I lean against the white marble countertop and prop my phone against a small box labeled “Flatware.”
“Jess, I’m here for you, babe. Do it.”
I hear static on Jess’s end, and she does what I was hoping to. She initiates the video call, and I practically squeal when her beautiful, puffy face comes into frame.
“Oh my God. Look at you. Your new place.” Jess wipes her face, and I can see her looking around at my new surroundings.
I shake my head. “Eyes on me, bitch. Tell me who made you cry so I know whose balls I need to squeeze. Or ovaries. I’m an equal opportunity vigilante. Tell me who made you cry.”
She shakes her head and points at her belly. “Balls it is, then. This baby boy… I’m just worried, Willow. Today, I felt some things, and I just spiraled.”
I nod and listen to Jessa describe the twinges and pains, the aches and waves of nausea and heartburn that she’s been dealing with throughout the time she’s been on bed rest. I know as well as she does that the condition she has is serious. This will possibly be the only pregnancy she carries herself. But the doctors have told her she’ll have plenty of notice before something goes wrong. She’ll have time to get to the hospital. She just needs to rest.
“But how the hell am I supposed to rest when all I want to do is cry?” Her tears flood her face again, and I am hit with an unfamiliar pang of guilt. I wish I could hug her. Wish I could be there to wash her face and bring her tea. To sit beside her as she watchesGossip Girland log her farts and everything, it seems,are important signs that her body is working and the baby is still okay.
A tear slips down my cheek. “I know, Jess. I wish I were there.”
That seems to sober her up. She shakes her head and wipes her face with one hand. “Fuck that,” she says. “You’re living the dream. Now I want to hear everything. Especially about your hookup last night.”
I peek at the time on my phone. Jess and I have been talking for a half hour already. I know her mother is staying with her while she’s on bed rest, but Jess is single. She decided when she turned forty that she wasn’t going to wait around for the right man to have a family. I’m two years older than Jess and filled her ears with reasons why I won’t ever have kids and what I truly think men are good for—moving heavy things and giving better orgasms than the vast collection of toys I have. But in the end, Jess decided to go through sperm donation. She knew it would be a tough road, but this tough, this way? Nope.
I ignore the growling of my stomach and decide kale ravioli and chatting with Maggie at Benito’s will have to wait until another night. I may not be in hugging reach of Jess, but what I have to give her is what makes our friendship tighter than sisters. Tighter than friends. I have time.
“All right,” I tell her totally unironically, flicking on the lights as the sun sets over Star Falls. “But before I tell you about the guy, I have to tell you about the ravioli.”
5
BENITO
“Benito.Benito. Some delivery guy is up front for you, honey. He says he needs to talk to you?”
My heart freezes in my chest. I’m plating a delicate dish, three spinach and ricotta-stuffed rotolo on a bed of marinara, when my hostess Rita’s voice echoes through the kitchen.
“Want me to take it?” Mags’s voice is like ice. I can hear the f-bomb she is holding back.
She knows as well as I do there should be no deliveries made from the front of the house, and certainly not at this hour of the day.
She probably expects it’s someone making a personal call to demand I get current on a bill or something. Hell, that’s what I’m afraid of too.
In my mind, I race through the bills and emails and calls I haven’t answered, trying to calculate who might be out front looking for me, but I don’t have a damn clue. No matter what it is, I sure as shit can’t let Mags handle it.
All day, she’s been avoiding me, giving one-word answers to questions and very obviously stepping as far away from me as possible in the cramped kitchen as we work through the dinner rush. She gave the peanut butter crisps I brought from Chloe’sto Jasmine, so I know she’spissedat me for missing the small business association meeting today. I didn’t even try to explain why.
If whatever is going on with Pops is serious—and I can’t fucking let my head go there—I’ll have to share it eventually. Maybe. Probably. Fuck. One worry at a time.
I plate the rotolo and eyeball Mags. “Take over here?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel.
She nods but doesn’t say anything, stepping into the practiced rhythm of working alongside me. She plates the rest of the dish while I walk through the restaurant toward the front entrance. I have to stop and shake a few hands and clap a few shoulders of the diners who call to greet me, so it takes about ten minutes before I actually make it to the front.
It’s well after seven, but the lobby is still full of families waiting for tables to free up for dinner. I don’t see anyone who looks official or who looks like they are looking for me, so I step beside Rita behind the hostess desk.
“Sweetheart!” she shouts over the low chatter of my waiting customers. “Benny’s here.”
I lift my head and follow her hand, which is waving at a fidgety kid who’s staring out over the parking lot. He’s wearing a blue windbreaker, and his hands are jammed into his pockets.
I squint at him as he approaches, immediately relieved. He is one of the kids I hired over the summer while he was on break from college. If I remember right, I didn’t offer Nico a part-time job when school started back up because he was nice enough but a little slow. I feel like I remember a few too many messed-up orders and forgotten side dishes. Mags was the one to tell him we only needed full-time help, essentially letting him go for me. She’s always there to take the hard jobs off my hands. The thought of it stresses me out now, but whatever Nico wants, this is something I have to handle alone.
Rita said he had a delivery for me, but maybe that was just a ruse? A way to lure me out front to talk. There’s no way this college student is a bill collector now. At least, I sincerely fucking hope not. “Nico? Is that you?”
