by Virna DePaul
“It’s fine,” Lee says, tired and sad. “What’s one more broken thing in this mess?”
There is nothing more to say. I step over the cracked glass and the spilled wine and I hope it doesn’t leave a stain. There’s already been too many stains tonight.
I hold up the hem of my gown as I walk across the floor, mindful of every click of my heels against the hardwood floor. Lee must be still standing there by the cracked glass and the scattered letters and the spilled wine. By the fucking mess.
Is he staring at the floor? At the cold food sitting untouched in the middle of the table he set up nicely? Is he staring at the fire fixtures, losing himself in the hypnotic flames, wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else? Or is he staring at me?
As I walk away, is he staring at me and wishing I’d just burn in hell? Is he hoping he’ll never see me again or my damned blog for the rest of his life? Is he wishing he never touched my computer that fateful morning?
Or as I walk away, is he waiting for me to turn around?
I almost check. I almost look over my shoulder. But I don’t know what I would do if he wasn’t looking. I don’t even know what I would do if he was.
The restaurant front door has never felt heavier or harder to push open than it does now. There must be some strong winds pushing against it, but once I get outside, there’s no wind at all.
For a moment, I pause, waiting on the Manhattan sidewalk just outside of Lee’s restaurant. Couples stroll by me hand in hand, arm in arm, and I watch them go. I guess I should get a cab. Several drive by without passengers, but I'm frozen on the sidewalk. One even pulls over and asks if I need a ride. I numbly shake my head, and the driver gives me a strange look before driving away.
I have no idea how long I stand before deciding to walk off in some random direction. I should find a bar. I just don't want to think about what just happened. I don't want to think about Lee's face. Ugh, his face. I don't want to think about the possibility that maybe he was right.
Not even the constant traffic can drown out my thoughts. Car horns blare around me and the chatter of pedestrians surrounds me, and the loud music of bars and clubs blast again and again. But it feels like I'm walking entirely alone, like the streets are empty and the bars and restaurants and clubs are all empty.
Was I wrong?
Was he right that I'm only mad because I'm stuck in my fear? That I refuse to take off the mask that I hide behind on the internet? That I’ve been refusing to listen to him, even as he started listening to me?
I walk faster, like I can somehow outrun these thoughts that push and crowd my head no matter how hard I try to shove them away.
I originally thought what Lee did was his way of getting back at me for what I’d done. But had he really read what I wrote and seen truth in it?
I remember his furious expression when I told him his alleged feelings for me, and his ability to change as a result, were bullshit … He’d been so angry.
But there had been something else there, too.
Hurt.
A stab of guilt hits my stomach, and I nearly double over right there on the streets of New York City. I called bullshit because I was angry and felt hurt myself. And maybe because I know the truth: Lee’s changed and he hasn’t.
He hasn’t changed in that he was still Lee, my brother’s friend. My brother’s friend. A kind and generous man that would never intentionally hurt me.
But he’d also changed in that he wasn’t just the player letting women and good times and casual sex get in the way of what was really important in life. His cooking and career, yes, but also the chance for something more meaningful. Intimacy. Connection.
Love.
As for his duplicity, I couldn’t forget my own. I lied to Lee because I made a mistake and I became afraid of losing him as a result. What if Lee hadn’t told me he knew I was the blogger because he didn’t want to lose me? What if he hoped to get me to open up to him exactly as I’d done, knowing that was the only way it would happen?
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I'm startled when I find myself back outside my own apartment building. How long have I been walking? I feel the blisters on my feet as I wait for the elevator. I feel the tiredness seeping into my bones as I ride it up to my floor. The tears start as I limp down the hall. I fall into a heap on my bed, and I don't even care that my running mascara will stain my sheets.
I sob into my pillow.
I should just call Lee and tell him that I fucked up but I’m paralyzed. Scared. Confused.
I imagine Lee meeting up with some girl right now. He's wearing a brand-new suit, ridiculously expensive and flashy, and driving an ostentatious, impractical car. She’s a model and she has big tits and long, tan legs and a skintight dress. They’ll pretend to be into each other for the length of time it takes to down three tequila shots, and then they’ll head to her place for some wild sex before he slips away. Tomorrow it will be a different suit, a different car, a different girl. And the same exact thing.
It makes me feel better to imagine that, after this horrible night, he'll slip right back into his old ways. Because then that means that I was right about Lee.
But if Lee is at home, alone by himself, then it's me.
I was wrong.
And I just ruined the best chance I had of being with the man I love.
Chapter 18
Lee
* * *
“All of them?”
“Yes,” I say. “All of them.”
“You can’t mean all of them.”
“Joe.”
“I'm sorry, Lee. It's just this is ... this is, well, sudden.”
“I know.”
“You want to put all your restaurants up for sale?”
“That's what I'm saying.”
Joe, my business manager and long-time friend, shakes his head as he leans back in his chair and whistles. While standing there in his high rise office, I’m absentmindedly staring out the huge windows. I realize too late that I'm staring at Jenna's firm's office building across the street. I turn away and look instead at the sports memorabilia littered across Joe's desk.
“Look, Lee.” Joe leans forward and props his elbows on the desk. “I know you've been different recently. You're trying to keep up those changes and all and that's great. It really is. I'm proud of you, pal. But this is rash as hell.”
“It's what I want.”
With a sigh, he reaches underneath his desk and brings up two glasses and a bottle of whiskey worth more than my first car. I sit down opposite his huge desk.
“Liquoring me up isn't going to change my mind,” I say as I lean forward and take the glass from him.
Joe laughs. “Worth a try.”
“This is the right decision for me at this point in my life, Joe. You have to see that.”
Joe studies me over the lip of his glass. He sips and studies me some more. “I don't get it, Lee. What happened to you?”
I laugh at the question, because it's the wrong question. I don't tell Joe he should have asked who happened to me. But I don't want to have to think about her. I already see her every time I close my eyes, and that's more than enough.
“Did you find Jesus or something?” Joe asks, punching my shoulder from across the desk.
“Or something,” I say with a smile.
“What if we just have you take a smaller role in the restaurants, huh? We can hire some great chefs and they’ll handle all the new menus and all the hiring of the staff and whatever else happens back there in those kitchens. That way you can focus entirely on the fun part, right? The media and the events and the pictures and the girls.” He raises his glass up to me. “I've seen those girls, Lee. We'll help you just do girls full time. Huh?”
“Joe.”
“Keep all the good parts and get rid of the boring ones.”
I shake my head. He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how I've changed, how what I want in life has changed. There's only one person I thought did un
derstand all of that and, apparently, I was wrong. She didn't understand, either.
“The fun parts aren't fun anymore, Joe,” I start to explain.
“Fucking hot models isn't fun?” Joe asks, raising his eyebrows in utter disbelief.
I get why he doesn’t believe me. I’ve been living a guy’s dream life for the past couple years. But I think I've been trying to convince myself that it was my dream life, too. It’s been easy to overlook the fact it’s empty and superficial and, above all, lonely.
“You really willing to give all that up?” Joe asks. “Lee, come on. This isn't you. It's been fun and all, but come on.”
“Joe, who writes that paycheck for you?”
“Your accountant, Sheila.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Joe refills my glass, even though a second glass of whiskey still won’t make me change my mind.
“Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean. And look Lee, do whatever you want. I'm also going to do whatever you want, because I want to keep my Ferrari, and Nancy will kill me if I don't take her and the kids to Hawaii this year. But I'm your friend, too, Lee. And I know you can be rash. You're impulsive and you live life without a safety net.”
I patiently listen while he gives me his speech, because he's a friend and I have no qualms about sipping his ridiculously priced whiskey.
“Lee, I just want to make sure you're not going to regret your decision.”
I throw back the last of the whiskey and stand up. Joe watches me with wary eyes, and I know he isn't going to like what I'm going to say. But I'm going to say it.
“All of them, Joe.” I point a finger at him and smile. “Sell all of them.”
I leave his office, and he shouts after me, “All of them?”
“All of them!” I shout back as I step onto the elevator.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes as the buttons beep from floor to floor. I feel good. I feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted. I'm proud of my restaurants I've built from the ground up here in New York. Prouder than I can say. Every brick has my name on it. Every decoration, linen selection, and menu creation has my name on it. From the floor to the ceiling, I've touched everything. They are mine.
But in a lot of ways, they've been taken from me. It's become about the fame and less about the restaurants themselves. They're about my persona and not about the food I touch and create and love.
So, I'm going to go find something that will reflect the real me.
Bryce will be shocked, of course. When he gets back from Japan, I won’t be here. I’m going to need to tell him everything eventually. That I’d taken my shot with Jenna and had failed. And I’d also thank him for encouraging me to take my shot, because otherwise I’d always have wondered what could have been.
The elevator doors open, and I slide through the crowd and out onto the street. More than ever, it feels like everything is before me.
My phone beeps and I check a new email. I'm selling the cars, the loft, the clothes, the furniture, the stuff, the watches and pocket squares and shoes. I'm getting rid of all this expensive stuff I've hidden behind. All the stuff I thought I needed to be who I wanted to be, but was really making me someone I wasn't.
Once I get rid of it all, I'm leaving the city. Maybe I'll be back at some point, but not for a long while. I'm going to travel around the world and study and learn and listen. With every new location and new culture, I want to know how those people cook, how they share food, how they build connections around dining and eating and laughing. I want to get back to the craft and the passion behind the craft, not all the 'fun' stuff, as Joe put it.
As I pass by Jenna's building, I can't help but think of her. How could I not? She is, after all, the reason for all of this. Her drunken blog, I should say. I can't remember the last time someone was honest with me, and that blog was certainly honest. Maybe a little too honest, but that's beside the point now.
Of course, my investors weren't happy with the blog. I can't wait to tell them about selling off all my restaurants and canceling plans for the new one. They're going to lose their fucking minds. It’s good to feel a little smug about that. They were a pain in the ass, anyway.
I’m going to have to call Owen Kiss eventually. Thank him for sticking by me through this mess and then release him from our contract. No more restaurants means no televised cooking show. No cookbooks. No Lee Bowers merchandise. And that's just fine. I don’t feel the loss of those things. I just feel the loss of Jenna.
The sooner I get rid of everything and settle all of my old business here, the better. Then I’m going to spin a globe. Well, not a real globe. I’ll just open Google Earth, close my eyes, and press my finger to some random spot on the screen. That’s where I’ll go first. I’ll buy a ticket, and then I’m off.
If only I was buying two tickets. Then, I really wouldn’t want anything else, material or not, for the rest of my life.
It’s true, and I can admit it’s true, that I’ve lived most of my life selfishly. But I just wanted to do for Jenna what she did for me. No one should be held back by fear. No one should be afraid to let go.
I messed up by not telling Jenna I knew about her blog. Maybe things would have gone differently if I had told her the moment I saw the editor's screen that morning. Would everything have worked out if I had jostled her awake right then and there and said, “What the fuck, Jenna Harrison, you sexy beast?”
But I think back to the open and honest conversations we had over instant messaging. I've known Jenna for years and years, and I've never, ever come close to having such an intimate conversation with her. Not even fucking close.
What I did wasn't the most honest way to go about things, but there is no way she would have said those things if she knew that I knew it was her.
Rubbing my forehead, I wait for the subway so I can meet with my realtor. I still get confused by the ‘who knew’ and ‘who didn't know’ of this fiasco. But I think I said that right.
I think I did ...
Since the night Jenna walked away from me at Torch, I've wondered if there was maybe another reason why I didn't just come out and tell her earlier, a reason I wasn't willing to admit even to myself.
The subway doors open, and I squeeze in. Across from me a beautiful girl makes eyes at me. Two months ago, I’d be making eyes right back and probably be leaving the subway with her. But today, I just smile politely and stare out the window as the tunnel flashes by.
That drunken blog and all the chaos that followed all ended up in the most unintended but wonderful consequence: a relationship with Jenna. We’d been friends for so long, and I'd always viewed her as entirely out of my league. She’s so smart and successful and driven. It felt so fragile and unbelievable that she wanted to be with me. I didn't want to let go of whatever strange thing we had. Maybe that’s the secret reason I didn’t come out and tell her. What we had was because of the blog, so I worried once I let go of the blog, she'd let go of me. I was afraid of that moment when she walked away.
And it happened. What I feared would happen, happened.
Some day, Jenna will meet a guy who is worth leaping for. He’ll make her want to open up and be brave and uncover that mask of hers.
I hope she finds him. Because he’s clearly not me. That’s what she told me when she walked away from Torch that night.
I’m not the one.
Chapter 19
Jenna
* * *
At the end of the day, I step out of my office and breathe in pollution and sweat and street food, but it feels like the freshest air in the world.
My office was stifling today, absolutely stifling. I called maintenance three times to come and make sure nothing was wrong with the air conditioning or the ventilation system or the window or whatever else was making it so God damn stifling.
“Ma’am, nothing is wrong with your office,” Alex had said for the fifth time.
Bless his heart for being patient with me. He
ended up saying it eight more times during the afternoon.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Alex had nodded. Like he nodded the other five times before that. I stood there, stripped down to just a lace spaghetti-strap top, my slacks rolled up to my knees, no shoes on. My feet probably stank, but I couldn’t stand stuffing them into my closed toe, courtroom appropriate black kitten heels.
All day, the air was heavy and unmoving. Shit, I could have sworn the fucking walls were closing in on me. The ceiling, too. But I didn’t tell anyone, because I didn’t want Human Resources to send over the wagon with the men in all white uniforms.
“Maybe you’re coming down with something, ma’am?” Alex asks now, with a hint of worry in his voice. “A bug of some kind maybe?”
“It feels all right in here to you?” I fidget with the pens, the pencils, the paperclips. “It really doesn’t feel like it’s ninety degrees?”
“If anything, it’s cooler in here than anywhere else in the building. I can bring up a fan though, if you’re uncomfortable?”
I thank him and promise to take him out for a whole lotta beer for all the hassle I put him through. And it was a lot of hassle.
He pauses at the door to my office. “You sure you don’t want the fan?”
“I’m good, Alex. I don’t think what’s wrong with me can be solved with a fan.”
“Guy problems, ma’am?” he asks with a wink.
“Me problems, I think.”
“Even worse.”
“Tell me about it.”
The rest of the day, I suffered through. Shifting around uncomfortably in my chair, trying to focus on the view out my window, and escaping to the bathroom every fifteen minutes to splash cold water against my neck.
Outside on the street, I check my watch. Hmmm, I’m probably going to be late for my date with William over in midtown. I should hurry to catch the next subway train, but I just can’t get my feet to start that hurrying. Ambivalence is too strong a word for my feelings about this date tonight. I’m hoping it will at least serve as a distraction for a couple hours. I mean, there will be alcohol. Alcohol should help, right?
