by JD Hawkins
“Of course,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the turmoil I’m feeling inside. “What’s up?”
Willow drops her eyes for a moment, then looks back up and focuses her gaze on mine. “I just…I’d like to know…what are we? I mean, maybe it’s crazy of me to say that considering how long we’ve been seeing each other, or whatever it is we’re doing. But, the puppy chow, Vegas, all the time you seem to want to spend together…I don’t know. Am I reading too much into this? I’m a little bad at interpreting the signals when it comes to men.”
I watch her a moment, then angle myself a little more toward her, lifting a palm to press against her cheek.
“Remember that first night we went out together?” I say. “Our ‘business meeting’?”
Willow looks aside, a little embarrassed.
“Every time I prep a Basque burger.”
I laugh gently.
“I mean when we were still at the concept bar, talking. Remember what I told you the secrets of great food were?”
“Sure,” Willow says, looking up a little as she tries to recall. “Make it look good, make people pay a lot for it, and make people want more.”
“Well, I missed something. I didn’t tell you that those secrets can also be applied to great sex, too.”
Willow stares at me as if I’m crazy for a second. “Pardon?”
“Think about it,” I continue, “Looking good, making someone chase a little, leaving them with just enough that they don’t regret it…except you disagreed with me. You said that it had to mean something, that there was more to it than superficial pleasures, that for it to be truly great it had to satisfy. I mean, I know you weren’t talking about sex, about relationships, but to me there’s always been a thin line between food and love. And you’ve convinced me. On both counts.”
“I…” Willow says, breathing deeply as she’s overwhelmed. “I don’t even know what to make of that.”
I take her hands in mine.
“I’ve spent my life eating fine foods—even this past week I must have had a dozen meals that cost a fortune and tasted like heaven. But ever since then, what I’ve craved more than anything are those burgers you cooked. I mean, they’re good, don’t get me wrong, but it’s the fact that you made them for me, and with such passion. What just thinking about them makes me feel. Same as this puppy chow right here does for you,” I say, grabbing one and popping it in my mouth, Willow’s lips turning up at my words. “It’s this simple: What I really want is you.”
We look at each other in the night, the turquoise glow of the swimming pool casting lines of light across her face, accentuating the soft curve of her cheek until it almost aches for me to see how beautiful she is. Her eyes lock onto mine, as if seeing something new for the first time, and her smile answers me before her voice does.
“I really want you too.”
Our faces move closer, so slowly it’s almost imperceptible, close enough for me to see those freckles in the dark—as if kept secret just for me—close enough to smell the sweet cocoa on her breath, close enough to feel the air crackle with the electricity between us…
Then a piercing xylophone tune breaks the magic. Willow pulls her head back, startled and frustrated as she pulls her phone from her pocket.
“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head as she checks her phone. “Just a friend.”
I shrug easily and grab my beer again while Willow mutes her phone and puts it aside. She smiles apologetically, brushes a strand of hair over her ear, then takes more puppy chow. That electric moment has dissipated, but the tension between is now replaced by something calm and relaxed, something that feels solidly connected in the best way possible.
“How are things going in Vegas?” she asks. “Did you—”
She cuts herself off when the phone vibrates loudly on the metal table.
“I’m so sorry, I thought I put this on silent,” she says, flicking through her phone a little more, then setting it down again.
“It’s going well. I took your advice about the indoor herb garden—though I still don’t know if it’s really the right choice.”
Willow shakes her head with a grin. “It’s the only choice—that’s the problem when you have a restaurant in the middle of a desert. It’s either the indoor garden or coordinating bi-weekly delivery of fresh herbs from around the country along with the rest of the—”
She stops again, noticing my eyes going to the bright light of her phone.
“Maybe you should take that,” I say. “Seems like it might be important.”
Willow anxiously looks at the phone, then back at me.
“Do you mind? I’m sorry. This timing sucks.”
“Please. Go ahead.”
She takes the phone and disappears into the house, and I turn toward the city lights. When Willow returns about fifteen minutes later, she almost clatters the chair over as she tries to pull it out.
“Whoa,” I say, helping her steady the chair and watching her sit, stiff and straight on it. “Everything ok? You look a little…”
“I’m great! Everything’s great…absolutely,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear rapidly. Her smile looks a little forced now, disappearing as she grabs at her beer like it’s a life raft. She drains it quickly, and then pulls the bottle away from her mouth, gasping for breath.
I watch her for a second, her cheeks flushing a little. “Another?” I suggest.
She nods eagerly and I pop another open for her.
“You sure everything’s ok?” I ask.
“Of course!” Willow says, before taking a long drink of her beer. She waves at the air. “It was nobody. Just a friend. Tony. He’s gay.”
I smile at the notion she might think I’m jealous of a male friend.
“Cool,” I say, nodding at the puppy chow. “How’s he doing? Long time no talk?”
Willow takes one quickly and starts talking, as if uncomfortable with the silence now.
“Um. It’s just…it was nothing. He’s just worried about…something,” she says, rubbing her cheek as she speaks. “He wants me to meet up with him tomorrow morning, to talk. I guess.”
I put a hand on her leg.
“Well I’ll make sure I wake you up early enough, then.”
Willow lets out a short, awkward laugh, and struggles to meet my eye.
“Actually, I should be getting home now. I have some things I need to take care of.” She stands up. “Nothing to do with you, with this. I mean this was amazing, really. The house, the puppy chow…everything. Thank you so much. Sorry I have to run.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, standing up with her. She still seems skittish, and I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it? You look kinda spooked. Maybe it’s something I can help with?”
Her forced smile is a little more sincere now.
“Thanks, but no. It’s just…a Tony thing. Anyway, I’ll be fine. Let’s do something again soon, okay? And I promise I’ll have this all sorted out by then.”
“Hey,” I say, lifting her chin to me. “Stuff happens. You think I don’t know that? And you don’t have to take a burden all on yourself. I’m here.”
Willow looks at me, less jittery now, melting a bit in the honesty of what I’m saying.
She nods at me and says, “I know. I know you are. It’s just that this is about—”
“Tony—yeah, I got that.”
She laughs a little, and so do I, the awkwardness melting away.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just a me and Tony thing, I guess.”
“Stop apologizing,” I soothe, bringing her face to mine for a soft kiss. “I’ve waited long enough to find you. I can wait another day.”
16
Willow
If comedy is all timing, then life has a hell of a sense of humor. There must have been all of two seconds between Cole telling me that he wants me, and Tony beginning his phone assault to tell me his big news. News tha
t even now, in the back of this cab, after confirming it with him multiple times, I still can’t quite believe.
The money is in the bank.
Not ‘on its way.’ Not ‘they’ll get it when we need it.’ Not ‘available in asset form.’ But there, in cash, sitting in the business bank account that Tony set up and gave me access to while I was still laughing off the whole thing as a pipe dream. And it’s not small change, either. It’s a six figure number I’d be happy to retire with.
I still can’t get my head around it, despite Tony sending me multiple screenshots of the account balance, as well as a video of him screaming ‘we’re rich, baby!’ with the screen of his computer in the background.
I take a deep breath, watching the streetlights pass by, and try to grasp onto at least one of the exploding thoughts in my mind, until I give in and just call Tony.
“Hey!” he answers instantly, his voice almost accusing. “Are you done satisfying every need your celebrity boyfriend has?”
“He’s—” I stop myself before saying that he isn’t my boyfriend, and instead say, “he’s not here now. Tell me again: What exactly did Andre and Lou say?”
“They said: Here’s enough money to start a drug cartel, now go build the most fabulous eatery in America and make all of our dreams come true.”
“Tony.”
“Ok,” he says, his voice lowering a semi-octave as he gets serious. “It’s an equity deal. And I negotiated us some pretty fucking good terms if I say so myself. We get full control.”
“Full control?”
“Everything. The menu, the interior design, the location. It’s all up to us. All they want are free meals and to see us sustainable after the first year. Then they start taking their money back along with a percentage off the back end once we’re all paid up.”
“Did you sign anything?” I say, fumbling the tip to the cab driver and getting out.
“Yes, I did. And you need to sign your part still. I feel like it’s just my ass on the line so far, and I have to tell you, Willow, it’s getting a little scary how reluctant you are about this.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, slamming the cab door shut and hanging out on the corner to finish the call. “I’ll sign. It’s just…I don’t know. It’s a lot happening all at once.”
“I get it,” Tony says, sympathetically. “Business isn’t your thing, but soon you’ll be in your element, picking staff, building a menu, cooking up a storm.”
Even those simple, insinuating words send streaks of excitement through me. To be in charge of my own menu again, my own kitchen. To have carte blanche to put everything I know to be true into practice again—only this time it won’t be at the end of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, it’ll be in Los Angeles.
“Believe me when I say that I don’t want anything more than that.”
Tony lets out a soft chuckle. “I know. Anyway, did you look at the pictures of the locations I sent you?”
“Yeah…”
“And?”
I sigh a little before saying, “Well, I think I know why they don’t get Ansel Adams to do rental ads.”
“What are you talking about? The pics were beautiful.”
“Right, too beautiful. I need more than close-ups of wall skirting with wonderful bokeh, or artful pictures of ceiling beams emerging from shadows. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d hang those pictures on my wall, but I still have no idea what the places you visited are actually like, Tony.”
“Hmph,” Tony grunts, sassily. “Well, you’ll come with us tomorrow and see for yourself, right?”
“Sure,” I say, suppressing the guilt and worry that keep trying to rise in my voice. “I’m all in.”
“Perfect. We’ll see you first thing.”
After we hang up, I find myself practically running into my apartment, making a beeline for the kitchen where I get to work whipping up a few dozen fruit tarts to distract myself from the stress of keeping this all a secret from Cole and anxiety over whether or not this is all actually happening. But even giving in to my sweet tooth and tiring myself out over a hot oven aren’t enough to help me fall asleep.
Andre and Tony come to pick me up at six-thirty in the morning, meaning I should have had about five hours of sleep. Unfortunately, I spent all night staring at the ceiling and trying to make sense of the jumbled puzzle that has become my life this past week.
I twisted and turned in bed all night, criticizing myself for thinking this would never happen so soon and getting myself caught in this position. Though to be fair, when you take your chances with both hooking up with your ridiculously good looking celebrity chef boss, and the best friend who promises you a financing miracle to start your dream business, you don’t expect both of those long shots to come to fruition. Especially not at the same time.
So at dawn, while the streets are still relatively quiet with the sound of the city sleeping, I descend the stairs of my apartment toward the two well-dressed men standing in front of the Mercedes AMG, and find I’m completely wired and nervous from a lack of sleep and way too much pre-bedtime sugar that’s probably still circulating in my system.
I smile at Tony, who bows his head as he plucks his sunglasses from his collar and puts them on. Then I shake hands with Andre, impressed by the excellent cut of his suit. The kind of suit that makes you wonder why any guy would ever wear something else.
“Morning,” I say, my voice a little sluggish even though my body’s tingling.
“Morning,” Andre says, smiling with positivity. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you.”
“I don’t usually enter into business with people I’ve met only once,” he says.
“Well, I guess Tony talks enough for both of us anyway.”
Tony jabs me gently in the arm.
“He’s certainly filled me in a lot about you,” Andre says warmly. “All good things, of course.”
I look at Tony and blush a little.
“Well…I love him too. Where’s Lou?”
“Oh, he’s back in Dallas doing some work. He left me with the fun stuff—speaking of which…”
Andre turns back to the car and reaches in to the open passenger side window, pulling out a leather-bound folder.
“I’ve got the contract right here,” he says, searching within his blazer pocket for a pen, “for you to sign.”
“Um, actually,” I say, holding up a palm, “maybe we should look at the locations first.”
I glance from Andre to Tony, who’s glaring at me stonily. Andre keeps the smile, but raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I mean, I’m sure the contract is great,” I explain quickly, “and I’m sure Tony has done a great job of making it fair and everything but…it’s just that if I do sign that contract and we end up struggling to find a location, I’m not sure that….well…”
“Willow!” Tony hisses under his breath, as if Andre can’t hear him.
“You know, location is just really important,” I go on, to both of them now, “and it can be really tough finding the right place. My last restaurant struggled because—”
“Willow!” Tony interrupts. “Are you seriously doing this now? Do you think that—”
“It’s alright,” Andre says in a calm, breezy voice, putting a hand on my shoulder. He tosses the contract back into the car. “Look, we want you because of your principles and your knowledge. You’re a creative type, and I’ll be damned if I become ‘the man’ forcing you to toe the line.”
Tony sighs, his face relaxing as if he just evaded certain death.
“Besides,” Andre says, “I’m sure you’re gonna love at least one of the places I’m gonna show you today.”
“I hope so,” I say. “But I’m gonna need some coffee before I can love anything this early in the morning.”
After a quick pit stop for the darkest, strongest roast I can find, we get back in the car where Tony’s enthusiasm almost feels like a fourth passenger.
“You’re g
onna love this place,” Tony says as we pull up at an address downtown, outside what looks like an abandoned warehouse.
We follow Andre as he wiggles the key into the lock, Tony so excited he’s almost skipping around me, then enter the vast space.
Inside, huge pillars support a ceiling of exposed pipes, red brickwork textures the walls, and three floor-to-ceiling windows allow the morning light to cast itself through the dust onto the rubbled floor.
“Isn’t this incredible?” Tony says, stepping in front of me. “Doesn’t this just scream ‘style’ to you? It’s like Warhol’s factory, a place for real creativity to explode. Jesus…” Tony shakes his head in marvel, slapping his palm against one of the pillars. “The things I could do with a canvas like this.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, taking it all in. “But it’s too big.”
Tony looks at me doubtfully, and Andre raises that eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” Tony says, sounding a little like a child being told Santa doesn’t exist. “You could seat three hundred people in here!”
I shake my head.
“How would we be able to serve quality, well-prepared food in those numbers right off the bat when we’re still struggling to make a name for ourselves? We’d have to serve Big Macs, and even then we’d probably struggle. And can you imagine what a place this big would feel like during the quiet weekday hours? It would feel like an empty theater.”
“So we’ll make this part a bar,” Tony says, moving toward one corner and gesturing.
He looks at me hopefully, and I look back with a frown.
“It wouldn’t work. This place is big enough to house three businesses—and running it would be about as difficult. This could work after a few years, but not right now.”
Andre checks the defeat in our faces one more time, then smacks his thigh and begins walking back out the door.
