, but not anytime soon.

When I pull away from my laptop and blink myself back into the here and now, I realize I’m starving. I run through a few ideas in my head of what to get for dinner. Thai? Indian? Italian? Nothing sounds appealing, though, until I realize exactly what I’m craving. I text my driver and have him meet me at the front of the building.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking back into Fran’s Diner. This time I take a seat at the counter, the same as I’d done so many times at Express Eats, where my mother used to work. The harried waitress hands me a menu, but I wave it off.

“Just a slice of lemon meringue pie, please.”

She smiles as she drops the menu back on the stack behind the counter. She has a nice smile — kind, open. She’s got ash blonde hair, not that different from my mother’s, but it’s cut short, with a swoop of bangs that covers one of her tired creased eyes.

“Best in the city, you know,” she says. She has a broad smile, despite her clear exhaustion.

“Good. Can I get a coffee with that too, please?”

“Of course.”

She turns away to grab the items. My eyes follow her as she eases the lemon meringue pie out of the glass counter behind her. Even from here, I can see the lemon filling glistening, bright yellow and just a bit wobbly looking. The meringue is crisp white and perfectly browned on the peaks. My mouth waters as she slices into it.

She slides the plate in front of me, then adds a fork and a coffee cup, which she fills. I wave off the cream and sugar, grabbing one of the individual milk portions out of the bowl in front of me, and she moves on to the next customer.

For a minute I stare down at the pie. The lemon scent in my nose, the hot coffee next to me, it’s all so achingly familiar. I swallow down a lump in my throat, wondering why in the hell I feel so emotional. It’s just a stupid piece of pie.

It’s not just the pie though, of course. It’s everything. It’s the clattering plates, and the smell of bacon and coffee, and the waitress in her short blue dress and sensible white shoes. It’s everything. It’s me — it’s my past, come back to life.

I saw off a piece of pie and pop it in my mouth. The meringue practically dissolves on contact, and then I bite down, through the jelled lemon and the flakey crust. It’s everything I remembered. I let my eyes close for a second while I chew.

“I told you — best in the city.”

The waitress’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I blink my eyes open to see her smile twinkling.

“You weren’t kidding,” I say. “My compliments to the chef.”

“I’ll pass that along,” she says with a wink, before she whisks away to tend to the next customer.

I eat the pie slowly, savoring every bite, every moment that I spend in that diner. For a while I can almost imagine that my mother is still here, that she’s just around the corner, that any moment now she’s going to appear, blonde ponytail bouncing, mouth laughing, eyes sparkling, her white-soled sneakers silent on the checkered floor. For a minute I let myself pretend.

Then I finish my pie, pay my bill, and step back into reality.