by Adams, S. C.
“That will never happen. She made her bed, and now she has to lay in it. With Jamie.”
He looks puzzled.
“Jamie? Is that the guy’s name?”
“I don’t know. Probably,” I say with a sour expression.
David looks thoughtful.
“I think we need another round.”
“I think you’re right,” I respond. My scotch is empty. It’s the second I’ve had tonight and it’s only seven. Damn. This night is never going to end.
David heads for the bar to get us a couple new drinks while I glance around the room for possible prospects. The relationship thing clearly isn’t for me. I need to go back to my old ways. There’s no time like the present to start.
“Don’t even think about it,” my friend admonishes when he returns with our liquor. “I’ve never seen you so screwed up about a girl. The last thing you need is another one complicating things.”
It’s annoying that David can read my thoughts. We’ve been friends since we were children, so it makes sense that we know each other that well. I know what David is thinking half the time. Still, I don’t want him to use his powers on me. At least not tonight.
“My mother says hello,” David shouts over the music. “She’s wondering when you’re going to come over for dinner. In other words, she wants you to go cook scampi for her.”
“I’ll make time to visit next week,” I promise. “Your mother is my favorite taste tester. I’ll need some new recipes if we’re going to open another restaurant next year.”
He sips his drink. “Are you okay with that? I know I pushed you with the building. If you really want to sell, or maybe rent it out to another chef, I’ll draw up the paperwork.”
I appreciate his attempt at placating me, but we both know he’s bluffing. David would never let me sell the building he fought so hard to buy. “It’s fine. You were right. We should ride this wave while it’s happening. Lord knows some new guy will become the ‘Next Big Thing’ and push me out of the limelight.”
“We’ll keep you up there somehow,” he says. “Enough shop talk, though. Tonight is about letting go.”
If only letting go were as easy as three scotches and mindless conversation. David tries once again to engage me in something other than Alyssa, but my brain won’t cooperate.
He exhales loud enough that the couple nearest us looks our way and shuffles towards the other side of the mostly empty bar.
“Look,” he says, pointing to a TV above our heads. “Baseball playoffs. The Mets are playing and everything.”
His distraction works this time. I’m one of the few New York outcasts that cheers for the Mets instead of the Yankees. At least I don’t root for the losers up in New England.
Alyssa is probably a Red Sox fan. All the better I cut ties with her, then.
I finish my drink while David and I engross ourselves in the game. It’s only the first inning but the Mets are already down two runs. I don’t have high hopes that they’ll make it to the Series. It’s a miracle they made it into playoffs. Maybe next year.
“You ready for another?” I ask David.
He stares at his empty glass. “I probably shouldn’t. Sandra will kill me if I come home tanked.”
Sandra is David’s live-in girlfriend. They’ve been together for pretty much their entire lives (well, five years, which feels like forever), but David is too afraid to pop the question. Sandra drops hints throughout their modest home, like bridal magazines, photos of rings, and even phone numbers for wedding planners. As far as I know, David hasn’t bitten the bait yet, but I doubt it’ll be much longer.
“Well, I don’t have anyone busting my balls about drinking, so I’m going to have another. Shall I get you a water, sissy?”
David laughs. “Fine, one more, and then I’m cutting myself off.”
The bartender fills our tumblers with ice and scotch. As I return to our table, I scan the bar again just in case a new prospect has shown up.
Unfortunately, my eyes lock with the last person I wanted to see out tonight. No, I don’t mean Alyssa. I would much rather see her than the tall, blonde devil grinning at me from her spot near the DJ booth.
Samantha lifts her glass to acknowledge she sees me. I’m tempted to pretend I have no idea who she is, but we’d both know I was lying. I return her gesture and hope that will be the end of it.
Hope is for fools, of course.
From the corner of my eye, I track Samantha’s movements from a table of her friends to an open seat next to me.
“Nathaniel!” she squeals. She places a sharp-nailed hand on my arm. “Fancy meeting you here!”
I extract my arm from her grip.
“Hi, Samantha.”
David’s eyes widen. I’ve told him stories of the clingy student in my culinary class and now he’s seeing first-hand just how obnoxious she can be.
“Let’s take a photo!” she cries. “To commemorate the coincidence.”
Samantha holds out her phone for a selfie but I duck out of view.
“That’s really not appropriate, Samantha. I’m your teacher.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Please, you’re so old school. No one cares if students and teachers hang out anymore. You went to the restaurant opening with Alyssa.” I don’t miss the resentment in Samantha’s voice when she mentions my ex’s name. It sounds a lot like how I’ve been saying Alyssa since Saturday morning. Samantha manages to snap a photo before I can get away. “As long as it’s legal,” she adds with a wink.
My mind searches for a polite way to get rid of Samantha. Her father is an important man and I don’t want him to spread lies about me if I’m rude to his daughter. I have to figure out a way to get rid of her and make it seem like it’s her idea.
David catches my eye. One good thing about our closeness is that we can practically read each other’s minds. He knows to intervene when people are getting obnoxious, which is pretty much all the time with Samantha.
“I’m David,” he introduces. “Nathaniel’s financial manager. And you are?”
Samantha’s face brightens. She seems to be the kind of person who is more interested in titles than anything of substance.
“Samantha,” she says. She offers a limp hand for David to shake. “I’m a student of Nathaniel’s. He’s a great teacher.”
What is with the tone of her voice? She’s practically whispering, but the bar is loud. Even with just a few patrons, the music bounces off the walls and makes it hard to hear.
“I’m sure he is,” David laughs. “I taught him everything he knows.”
Samantha leans closer to me, squeezing her arms together to push her breasts out of the neckline of her too-small top.
“Is that so?” she asks.
David nearly chokes on his scotch watching her little charade.
“Not even close. David can barely make toast.”
Samantha squeezes my arm again.
“Well, I bet you could teach him. Just look how great you are with the class.”
I turn away from her to roll my eyes. Is this girl for real right now?
“I’ve learned so much,” she shares. “I think I’ll be a chef at one of Daddy’s restaurants in no time.”
Her dad is in the food industry, too, but he’s more a business owner than a chef. I doubt he cares what part of the business his daughter is involved in. She could be a waitress and it wouldn’t matter because she’d have her trust fund to fall back on.
“I’m sure he’s proud,” I lie. Better saying that than what I actually want to tell her. I have to remind myself that I’m supposed to be nice to my students. Maybe not as nice as Samantha would like, but nice enough.
David shakes his empty glass. So much for slowing down, but I know what he’s doing. He’s giving me an escape.
“Your turn to buy the round,” he shouts over the table.
I take his glass and make for the bar. Behind me, David attempts to lure Samantha into a conversation but
I can tell it’s not working. Within seconds, her too-strong perfume scent lingers in the air beside me.
“Your friend sure can talk!” she exclaims, rolling her eyes. “I thought we’d never be alone.”
“Samantha...”
“You don’t have to say it, Nathaniel. I feel it too.”
Without giving me a chance to respond, she orders drinks for the three of us. The bartender, distracted by Samantha’s cleavage, clumsily slides our glasses across the bar.
“Put it on my tab!” she tells him.
The bartender nods but his eyes never leave Samantha’s breasts. If I’m being honest, her rack isn’t all that impressive. Alyssa’s was bigger and still managed to be perky, and not saggy.
But I don’t want to think of Alyssa right now. I don’t want to deal with Samantha, either. What started as an okay-ish night turned pretty shitty in the last ten minutes.
“Thanks,” David says when we get back to the table. He shoots me an apologetic look. He tried, at least. David is a good friend like that.
Samantha sips her fruity drink and tries to engage me in conversation. She completely ignores David even as he attempts to answer her questions. With each blatant refusal to acknowledge his existence, David gets closer to a full laugh attack. I almost want him to lose it if only because Samantha would deserve the humiliation.
“And then I dropped the entire platter!” she shouts, throwing her arms out at the big reveal. I wasn’t listening to the rest of her story, so I don’t laugh.
Samantha pouts and tries to take another swig of the sugary concoction in her cup, but it’s only ice now.
“I need a refill,” she announces. She eyes me expectantly, but I hold up my still full glass.
“I’m all set,” I say.
“Me, too,” David adds. He hasn’t touched the drink Samantha bought him.
She huffs. “I guess I’ll get it myself.”
The bar is a bit more crowded now that it’s late enough for tourists to be drinking after their long days of walking and enjoying my city. Even with her boobs, it’s going to take Samantha a while to get another drink.
“We could ditch her,” David suggests. The thought is tempting, but she left her phone on the table and it would definitely disappear if we did. I’m not enough of a monster to let that happen.
“We’ll just say we’re old and have to get home for bedtime,” I grumble.
David agrees. On the table, Samantha’s phone lights up with a text. A quick glance towards the bar shows that she’s managed to push her way to the front of the small crowd. She’s sufficiently distracted, so she won’t notice if I peek at her phone.
I’m glad I do.
“Alyssa is gone! Success!” the text reads.
I snatch the phone off the sticky bar table and read it again to be sure I’m not just seeing things. Nope, that’s what it says.
Another text comes in. “She just boarded the train.”
What? Alyssa is leaving? And what do these texts mean?
Did Samantha have something to do with what happened between Alyssa and me?
I’m about to rush the bar when Samantha appears beside me. I don’t give her a chance to make any flirty remarks before thrusting the phone in her face.
“What is the meaning of this?” I ask.
“What are you talking about? You went through my phone?”
“Explain why you and this random number are discussing Alyssa,” I shout, unable to control my anger.
David stares on in amazement. If he were anyone else, I’d be worried he’d pull out a camera to film the drama. Thankfully, he wouldn’t do that.
“I don’t know what this is,” Samantha says when she sees the messages. “I’m not involved in this.”
She can’t meet my eyes and her cheeks are flushed. She hasn’t had enough to drink to exhibit these signs, so she must just be lying.
“Tell me what you did!”
Samantha starts to shake when I tower over her.
“Fine!” she cries. “Alyssa didn’t deserve you. I just wanted you to see the kind of person you should really be with. Me!”
I scoff, disgusted. “I wasn’t interested before, and I’m sure as hell not interested now. You destroyed a woman’s life and possibly her career because you thought you had a chance with me? Dream on.”
Maybe it’s harsh, but she deserves it. Without another word to Samantha or David, I sprint out the door to find my driver waiting curbside. I jump in the back and urge him to drive as fast as he can to Alyssa’s apartment. If Samantha deceived me before, maybe the text was a hoax, too. Alyssa may still be in town. I may be able to fix this.
I ask my driver to wait and rush to Alyssa’s door. She doesn’t answer when I knock and there’s no movement inside. Dammit!
A young man enters the building and heads for the stairs. I recognize him as the landlord’s grandson. We met a couple weeks ago when I dropped Alyssa off.
“Excuse me, do you have a key to open this apartment?”
He eyes me wearily.
“Technically, yes, but I can’t open someone’s apartment for you. That’s illegal.”
“Come on, you’ve seen me with the resident.”
The man shrugs.
“True, but for all I know you could be a psycho ex.”
He has the ex part right and that’s what I’m trying to change. I pull out my wallet and pull out a hundred dollar bill from inside. He eyes it warily.
“Still can’t help you.”
So he’s going to play hard ball? I can too. I add hundreds until I’m holding five hundred dollars out to him. He finally accepts and pulls out his universal key ring.
The inside of Alyssa’s apartment is barren. All of the photos, clothes, and appliances have been cleared out.
She’s really gone.
I’m such a fool! I move like a zombie from room to room. I should have known that my Alyssa would never do anything to hurt me.
Why did I fall for Samantha’s tricks?
And, more importantly, how am I going to fix this?
18
Alyssa
Friday
The same blue walls I’ve seen nearly ever morning of my life mock me for returning home after my one experience with freedom.
We knew you’d never make it, they seem to say. The photos of celebrity chefs taped around my vanity mirror make it that much worse. Especially because many of those photos feature the man I fell for, and lost, on my little adventure at leaving home.
Clearly, I’m meant to be a small-town girl for the rest of my life. My grandparents appreciate my cooking and they’ve never broken my heart. Living here won’t be so bad.
Grams was right. Tuesday morning, I ventured out into town and received five different job offers from five different restaurants. I told them I’d get back to them by the weekend, which means I should give them all an answer today. I’m not sure I’m prepared to get back in the kitchen quite yet, though. That’s why I’ve been putting off my decision.
My eyes settle on one of the photos on my vanity. It used to be my favorite one. Nate stands proudly in front of his first restaurant. He’s wearing the same white chef’s coat he wore to teach, and he’s holding a spatula. The smile on his face is so wide I’m worried his lips might have cracked on the corners. That look is pure happiness.
I saw that look when we were together. For those blissful four weeks, nothing could hurt me because I had an incredible man by my side. I never thought he would be the one to break my heart and send my world crumbling to pieces.
There are so many good memories for me to hold onto. They’re almost enough to outweigh the bad. I let my mind wander to Nate holding my hand as we walked through his restaurant and the way he looked at me the way he looks in that photo on my mirror.
Then my thoughts fall down a different path. That same day in the restaurant, Nate showed me passion I’d hardly felt before. Who knew a supply closet was the perfect place to fall in love?
My phone clock reads a little after eight in the morning. After my stint in New York, my body is wired to wake up early like this. I wish I could sleep through my days because then I’d never have to think about Nate again, but that’s not going to happen.
Groaning, I roll out of bed and get dressed. Downstairs, Grams and Gramps are already up. Gramps reads the newspaper while Grams prepares breakfast.
“Morning, girly,” Grams says, holding out her cheek for a kiss. “How’d you sleep?”
“Really well,” I lie. Our bedrooms are far enough apart that my grandparents didn’t hear me tossing and turning for the fourth night in a row.
I hate putting on a fake face for them, but I don’t want them to worry. They both know what happened in New York. I’d prefer to leave it at that. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve been totally happy since moving back to Maine.
They don’t need to know that my happiness is a mask and that my heart is still somewhere in New York being crushed by a billionaire who didn’t love me enough to listen to me.
I’m hurting so much from what happened with Nate already, but faking in front of my grandparents makes it so much worse. It would break their hearts to know the truth, though, so I’ll keep plastering on a smile. Maybe if I do it long enough, I’ll actually start to be happy.
“Breakfast is nearly ready, but we’re out of eggs. Would you mind going on down to the coop to get some more?”
Jeans and a loose fitting long-sleeved shirt aren’t ideal for wrestling with hens for eggs, but I don’t feel like changing. I’ve hardly worn anything but my pajamas since getting home. It’s kind of nice to have on real clothes for once.
It’s also tempting to run back upstairs, strip off the clothes and the smile, and throw myself back under the blanket.
