Hard Redemption: A Second Chance Romantic Comedy

by Emily J. Wright

I tried to get her out of the predicament she was in. “So, you are confused about which one to get . . . ? Go for the sixteen-course. I want my woman to have the best they have to offer.”

  I grabbed her hand in excitement, confident in my thoughts that she wouldn’t dare to hit me in the restaurant. But I was wrong; she hit me right on my knuckles with the leather casebound menu.

  “Oww . . . What’s your problem, lady?” I sighed with pain as I rubbed and checked up on my hand. “I brought you to the finest restaurant in Michigan, and you are behaving like a spoiled brat.”

  “Spoiled Brat?! If I were behaving like a spoiled brat, I wouldn’t have to think twice before ordering a $325-dollar meal.”

  “Then, don’t.”

  “There is no way in the world you can possibly afford this dinner. Let’s get out of here before things get out of hand.”

  And she abruptly stood up from the chair and was ready to leave.

  “Sit back down, lady,” I shouted while jumping from my chair to stop Amber from leaving. “I am here to have a nice dinner with you, and I am not going back without having one. . . . It’s not about you—it’s about me.”

  “$325 . . . $325 . . . ,” she continuously mumbled while I got her seated back on the chair.

  “Oh, my God, you are stuck like a broken record. If I can get you an expensive dress and the accessories, I can surely afford this dinner. Just trust me.”

  “The dress, shoes, necklace, and earrings can be returned. But once the food is in our digestive tract, it’s non-returnable. . . . unless . . . you brought shards of glasses with you, then it’s a free meal.”

  “Amber, do you even hear what I say? I am out of the game for a long, long time.”

  “Then, just tell me. How would you pay for such a lavish dinner? How can a minimum-wage earner who possibly doesn’t have the money to eat a hot dog at the food court of Costco can afford dinner at this fancy restaurant?”

  “Because since I got out of prison, I have been building up my worth bit by bit. I have been saving up for years now, and it adds up real quick when you don’t have your family with you to spend your money on. . . . Just order the damn 16-course meal, and if—and I am only saying if—the bill gets out of hand, I’ll work here to pay them off.”

  “So, you are willing to go bankrupt just to impress me on this date?”

  “Amber, you may not believe this, but I can die for you. This is just getting bankrupt we are talking about. Besides, what do you care whether I am bankrupt, homeless or beg for change from strangers for that matter? It’s not like you want to spend the rest of your life with me.”

  “Yeah, why do I care? I’ll order the $325 menu, then.”

  “Good—”

  “And I will run out on you if the bill exceeds your expectation.”

  “I expect nothing less from you.”

  Ben came back with the wine list and interrupted our conversation. “Ma’am—our wine list,” he said handing it over to Amber.

  “As long as we’re making you bankrupt . . . ,” Amber said while closely looking at the wine list.

  I chuckled to save face with Ben and said, “Just an inside joke—never mind.”

  Amber was determined to drain me out of my last penny, but she didn’t know that it was impossible.

  “It’s a good thing then that the wine here starts from $200.”

  “Wonderful!” I said cheerfully.

  “Okay. How does a $350 bottle sound to you, huh?”

  “Nah!”

  “$500?” She looked at me hoping that I would flinch any moment.

  But I didn’t. “Sound okay-ish, but I don’t think it will get the job done.”

  “How about . . . a grand?” she said taking a big gulp.

  “Maybe a little higher?” I said while blowing my nails.

  “Sir, we don’t have anything more expensive than that.”

  “That’s a pity. I guess it would have to do then.”

  “I may have more than one. Unh-unh! You think you can afford it?”

  “Honey, you can drink their entire wine cellar if you want to.”

  “Chef special 16-course meal for two and a bottle of wine my wife selected. Thank you, Ben.”

  I gave the order like a gentleman supposedly does.

  I looked at Amber. She was lost. It was weird to see her like that for a change. She might still be wondering how I could afford that dinner.

  I snapped my fingers before her face. “Hey . . . where are you?”

  “Nowhere. . . . Nothing.”

  “Do you know how hard I worked for this day to happen? I have now accomplished enough in my life that I can look straight into your eyes without feeling guilty about what I do for a living.”

  “Can you?”

  “Of course, I can. I left the life of crime behind years ago and did three jobs a day. What did I not do? Scrubbed floors; cleaned cars; washed dishes; waited tables—that was my life for two years. I have saved enough now to provide for you and Casey and finally ask you to give me another chance and take me back and be my family again.”

  “You like my deep blue ocean eyes, don’t you? Look me in the eyes and tell me what you see. Can you see a woman in shock who doesn’t know why her husband is in cuffs? Can you see a new mother in tears who doesn’t know what to do with her newborn girl? Can you see the hate in these eyes for a man who conned her big time and almost made her lose her mind?”

  “You don’t think I feel guilty about that? But that was five years ago, Amber. I have probably apologized for that 1,000 times by now and will apologize for 1,000 times more. You don’t think maybe I have also suffered enough. Doesn’t living away from you and Casey enough punishment for me? The justice system believes in rehabilitation; God believes in forgiveness; can’t you do the same? Can’t you find a little bit of mercy for me in your heart and give me a second chance?”

  “I don’t believe in second chances. I believe in learning from my mistakes. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

  Ben finally arrived with the first course and a bottle of wine of Amber’s choice and set it up on the table. It didn’t take him long to figure that something was not right between Amber and me. No wonder, he left without giving the description of the dish he served; he might have seen our gloomy faces and wet eyes.

  Ben returned after ten minutes to see if we are ready for the second course, but by then, we hadn’t even started on the first one.

  I had to be the bigger man there; Amber was too stubborn. I broke the killing silence between us and asked, “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

  But there was no response. She was sitting there motionless.

  I took a deep sigh and tried again. “What did you expect would happen at this dinner, Amber? Can you blame me for trying to get you back? Can you blame me for putting my case before you? Walter is going to take you away from me, and you honestly think that I would do nothing. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but I had to do it. . . . I tried, I failed, but as long as you are happy, I’ll survive. As per my promise to you—after I am done crying tonight—I’ll sign the divorce papers and get out of your hair after saying goodbye to Casey. Now, for the love of God, taste this damn thing and tell me what he had served.”

  A brief smile floated on our faces. It might be that deep down we knew that it was our last night together and we decided to get the best out of it.

  “That’s Courgette and goat cheese terrine.” Amber took a bite of the first course and then told me what it entailed. “Eggplant puree, pickled onion, and sun-dried tomato.”

  Amber had an excellent and refined taste and laid out the content of the dish like that was what they taught her in UCLA.

  “You don’t think that the portion is small considering the long name of the dish.”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a bite or two; it’s a tasting menu, after all. But yeah, the portion does look rather small.

  Ben arrived with the second course—and t
he portion smaller than the last one.

  “Wow! They are really trying to end the world hunger by taking everything out of our dinner.”

  “This is—”

  “Nah! No need. She will tell me what is this. Put down, whatever this is, and go.”

  “That’s Amuse-bouche.”

  “Excellent, a bite-sized cuisine that I can’t pronounce.”

  It was a tease in the name of food. It was delicious, but it was literally over in just one bite.

  The portions continued getting smaller, but the presentation was no doubt excellent. Many times, I was confused as to which the actual food was and what was for decorative purpose. Hell, I wasn’t even sure which cutlery was appropriate for these fancy cuisine.

  Luckily, Amber knew the fine dining skills—which I was unaware of until then—and led the way. She was behaving with utmost sophistication—chewing without showing teeth or making any sound and sipping wine with grace—like she was a food critique born to do this.

  But it wasn’t long before—perhaps the 10th course—that the graceful sipping turned into more of a chugging. By the time of 16th course, she was two and a half bottle down and started to drink from the bottle itself.

  She was right when she told me earlier she would have more than one bottle. But I didn’t believe her then, thinking how a woman weighing 120 pounds could even handle two glass let alone two bottles. It was entirely my fault; I took her lightly and forgot how she chugged two glasses of champagne in the limo.

  “This right here is Banana Bread Pudding served with barley ice cream and drops of orange sauce,” she slurred completely intoxicated. And then shouted, “Hey, where is the truffle on that? I can request it on any of the one course; it’s written on the menu. Ben! Where is my truffle?”

  “All right, I think you should hold on to your drinking.” I reached my hand out to get the bottle from her.

  But she slapped my hand away yelling, “Get back! Don’t you dare touch it? Don’t you dare?”

  “Ok, ok, I won’t. Why don’t you eat your pudding like a good girl, and then we will get back home? What do you say, huh?”

  “I won’t eat that; it looks like shit. My shit looks better than this.”

  Amber spat in the perfectly good banana pudding and created a big scene in the elite dining area of the restaurant.

  The manager came running to us and complained, “Sir—your wife is disturbing rest of the guests. I suggest you leave this establishment right now.”

  “How dare you to talk to my husband like that?” Amber pulled the manager down by his tie and pinned him down to the table by stabbing a fork in his fancy tie.

  I didn’t think the manager had ever experienced anything more embarrassing than what Amber did to him. She was adamant on not letting go of her grip on the fork while the manager desperately tried to free himself.

  And he did—eventually—but it cost him half of his tie. His polite and calm nature went down the drain and as he rudely said, “That’s it! You two are banned from this restaurant forever.”

  “I expected that. Put the bill on my card and add a generous tip for the inconvenience.”

  “And shove your tiny portions up your ass—you tiny dick loser,” Amber added as she flipped the manager which caused me a great deal of embarrassment.

  I quickly handed over my credit card to the manager and asked him to hurry up before Amber could raise more havoc. I was seeing this side of Amber for the first time in my life—and it was nasty.

  We finally come out of the restaurant after the disaster date was over.

  Or that’s what I thought.

  Chapter 14

  I was $4K down, still hungry, and had a drunk wife on my hand who I believed had a drinking problem which I was unaware of until then. I was waiting for my limo along with Amber—and just wanted to get back home as early as possible.

  Amber was getting extremely difficult to handle with each passing second. She was blabbering. Stuttering. Hiccupping.

  “You shouldn’t have brought me here, Duke. They pickpocketed you heavily. They were a bunch of thieves, that’s what they were. $325 for chef’s tasting menu! Can you believe that? And the portion—what the hell was that? I have seen rat droppings bigger than that. Now, when I come to think of it . . . that $1,000 wine tasted the same as the $18 one. Those bastards—I’ll kill them.”

  She was going back into the restaurant, but I caught her from behind and pulled her back. It could have been the effect of alcohol—or my love—that she forgot everything when she looked into my eyes. She even let me lend the support in making her stand straight.

  I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and said, “Come on! Let’s get you home and put a pitcher of coffee into you. You will feel all the better by morning. Look—there is our limo.”

  “Limo? I don’t want to go in a fucking limo.” She shoved me away and began wandering and loitering around—not able to stand straight and still.

  I feared that she might hurt herself and said point-blank, “Well—we are not walking back to your house if that’s what you are implying. You are so drunk that you would take one step forward and three backward, and we will still be here in the morning.”

  I think my word of advice finally put some sense into her despite the condition she was in. “Okay, but . . .”

  ‘But’ is a dangerous word, mind you. Nothing good can come after ‘but’—most of the time, if not always. Anyways, I had my fingers crossed, but she was adamant to make that night more difficult than it already was.

  “. . . I want to ride that,” she said pointing towards the valet parking.

  “A Vespa?! You want to ride a scooter? Do you know how silly this sound?”

  “No, I don’t want to ride a scooter! I want to ride that thing—that parked beside it. What it’s called? . . . I forgot what it’s—”

  “Bike.”

  “Yeah, I want to ride the bike.”

  “It’s worse than the scooter. It doesn’t even have the motor.”

  “No, I want to ride that bike,” she said stomping her foot down and started throwing tantrums.

  I didn’t found Amber any different from Casey then. She was behaving just like a child who would never ever back down from their demands—at least not before giving a good fight.

  It was an impossible task to convince her otherwise, but I still tried and said, “You won’t be able to ride a bike in this mermaid dress.”

  “Go get it for me,” she shouted and threw the wine bottle in her hand on the ground. It shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces just an inch away from my feet—fortunately only a few grazing my shoes.

  “Jesus, I am going.” She scared the shit out of me, but I had no option but to agree to her demands.

  I went ahead and squatted down beside the bike to take a quick glance at the lock. I realized it was an easy pick—just one, two and there. But I didn’t want to steal it.

  Amber whispered, “What are you waiting for? It’s not like you have never done this before?”

  “Hey man, what are you doing to my bike?”

  I heard a boyish voice from behind my back. I turned around and found a valet in front of me who was possibly returning from men’s room as a TP was stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  “Just admiring this hunk of beauty.” I called that rusty piece of junk a hunk of beauty. I was not proud for doing that—but I did it only for Amber. And then I just casually asked, “Do you want to . . . maybe . . . sell it?”

  “Nah, man, I have too many memories attached to it. I got this when I was 17 and—”

  “How does $100 sound?” I opened my wallet and waved a $100 bills before his face.

  “Cool, man.” He snatched the money out of my hand, and wasted no time in saying goodbye to his memories and instantly handed me the keys.

  “Amber—you wait here while I go and send the limo back.”

  “Give me the keys.”

  “No!”

  “Give me—Give me�
�Give me . . .” she started tickling me and snatched the key right out of my hand.

  “Hey, give me that. Give me—Give me . . .” I did the same thing to her, but despite tickling her my best, she didn’t laugh, giggle or even flinch. The three bottles of wine had made her tickle resistant.

  “Damn it!” I said in disappointment when I couldn’t get the keys back. And then instructed, “Stay here. And don’t think about riding the bike alone. I’ll be back in a minute.

  I paid for the limo services and let the driver go—not before shaking his hand and tipping him $50 for taking that ugly right turn that sent Amber into my arms. I came back—barely in a minute—but the bike was gone.

  And so was Amber.

  How did she manage to ride the bike in her intoxicated state?

  I was thinking about that and realized that she couldn’t have gotten too far from there; so, I shouted her name at the top of my lungs.

  “Here . . . ,” she unexpectedly replied back to my shout. I could clearly hear her voice and was confident that she was somewhere around.

  I wandered around nearby but couldn’t find her anywhere. “Amber!” I shouted again.

  “I am here!”

  I followed her voice and reached the back side of the restaurant. And what I saw there was enough to stop my breath.

  “Fuck me!” I blurted when I saw the terrible condition Amber was in.

  She had crashed the bike into a large dumpster and landed herself right on top of it—neither in nor out, just teetering by the support of her midsection. Who knew how she managed to stay there for even a second?

  I wondered how come she wasn’t shouting at all. Clearly, it was the alcohol in her system that dumbed her down. She couldn’t completely realize the condition she was in.

  But I could. And I rushed to help her and shouted, “I told you not to ride the bike. Mermaids don’t ride the bike—especially when they are too drunk to even stand.”

  “Get me out of here—you dickhead! I am slipping in—and the smell here is terrible.”

  “What do you expect? It’s a dumpster. Hold on!” I grabbed both of her feet and gave it a pull, but she still didn’t come out of the dumpster.