Love at First Fight

by Aarons, Carrie

  “How many siblings do you have again?” Heather asks me curiously.

  “Seven,” I say, before the thought hits me. “Uh … six. I was one of eight.”

  The whole table goes quiet, and that cloud of misery I’ve been trying to shake for six months looms close over my head.

  “You have to go back to the city tonight?” Jacinda pipes up, saving me from myself.

  “Yeah, I have some stuff going on at my new restaurant this week.” I try to inject as much cheeriness as a guy like me can muster into my tone.

  “Who else is going back tonight?” She peers around the table.

  Molly raises a finger, as if to say she is, too, and Ray clears his throat. “I’m going back tomorrow afternoon. Should be back on Thursday.”

  “Why don’t you let Molly ride back in your car? You’re both going to the city,” Marta suggests, and I wish the glare I give her could melt flesh.

  I’m about to protest, or extend a very rigid invitation to share my car, when Molly pipes up. “Oh no, that’s okay. I was going to browse some of the shops before the Jitney arrives, have to get my mom a little something. She’s never been out here, and she’d just love something from one of the antique shops in town.”

  It sounds so sincere, I almost believe it, but I know that the items in those shops cost thousands of dollars, even for something as small as a salt shaker.

  The rest of dinner goes off without a hitch, the conversation flowing smoothly and not delving into topics that are any deeper than surface level.

  I’m glad when my car arrives at eight and I get a full two hours of quiet by myself. I’m not the most extroverted person to begin with, and spending the weekend in a house with six other people is something I’ve barely done since I was a kid.

  Growing up, my house was a zoo, with kids and relatives always popping up, and noise always at the highest volume.

  It’s why I cherish my thousand-square-foot bachelor pad even more now. I know how hard I’ve worked for it, and when I arrive home around ten thirty, I’m greeted by pure and utter silence.

  7

  Molly

  In the end, I do visit some of the local boutiques before the eight p.m. Jitney arrives.

  Though, I buy nothing, because who can afford a beach blanket that costs seven thousand dollars? That’s more than I spend on rent for half the year.

  But it was a good excuse not to ride the two hours back to the city in the same car as Smith, and I got to listen to the audiobook that’s been in my to-be-read pile for forever, so I count it as a win.

  And while the weekend was a godsend for my nerves and self-care, it’s Monday morning and right back to the grind.

  “Come here and let me put your suntan lotion on,” I call to Rudy, an eight-year-old splashing in the creek of Central Park.

  “Mol, did you grab those morning snacks?” one of the co-counselors in my group yells over the heads of dozens of campers.

  “In the cooler. There are cheese sticks and apple slices, and then everyone gets a water,” I tell her while rubbing thick white lotion onto Rudy’s arms.

  My summers are usually even more hectic than the rest of my year. Aside from this two-month period, where I’ve given myself a slight break to enjoy the spoils of life that I never really experienced, I usually work myself to the bone in the summer.

  As a fifth grade teacher at a school located in an impoverished community in a low-income part of the city, I obviously don’t do my job for the money. Half the time, I barely break even with the salary from my day job, and I put so much of that money back into books and resources for my students that the school can’t afford or provide. And I don’t mind doing that at all. On the contrary, I’d honestly do my job for free if money was no object and I didn’t need to pay bills or live. The things I’m able to do for my students, the couple who really blossom with undivided attention and compassion, it’s all worth it.

  But, unfortunately, I do need to pay bills to be able to keep living in the city and making a difference. So I hustle in the summer. I’ve worked at the same summer camp, run inside Central Park, for the last five years. And on top of that, I wait tables like crazy. I also wait tables during the school year, but only on weekends so that I can get all of my school work and grading done. In the summer, I could work five eight-hour waitressing shifts on top of my summer camp work.

  Typically, I’m exhausted and run ragged during the summers, and Justin had finally convinced me to take some time to unwind and live out my life in the year I turned thirty. Part of me hates him now, because I’m missing out on making so much money, but part of me is happy I took the leap.

  Last weekend in the Hamptons, aside from the Smith drama, was really wonderful. Exploring the beach with Heather, going out to new places, getting out of the turbulence of the city. I can even tell that I’m more relaxed with my campers and my fellow waitstaff this week during my return to Manhattan.

  “So, how was your weekend?” Bobby, one of the counselors assigned to our group, sits down on the bench next to me.

  We watch like hawks while our forty or so campers, policed by six of us counselors, frolic in this designated area of the park during their free time. After this, we’ll walk over to the area that’s been set up for today’s craft, a draw your own portrait station. The camp is for the kids of this city’s elite and pays like you would imagine it does. Most of the kids are great, attentive and yearning to both play and learn. There are the occasional few who know how spoiled they are and just what they’re allowed to get away with at home. But overall, it’s fun working with kids younger than my normal eleven-year-olds. Most of the time, I have five- and six-year-old-girls who want me to braid their hair and tell them stories about their dolls.

  “Amazing.” I sigh. “Just what the breakup doctor ordered.”

  Bobby sniffs jealously. “Girl, I am so envious. You got rid of the asshole boyfriend and still got to go on his trip. You’re winning. Now if you’ll only let me take you out on the town this week.”

  We’ve worked together every summer for the last three years, so Bobby knows me well. And he’s always trying to make me come out with him to his latest gay club or drag show. I’m not a partier by any standards and knowing there is a chance I could get called up on stage during one of those shows? Yeah, no. My embarrassment meter would bust and I’d probably faint.

  I shake my head. “You know it will always be a no.”

  He leans in, a juicy smile on his face. “Tell me you got laid this weekend.”

  That makes me chuckle. “Since when do I strike you as the girl to go on vacation and suddenly start having one-night stands?”

  He rolls his eyes, slumping on the bench. “Come on, Molly! You’re supposed to be letting me live vicariously through you this summer. And single me would be all over the man meat in the Hamptons. Seriously, there wasn’t anyone?”

  My mind flashes back to Smith, and I must give myself away, because he smacks me on the arm.

  “Spill it!”

  I huff in annoyance. “There really is no one. I just got into a fight with Justin’s best friend, the one I told you about?”

  “Hottie McHotstick? Um, can you explain why you’re not all up in bone town with that demigod now that your ex is flaunting around in Asia?”

  The way he puts things makes me almost spit out the sip of Gatorade I just took. “You’re too much. Um, not that I want to go to bone town with anyone anytime soon, still in breakup city over here. But that would never happen. The guy looks at me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.”

  “Miss Molly, I have to go poop.” One of my five-year-olds comes up and tugs on my hand.

  “And that’s my cue.” I grin at Bobby.

  “Don’t think a little poop is going to derail me. My mission for you this summer is the demigod. If I can’t have him, you will, and then you’ll tell me all about it. Plus, I didn’t hear anything in there that said you didn’t want him not to offer.”


  The smirk on Bobby’s face can only be characterized as the cat who ate the canary.

  But he’s right. Never once did I say that I wouldn’t entertain the idea if Smith did come to me and offer.

  8

  Smith

  There are blueprints spread over the makeshift work bench of a two-by-four propped up on two sawhorses.

  I’m pouring over them, putting each detail to memory, when Campbell walks over with two glasses of what smells like Scotch.

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “It’s only four.”

  He shrugs, his big, bulky frame sitting in a folding chair next to the makeshift table. He hands me the highball, which I don’t refuse, and then tips his shaved blond head back and takes a big sip.

  My business partner is an ex-Navy SEAL with a shrewd eye for numbers and a surprisingly large tolerance for bullshit conversation. Of the two of us, he is the schmoozer, though he’s also the brains of the financial operation behind our restaurants. I’m the one who gets his hands dirty, who constructs and helps design from the studs up. I’m the half with an eerily good sense of great chefs and waitstaff, and I do my homework each and every week on industry food trends or up-and-coming products. Together, our partnership is a solid one.

  Though, we’re having a setback today.

  “If they don’t give us this liquor license, we could just sneak highball glasses to each patron’s table. Call it prohibition-style dining,” Campbell jokes.

  “They’re going to give us that license if I have to chain myself to city hall,” I quip, taking a drink myself.

  The scotch burns, but it clears my head. I forgot how much bullshit there is to deal with when opening a restaurant. We haven’t done it in almost two years, and I’m getting a migraine with how much shit is on my plate.

  “Maybe I should just stay here through the weekend,” I pose the option.

  He shakes his head, grimacing through a sip of liquor. “No, you have to go. You need a fucking break, man. I got this.”

  I nod, because we’ve already had this argument. Back at the beginning of the year, when we were trying to buy this space after Stephanie passed, I’d been in a bad place. As months went by, Campbell convinced me to take the summer part-time, and I’d pushed back so hard.

  But after a full on breakdown one weekend in March, which could have had something to do with Justin pondering asking Molly to move in or marry him, I fully committed to the Hamptons house. And I can’t deny that being by the water this weekend did help me feel marginally better.

  Suddenly, the front door of the restaurant, which is just two pieces of swinging plywood, bursts open and three chatting tornadoes of opinion and energy come charging in.

  “Smithy, you here?” I hear my aunt’s thick Brooklyn accent, and I’m jumping up.

  “Ma, Aunt Lorraine, Suzie, you can’t just come in here!” I bark at them, but no one is listening to me.

  My mother, her sister, and my first cousin all squawk about, looking at the restaurant that is still just sheetrock and construction zone.

  “Doesn’t look like much has been accomplished, Smith.” Ma gives me a skeptical look.

  “Ma, we only just bought the lot three months ago. Construction only started two weeks ago. It’s going to take a while.” I don’t even know why I’m trying to explain any of this, as none of them are going to listen to me.

  They all come up and kiss me hastily on the cheek, before clucking over to Campbell and flitting about him.

  “Oh, Campbell, you’re such a handsome boy,” my aunt Lorraine coos.

  Suzie, who is ten years older than me with a husband and three kids of her own, bats her lashes at him. “When are you going to come over so I can cook you a proper meal?”

  Mom brushes some dirt off the collar of his shirt, and I’m surprised she doesn’t lick her thumb to rub a smudge off his cheek. He just chuckles, having been very acquainted with how my family operates.

  Being one of eight kids is like being a circus animal these days. When people find out, everyone oohs and aahs at you like you literally might be hiding a tail in your pants or something. It’s just not heard of, especially for people who live in New York City, but I’m a testament that it happens.

  Coming from a big Italian family, chaos and loud relatives are my normal. I’m one of eight kids, with four aunts on my mom’s side and three uncles on my dad’s Italian slash Irish side. Don’t let the Irish last name fool you, we’re full-blooded pasta and wine consumers, with a flair for dramatics and the need to be up in every single person’s business.

  I grew up on the same street or down the block from my twenty first cousins, I’ve got three nieces and a nephew, and that doesn’t even include the extended family who show up to every Christmas, graduation party, or christening. When my oldest sister, Valerie, got married, there were four hundred people at the wedding.

  “Why haven’t you been home yet? You’ve been back in the city for three days?” my mom insists, walking up to me with her hands already near my face.

  I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ve been a little busy, Ma. I’ll try to get over tomorrow.”

  “Your father had a doctor’s appointment, would have been nice if you could have taken him.” She scowls.

  “No one told me had an appointment, or I would have put it in my schedule.” I sigh.

  For some reason, every member of my family expected this psychic ability to read each other’s brains and show up at all hours of the day, especially for things like dance recitals and doctor’s appointments.

  “The boy has too much money, it’s making him selfish.” Aunt Lorraine looks me up and down, sniffing judgmentally.

  “I’m right here, Aunt Lorraine.” I wave my arms, as if my presence isn’t completely oblivious.

  Suzie just hides a chuckle behind her hand, because all of us kids have been subjected to this Italian guilt our entire lives.

  “Show me the plans,” Ma insists, completely switching topics as if she hasn’t just accused me of not showing up for her and Dad.

  I walk over to the blueprints with just her, away from the other three people standing in this dusty, dirty construction zone.

  Pointing to the architectural designs, I begin to explain,

  “We’re putting in this sleek long bar against the front wall, right when you walk in. We want it to be kind of a fusion place. Of course, we’ll have sit down tables with a stacked menu, but we want it to be a lounge as well. Somewhere people will want to hang out all night, with a killer bar. And then over there we’ll have a massive fireplace, with pictures of the whole family in black-and-white stretching all the way up to the ceiling. There will be exposed brick, we’re trying to use a lot of the original structure since it’s so historic and beautiful.”

  I point out a few more elements, and I know I’ll be consulting with her soon on the menu. My mother is the best cook I know, and she learned it all from her own relatives back in Italy. She’s helped with every single menu I’ve ever put together.

  Mom pats my cheek. “She would be so proud of this place. You’re doing a good thing, Smithy.”

  I see it then, the abject pain in her eyes. My mother doesn’t talk much about Stephanie’s death, or the time surrounding it. But I heard her one night when I’d gone over to spend time with the family, maybe a month after the accident, crying to Dad in the kitchen.

  “How do I live now, Francis? I’m a mother, I was supposed to go first. I’m not supposed to see my baby leave this earth.”

  I never thought about it like that, I had been too wrapped up in my own pain at first. But I can’t imagine how devastated she feels waking up day after day if I know how much pain I still carry.

  “All right.” She sighs a shaky breath, turning to smile at her sister and niece. “Let’s get a move on. Diana has a bake sale at the church and I have to drop off the muffins in my car.”

  That was my mother. I don’t think the woman sat still for any second of the day. She was always moving or
helping someone.

  They all kiss Campbell and me, then whirl out as fast as they blew in.

  “Jesus, your family is nuts.” He smirks, sipping the last of his scotch.

  “You’re not lying.” I laugh, trying to get my head back into work.

  I only have one more day before I head back to the Hamptons for a straight week, and I need to get as much in as possible.

  9

  Molly

  “Thank you for dining with us, I hope you folks have a great night.”

  I give the table of elderly couples my brightest smile, since they were my best diners tonight. And secretly, I’m crossing my fingers behind my back, hoping they leave a hefty tip.

  “You were wonderful, darling. Now go get off your shift, you deserve a little fun.” One of the old women pats my hand kindly, winking as if she got up to some trouble when she was my age.

  Taking that as my cue to leave them to the bill, and hopefully have her push her husband to giving me a twenty-five percent tip or higher, I skirt around other tables and waiters to the back of Aja. It’s a French-Japanese fusion restaurant that serves fish dishes for fifty bucks a pop and has a wine list longer and more expensive than my monthly bills. I landed the job here two summers ago, and I wait tables for them on and off during the school year, too.

  Out of all my restaurant jobs, Aja is by far the best paying, though it’s the most challenging. Since it’s so high end, that means no notepads, which means memorizing the rotating menu of intricate dishes their Michelin chef puts together. I need to know the fluctuating price of certain wine bottles, and how to properly uncork table side. We serve the best sake in the city, and I have to brush up on my knowledge about that every once in a while. Not to mention the proper way to set a table, which side of a guest to put a plate down on, and just being “on” for all the patrons.