A Season to Remember

* Content warning - mention of drunk driving and death from a car accident*

I never expected to see someone from that summer in a city like this, but there he was, walking in to my office like he had been here all along.

I had only moved here about six months ago to start a new job, eager for a fresh beginning. I’d left behind my college town, trading in the late nights, endless parties, and hungover mornings for a more stable routine. Even though I had been a good student with strong grades, actively volunteering, serving in student government, and thriving in my sorority, I’d also lived by the motto of working hard and partying even harder.

Between classes, I worked at Nonna’s Cucina, the local Italian restaurant everyone loved. It was a favorite of students grabbing pasta between lectures, families coming by after Sunday church, and anyone who couldn’t resist our famous breadsticks. Over time, I did a little of everything — cooking, cleaning, running the register — pretty much every job except management.

Some of my coworkers became like family. Becca and I sang along to the music overhead while prepping orders. Shirley and I were the dynamic customer service duo, turning on our charm to win over even the toughest guests. Rob was my neighbor, and we’d grill out in the evenings after work.

But the bond I cherished most was with Michael. He had a boyish charm, a sweet smile, and an even sweeter temperament, with a warmth that drew people in effortlessly. When he was hired, I helped train him, and found he was easy to talk to. Our conversations quickly moved beyond work — we chatted about school, our future dreams, and our favorite dishes to cook. Michael admitted he wasn’t very skilled in the kitchen, so this job seemed like the perfect chance for him to pick up a few tricks he could use at home.

One day, I was prepping pasta and sandwich ingredients for the lunch rush. As I sliced tomatoes and onions with practiced ease and set them in the prep station, I wandered over to where Michael was packing lettuce into containers. Reaching for a bag of pre-made pesto, I couldn’t help making a face. It just wasn’t nearly as good as the fresh pesto I loved to make at home.

Michael looked up and laughed at the scrunched expression on my face.

“Why the face?” he teased.

“This stuff just isn’t as good as the fresh pesto I make at home,” I explained. “I have one of those herb gardens on my kitchen island, so I can grow basil year-round. And I always keep olive oil stocked in my pantry. You should buy some if you don’t already have any. I love using homemade pesto as a pizza sauce base or tossing it with pasta,” I rambled on, my enthusiasm for cooking getting the better of me.

Michael smiled, genuine amazement lighting up his eyes.

“Wow,” he said. “I’d love to learn how to do some of that. Would you show me sometime?”

“Yeah, sure!” I replied, more excited than I probably should have been. Michael and I had never hung out outside of work, and the idea felt unexpectedly fun.

“Are you scheduled to work on Saturday?” Michael asked, his eyes lighting up.

“No, thank God,” I laughed. “It’s been a long week with midterms, and I could use a break.”

“Perfect. Can I pick you up around 10:30 so we can grab a few things to cook for lunch? I have some kitchen gadgets I never use, and I’d love to see what you’d do with them,” he said, smiling with genuine excitement.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed, grabbing the container of lettuce Michael had prepped and carrying it to the station.

The rest of the week seemed to drag on as I waited for Saturday to come. I was genuinely excited to hang out with Michael and cook together. The best part was texting back and forth all week, brainstorming menu ideas and putting together our shopping list. In the end, we decided on a one-pan pasta, caprese salad with a pesto drizzle, oven-roasted asparagus, and mascarpone cheesecake for dessert.

On Saturday morning, I stopped by an ATM to pull out $50 to help cover groceries, then waited eagerly for Michael to arrive. He showed up like clockwork at 10:30 AM, which I thought was awesome. I love when a man shows up on time. It is such a genuine show of respect. I also took note of Michael’s big smile and a glint in his eyes when I walked out to the car.

As we made our way to the grocery store, Michael and I were bubbling with excitement, already imagining how much fun it would be to put his unused appliances to the test and share a homemade lunch. Grocery shopping itself felt like an adventure. Wandering through the produce section, I launched into an impromptu cooking lesson: explaining which onions were best for different dishes, sharing my favorite ways to prepare eggplant (Michael was amazed to learn white eggplants even existed), and showing him how to choose the perfect avocados and watermelons. I talked a mile a minute while he listened, smiling and soaking up every word.

Once we’d finished shopping, we hauled the paper bags up to his third-floor apartment, laughing the whole way and praying the bags wouldn’t tear before we reached the door. Thankfully, we made it with no mishaps.

As I started unpacking, I told Michael what we’d need to set out — the skillet, a knife and cutting board, his food processor, and a few other tools. We got right to work chopping and portioning ingredients, and then I heated up the skillet to start the main course. Meanwhile, Michael began prepping the cheesecake and preheating the oven. We decided to save making the pesto for last, since it would come together quickly.

The cheesecake would take a while to bake, but as Michael moved between steps, he kept checking back to watch how I was making the one-pan pasta. He seemed genuinely surprised by how simple it was, and loved the idea of only needing a single pan. Once the pasta was finished and plated, I showed him how to use his food processor for the pesto.

I couldn’t help feeling a bit envious of how nice his machine was — a professional-grade Ninja, a Christmas gift from his mom, though he admitted he hadn’t used it before today. As I walked him through each step, he was amazed at how quick and easy fresh pesto was to make.

On the counter, he had a bag of bruschetta crisps, so I handed him one to taste-test the pesto while I plated the caprese salad. The moment he took a bite, a blissful smile spread across his face.

“This is way better than the pre-packaged stuff from work,” he grinned, reaching for another crisp. “It’s so fresh, and so easy to make.”

“Wait,” I laughed, stopping him with a playful swat. “I still need enough to drizzle on the salad!”

As I reached for the container of pesto, our hands brushed. We locked eyes, both of us blushing, before breaking into shy smiles and returning to our meal prep.

Once the main course and side dishes were ready, we decided to eat while the cheesecake finished baking. There were enough dishes to fill the dishwasher, so we worked side by side in a comfortable silence, cleaning up what we could. We kept accidentally bumping into each other and smiling, falling into a rhythm that reminded me of our teamwork at Nonna’s — moving between prepping, cleaning, and serving — but somehow lighter and happier with just the two of us.

When the kitchen was mostly tidied up, I poured us each a glass of wine and we sat down at his dining room table. As Michael took his first bite, his face lit up with that same blissful expression from earlier, and it made me so happy to see how much he was enjoying our meal.

“Thank you for showing me all of this,” he said, grinning. “It makes me excited to try more recipes on the weekends.”

“I’m so glad it was helpful,” I replied, feeling a wave of pride. “Honestly, I learned everything through trial and error, and Google — and setting off a smoke alarm now and then.”

We burst out laughing and savored the rest of our lunch, soaking in the easy comfort of the moment until the cheesecake was finally ready. After we devoured our slices, I helped Michael clean up what was left, then gathered the paper grocery bags to take down to the communal recycling bin. Glancing at the oven clock, I realized how completely we’d lost track of time in our conversation.

Michael frowned slightly. “I was supposed to meet some guys for pool later,” he said. “I’m really sad our time’s coming to an end. I had a lot of fun today.”

I smiled warmly and reassured him, “We’ll find time to do this again.”

He drove me back home, and I ended the day feeling happy and grateful for such a simple, joyful afternoon.

But days turned into weeks, then months, and the chance to hang out again never came. Michael abruptly left Nonna’s, and I moved on to another job. Our text conversations faded until we lost contact altogether.

I still thought of him from time to time, hoping life had treated him well. Some days, I almost second-guessed whether that chapter of my life had been real — it was so rare to find that kind of easy, genuine connection with a coworker, or with any man, really.

Eventually, I chalked it up to a distant, sweet memory, never imagining I’d see him again. By the time I moved to my new city, nearly fifteen years had passed since I’d last seen him.

I wasn’t in the restaurant business anymore. I had switched to banking, working my way up from a teller to a mortgage loan originator. Now I had my own office with a stunning view of the park, where I could watch the changing colors of the seasons and enjoy the shimmering water in summer.

That day was just another ordinary afternoon. I was sitting at my desk reviewing files, half-dreaming about when I could take my next PTO day to enjoy the summer weather, when I noticed a flashing notification from one of the tellers up front.

There’s a customer here looking to apply for a mortgage, she messaged. Are you available?

I sighed, then typed back: Yes, go ahead and send them back.

A few minutes later, a tall man stepped into my office — stubble on his face, the same boyish charm, that sweet smile, and the gentle warmth I remembered so well. At first, he offered a polite, professional smile as he walked toward the chair to sit down. But as I stood to greet him, I suddenly recognized him.

He still smiled the same way he had over simmering tomato sauce all those years ago, though I wondered if he would even remember my name.

As he reached for my hand, his polite smile briefly shifted into a look of recognition, like someone trying to place a half-forgotten memory.

“Do I know you?” he asked, taking my hand in his.

I smiled warmly. “Yes — it’s Rose. It’s been a while since we worked together at Nonna’s. How have you been?”

Michael’s face lit up as we started catching up on life. He told me he’d left Nonna’s to accept a supply chain management internship at Redline Logistics. They hadn’t originally planned to take him on, but another intern backed out at the last minute, opening up a spot. The catch was that he had barely a week and a half to get everything packed and move to Arizona before the internship started. By the time he’d settled in and adjusted, he accidentally dropped his phone in the swimming pool at his apartment and lost all his contacts. After that, we just lost touch, and neither of us could track the other down on social media.

“So I’m guessing you won’t be buying a house with a pool?” I teased.

He laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, no pools.”

I was grateful for the slow afternoon, since no other customers came in to interrupt us. Michael and I ended up talking for nearly an hour and a half, catching up while I took down his mortgage application details. He mentioned he wasn’t married or dating anyone, and neither was I, so as I handed him my business card, I discreetly wrote my personal number on the back so we could stay in touch this time.

Later that day, Michael texted to ask if I’d like to come by for dinner again. This time, he promised, he wouldn’t need quite as much guidance in the kitchen. The invitation warmed my heart, reminding me that what we shared back then hadn’t been just a dream.

I texted back to finalize our plans for the weekend, smiling the entire way home. It gave me hope — hope that whatever was meant for me in life might still find its way back, even if it took fifteen years.

Just like back then, a wave of excitement washed over me as I counted down the days until our dinner. We wouldn’t be grocery shopping together this time, but Michael still offered to pick me up and bring me over to his place, and we planned to cook side by side once more.

When Saturday evening came, something felt different. Where before he’d arrived right on time with a bright smile and sparkling eyes, this time he didn’t show up at the agreed time. At first, I told myself he was probably stuck in traffic or caught up with something unavoidable. Surely, he wouldn’t have forgotten. He’d been so excited.

I waited fifteen minutes, checking my phone repeatedly. Still nothing. I tried calling him, but it rang and rang before going to voicemail.

A pang of sadness washed over me, as though my hopes had soared only to have the rug yanked out from under me. Confusion settled in, leaving me wondering if I’d misread everything. Was I reading too deeply into our conversations? Had I missed some sign along the way?

I didn’t want to seem like an annoyance in case there was a legitimate reason he hadn’t shown up. Maybe he’d gotten stuck late at work. So I sent him a quick text asking if it might be better to reschedule.

But as another hour ticked by past our agreed-upon time, I accepted that, for whatever reason, our plans weren’t going to happen. Feeling deflated, I decided to order a pizza and sulk around the house.

When the pizza finally arrived, I tried to distract myself with some Netflix, but just as I settled in, the power abruptly went out. I grabbed my phone to report the outage and saw a notice from the utility company: there had been an accident in the neighborhood where a car had hit a power pole. While the power hadn’t been knocked out immediately, it had to be cut off temporarily to allow for the necessary repairs.

I knew that stretch of road. People were always speeding around the curve and losing control. Still, I didn’t think much of it at the time, too wrapped up in my disappointment over the missed dinner. I found a book and read by the fading light until the sun went down, then finally gave in and went to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, I still felt the sting of missing my date, but I tried to tell myself that life goes on. Maybe my run-in with Michael was just meant to be a pleasant trip down memory lane. At least the power had come back, so I could make my morning coffee.

I poured a cup and sat at my kitchen island, scrolling through the notifications that had come in overnight. A message from my best friend about some celebrity gossip. A LinkedIn post from a contact looking for a new job. News updates about the upcoming governor’s race.

Then I saw an article that made my heart stop. My phone slipped from my hands and landed hard on my bare foot, but I barely registered the pain. I collapsed to the floor, struggling to breathe.

The car that hit the pole in my neighborhood last night hadn’t simply lost control. It had been struck by a drunk driver, who survived the crash and was being treated at a local hospital before facing charges. But the other driver — the one shoved into the pole — had been killed on impact.

It was Michael.

The article showed a photo of his mangled car, and in the corner of the passenger-side window, I could see a bouquet of flowers — flowers he must have been bringing to me.

The grief overwhelmed me. Sobs wracked my body as I scrolled through the story, tears streaming down my face. Why did this have to happen? Why was someone so kind and gentle taken so suddenly, while the one who caused it walked away? Why did the universe let me glimpse happiness only to rip it away again?

It wasn’t fair. It would never be fair.

But as the tears slowed, I realized life doesn’t wait for fairness. It demands we carry on, even when our hearts break.

I thought of Michael’s warmth, his kindness, and the brief second chance fate had given us. Maybe that was enough — a reminder that connection matters, even if fleeting.

With trembling hands, I picked up my phone and typed a message I’d meant to send long ago:

“Thank you for the memories. You’ll never be forgotten.”

And in that moment, I found a fragile kind of peace.