Even drunk me.
“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” I ask Sky.
Bradley has made his way over by the pinball machine. He slams his fist on the top of the glass, which elicits a warning finger from one of the bouncers.
“Designated driver,” Sky says with a half-smile.
“You seem down.” I take a deep drink from my beer. The bar collectively gasps, then winces as the guy running around the bases is out. Stupid blurry TV screen.
“Can I ask you something and you’ll answer me honestly?”
I look into her soft hazel eyes. I’m instantly jealous of her thick black eyebrows and thick black eyelashes. I look closer and confirm that she’s not wearing mascara. Bitch. “Shoot.”
“Does Brad seem weird to you lately?”
I find my best friend in the crowded bar, now trying to fish a stuffed animal from the claw machine. He feeds the thing more dollars and presses the buttons unsuccessfully.
“Yes.”
Sky stares at her French manicure. “I know he’s your best friend, and I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk to you lately. I just don’t want to lose him. He’s been acting so weird. He’s always late for our dates. He didn’t go to class two days in a row. He’s spending all this money on stupid things like shoes and watches.”
“I thought the watch was a gift?” My question gets lost in the fury of cheers and dudes hugging each other.
“What?” she asks, cupping her hear against the noise.
My chest gets hot like when you’re caught in a lie. Except I’m not the one lying, Bradley is. “I said guys are stupid. They don’t know how to act.”
Sky smiles, her pink lips an ethereal brush on her face. “The chef?”
I can feel my face turn as red as her jersey. The bartender sets the plate of Irish nachos in front of us. Someone bumps into me and apologizes.
“Leave it to some bar in Boston to come up with Irish nachos,” Sky says. She pulls out a thin wedge of potato drenched in melted cheese, chives, bacon bits, and tons of sour cream.
“It’s genius,” I say, hoping we can change the subject. I shove potato in my mouth, breathing out the piping hot steam and chewing carefully so as to not give my tongue third degree burns. Not that I’ll be using my tongue for anything exciting tonight.
“I saw the paper,” Sky says. “I didn’t want to say anything, but, well, I’m lying. I’ve been dying to know.”
I fake-laugh. “It was a stupid accident.”
Sky smirks knowingly, “But there’s more.”
I sigh. I’m pretty good at holding stuff in. If I don’t have to deal with it, then it doesn’t exist. I’m like an ostrich, digging my head into the sand to avoid the world. So I tell her. I tell her that James makes me angry. That I don’t know if I want to kiss him or punch him in the gut. I tell her that we hooked up—letting the vagueness of it linger. That my mom invited the reporter to the tasting. That the reporter is James’s ex. That aside from all of this, there’s something else he’s hiding. That I don’t know if I’m attracted to him because he’s hard to decipher or because he’s actually a good guy.
“I know exactly how not to pick ’em,” I say.
“Shit.” She shakes her head. “I think you picked just right. So what if that’s his ex? He clearly doesn’t want her there, and she’s obviously so obsessed with him that she follows his drama all over town. He should get her fired for being a fucking stalker.”
“So why won’t he text or call me?”
Sky pulls a wedge of potato and dips it in the blob of sour cream in the center of the plate. “Have you tried to text or call him?”
I try to think on it. “No.”
“I’m not saying you should go all out and chase a guy. Not all guys are worth chasing. But I’ve known you for two years and I’ve never even seen you care. Not like this. A text isn’t going to kill you. Plus, you’re basically his boss.”
“Chefs and managers are pretty much on the same level.”
She grunts with a mouthful of Irish nachos. “Whatever, you know what I mean. Don’t sabotage it because you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.” I take my shot of whiskey and down it, as if that proves my non-existent fear of James. It burns going down, but fills me with the first moment of calm I’ve had in two days.
Sky grins and nods. “Sure you’re not.”
“Sky, if you knew a guy was holding something back and didn’t bring it up because you were hoping that he’ll come clean on his own—how foolish does that make you? And just so we’re clear, by ‘you’ I mean ‘me.’”
As she thinks, Sky looks both lovely and sad. It’s as if she’s coming to a realization of her own. I really wish I could give her peace of mind when it comes to Bradley, but I’d just be backing up his lies. Even now, my silence makes me feel shameful.
“Most people don’t come clean until they’re caught,” Sky says. “My dad would get caught cheating on my mom pretty much every three months. But he’d deny it. He’d deny it so hard that I think he believed he was innocent. Still, my mom saw what she wanted to see. When you’re in love, you’ll always be a little bit foolish. It’s not the other person that has to come clean. You have to be able to come clean to yourself.”
As the Sox knock it out of the park, Sky and I sit in a strange quiet solidarity. When the food is all gone and my beer is empty, Bradley’s shot of whiskey is still on the table. We turn around and search for his mop of blonde hair, but nothing. I see the worry cloud Sky’s face. Fucking Bradley… I can’t even process him right now. Sky calls him, sticking her finger into her free ear to hear better.
“Where are you?” she yells. Her eyes are wide and furious. “What do you mean you left? Don’t tell me to calm down. We were six feet away from you. Don’t—What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I want to bury my head in the sand for Sky. She throws the phone into her purse, holds the ledge of the bar for support. She blinks hard. I wait until she’s composed herself before I put my hand on her back.
“Ready to go?”
She nods. I leave money on the bar, downing Bradley’s untouched shot. There are two things you shouldn’t spill over guys: tears or good whiskey.
Chapter 32
Freshly showered and under my covers, I start drifting off when my phone buzzes.
It’s a Boston area code. I normally don’t pick up numbers I don’t know, but ever since I got the company phone, I have to. If it’s that same liquor rep calling about his special wine, I swear—
“Hello?”
I can hear something drop on the other line and a quiet “shit.” Then, he clears his throat. “Lucky?”
I throw the covers off me, my skin prickling from the sudden exposure to air-conditioned air. “James?”
I smack my forehead at how eager I sound.
“The very same.”
We’re both quiet. I feel like I have a thousand words stuck in my mouth and I don’t know how to form them into coherent statements. “Can I help you? Or are you just going to breathe into the phone, which, I gotta tell you, is a little creepy.”
“No, dumbass,” he says, and it makes me smile because at least he’s being normal.
“Well, jerk face, what do you want?”
“Am I not allowed to call my boss at midnight the eve of the big tasting?”
“You changed your number.”
“Yeah,” is all he says. We fall into that white noise silence.
“Please don’t tell me you blew up the kitchen or something,” I say. “Because I’m this close to having a heart attack.”
“I just—I’m in your lobby. Can you come down?”
I hang up and grab a robe from the closet. Of course it’s silky and lacy and looks weird against my sweat pants and tank top, but it’s faster than looking for a bra on the mess of clothes on my floor.
The doorman waves when he sees me, but my eyes are trained on James. He’s in the waiting area of the lobby. There’s
a fireplace and plush couches. He sits with his elbows propped up on his knees.
“Hey,” I say.
He stands. “Hey.”
“We can’t talk here.” Without waiting for him, I go outside and down the street. At the corner, manicured trees line the sidewalk. From here, the view of the harbor, the twinkling Boston lights, is pretty beautiful. It’s cold as hell, but when James offers me his jacket, I shake my head. From the look on his face he didn’t exactly come to make out.
“I’m sorry, Lucky—” he says.
Why is it that your body turns hot when you’re waiting someone to finish a sentence after that? It’s like I’m walking on a tight rope across a volcano and my skin is on fire.
“I’m sorry I’ve been a dick.”
“Okay. Do you want to explain why you’ve been a dick?”
“When Stella called me into her office I knew we were in trouble. Or rather, I knew I was in trouble. She had that shit paper on her desk, and then Stella said she invited Clarissa to the tasting—”
“Your ex-fiancé.”
“Yeah.”
Volcano. Volcano. Volcano.
James clears his throat again and continues. “There’s nothing to tell anymore. It was three years ago. We dated for about a year and got engaged right quick. I proposed because I knew that’s what she wanted. But I was still just a line cook and it wasn’t enough for her. So I broke it off. I didn’t want to be with someone who made me feel like shit after spending twelve hours a day working my ass off. When I went on the show she was all over me again, but I haven’t returned a single call since. The only time I see her name is when someone shows me whatever shit she writes about me in that gossip column.”
“She’s DO NOT ANSWER,” I say.
James nods, stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket. “That’s why I changed my number.”
“What does that have to do with me, James?” I shiver in the salty breeze. “What does that have to do with why you were a dick to me? We had a good time together and in seconds you turned into that guy.”
“I’m sorry.”
I wish he would stop saying that. I’m sorry doesn’t mean anything. “It’s done. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I was in a terrible mood. I don’t love her, but I also don’t want to see her again. There are some things about my past that you wouldn’t understand.”
Anger snakes around my heart. The heat in my chest getting to the point where I can’t stand it. “You haven’t even tried. How can you know I won’t understand?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It could be very simple to me,” I say. “At least I’ll get to see Clarissa for a second time.”
In the shadow of the trees, James’s face is stricken with shock. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she came to the restaurant the day after the fight. The day you didn’t show up because a family emergency you won’t talk about.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?” He shouts.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I shout back. “First you hate me. Then you can stand me. Then you fight for me and kiss me and—Why can you do all of those things except tell me about your past?”
James drops his face into his hands. He balls them into fists that stay firmly at his sides. “Because you wouldn’t want to know! You think you do, but you really don’t.”
I reach out to touch his chest, but he takes a step away. “I’m standing here telling you that I want to know.”
I take my phone and start looking through the photos. I decided to hide the original somewhere my mom or Felicity wouldn’t accidentally find.
“I thought we were talking, Lucky. What does Bradley need now?”
I decide to ignore that. I click on the picture I took of his mugshot and hold it out to his face. I watch his features go stone cold. He takes another step back.
“Clarissa gave me this,” I tell him. It’s surprising how freeing that feels. It’s also surprising how shitty it feels to watch his struggle with his explanation. “She must really hate you.”
James laughs bitterly. “My bike certainly thinks so.”
Our silence is broken by the long horn of a truck, the cry of sirens, and the laughter of nighttime revelers.
“Are you going to say anything?” I ask.
“What’s there for me to say? You’ve got everything about me right there.”
My anger licks at the wounds in my heart. “That’s what you want to say right now?”
“What more do you want?” he asks. “What do you want from me?”
“The truth!” I press my hands on his chest and push him. “I want an explanation, James. I’ve been waiting all this time, trying to get you to tell me yourself. Don’t you think I know what Clarissa was trying to do? I don’t care about her. I care about you. I care if your past is catching up to your present. I’m sorry for hoping that you would be the one to talk first. James I—”
“You don’t want to hear it, Lucky.” He presses his finger into his chest. He turns around as if he’s going to hop in his car and drive away from me. For a second, I think he just might. James turns around and lets out a frustrated scream. When he faces me, I don’t recognize the James I know in his features. His anger and pain distort him in the shadows. The sadness that cloaks him fills me and scares me, but I stand still.
“I do,” I say. I’m shaking. Even despite all of this I still want to put my arms around James. To tell him that there’s nothing he can say that’ll push me away. Except I’m not so certain. “I want to know.”
I think about what Sky said, that people only confess when they’ve been caught. Or they deny. There is no denial in James’s face. There is sheer, ugly acceptance.
“I’m the reason.” His words, slow and sorrowful, linger in the night. “I’m the reason she’s dead.”
It takes me a second to realize that he’s talking about his mother. I wanted the truth, and now here it is. James stares at me, waiting for me to speak, but I can’t.
“Do you know what it’s like to live every single day knowing that you’re the reason your family is broken? That no matter how successful you can get, it doesn’t matter because no amount of money can bring her back?”
He waits for my response. I don’t have one. This is what he went to jail for? It’s like I’m seeing a whole different side of him. For days I’ve had pieces of him. Now I have the complete version and I don’t know what to say.
“I told you,” he tells me. “You didn’t want to know. Now you have your answers.”
“James!” I want him to understand that my silence isn’t because I think he’s no good. That I’m just trying to process it all. But he’s already in his car. I smack the side of the door, and he hits the gas pedal.
Chapter 33
After a fitful night of sleep in which I dream of a sixteen year old James beating a guy to a pulp, I wake up with puffy eyes. It’s the morning of the tasting so I put my game face on: mascara, black cat eye, and lip balm. I put my dress on a hanger and zip it up in a garment bag along with Felicity’s dress, and it goes in the office until we can get ready before everything starts.
I line up my wait staff and go over the final details. The tasting menus are printed on gold card stock with beautiful black calligraphy. The dishes are listed in order of appearance: ricotta and rosemary honey on toast, roasted summer vegetable salad tossed with crispy chicken skin, crab bisque with crème fraîche and jalapeño croutons, fried oyster sliders with a purple cabbage cilantro relish, fried shrimp and crab dumplings, braised duck medallions with a cranberry sauce, lamb pops served with confit potato mash, and finishing it off with a “Boston” strip steak with sautéed garlic spinach.
If you ask me, you can’t just take the New York strip steak and call it Boston. But no one asked me, and I have too many things to worry about. Still, I can’t help but smile when I see the new additions and changes. Then I replay our conversation from last night and I have to force my
self to focus on the task at hand.
“Does anyone have any questions?”
Junior raises his hand. “How’s the lamb cooked?”
“As per the chef’s recommendation, medium rare,” I say.
Junior’s hair is slicked back in a David Beckham pouf. His skin is ten times more polished than mine, giving him a radiant vibe. Beside him Sammy is in a matching white outfit. The white was Felicity’s idea. White on white with gold accents. Sammy’s lips are ruby red and ready to go. She takes fervent notes in a tiny flip pad.
When Stella met them it took about five minutes for her to warm up. Between Junior’s smile and Sammy’s perfect finger wave, Stella realized that it was the kind of glamour she wanted.
Felicity runs up behind me and whispers, “The other two waitresses just cancelled.”
“Are you fucking with me right now?” I shout.
“Nope.”
“Did they say why?”
“Something about the rain and traffic,” she says. “I hung up before they could finish.”
“Call some of the ‘maybes’ and see if any of them are available in the next three hours.” I run past where Junior and Sammy are setting up the tables, making sure everyone has the proper cutlery. We’ve decided to do five tables of six people each instead of one long banquet like Stella originally wanted.
I open a Staples box with the seating arrangements cards, the cardboard slicing through my finger. I curse like a sailor and stick my finger in my mouth to stop the blood. When I pull back the top, I’m frozen. Of course, out of any day for everything to start going wrong, it’s the day of the tasting. An intimate gathering of network execs, bloggers, and critics, and instead of their individual names, I have a dozen fuchsia birthday invitations to a quinceañera.
I take a seat in my mom’s chair. When Felicity and I left this morning she was still in her room with the door locked. I could have sworn I heard her leave in the morning, but I was probably dreaming.
Luck on the Line Page 18
