Gracie looks pissed, and Ma’s got a deeply worried look on her face, but we all shut up pretty quick when Pops returns. He’s holding a brick of cheese and a grater. We’re all silent, Gracie glaring at me, Franco and Vito looking at Gracie, and Ma and me eyeballing Pops.
Mario looks over the table, then holds up the brick of cheese, a perfect forest-green wax sealing one side of the triangle. “Parmigiano-Reggiano,” Pops says. “Who wants cheese on their lasagna?”
Ma and I visibly relax, while Vito holds up his plate. “Where’s the grater I got you for Christmas, Pops?”
My father thinks for a moment, then sets down the flat old-school stainless-steel grater. “Let me find it.”
“Nah, forget it. I’m yanking your chain, Pops. Top me off.” Vito holds out his plate, and our dad grates a healthy mound of the rich, aged cheese over V’s lasagna.
I’m just about to take a bite when I hear the harsh buzzing of somebody’s phone.
Everybody starts hollering about whose phone it is, but I can tell from the vibrating tone it’s mine. I thought I left my phone in my glove box, but I must have had it in my pocket and set it down near the couch when I said hello to Gracie. I grab it from the coffee table and swipe to silence the alert. I have two texts from Mags, one after the other.
Mags: B, sorry, I know you’re taking tonight for family dinner, but this is a 911. How soon can you get here?
And then, just a few minutes later:
Mags: No one’s hurt. But this is IMPORTANT.
These messages are more civil than anything Mags has said since I tried to regift Willow’s flowers to her.
I rub my forehead and sigh. Fuck. The timing.
I hate having to choose, but Mags said 911. I’ve got to go.
I head back to my seat and shovel a bite of food into my mouth. “Sorry,” I say, holding up my phone. “It’s Mags. I got to go in.”
Ma wordlessly gets up from the table and grabs my plate. I know she’s going to try to send me home with my food, so I stop her. “Ma, I’ll eat at the restaurant. Save those for me, though. I’ll stop this week for lunch.”
I blow a kiss to my pops, who waves at me while he listens to Vito telling him about Eden’s new job. She started working for Gracie’s husband’s business and seems to be thriving there. Pops is engrossed, so I take an extra minute to look back over the table before I leave.
Ma is passing Vito more salad. Franco and Gracie are laughing about God only knows what. Pops had parked his glasses oddly on his forehead, not on top of his hair or on his nose—probably because he can’t see his food with them on, but he can’t see the end of the table with them off, so the forehead is a convenient place to stash them until he actually needs them.
My family is my everything, but my restaurant is my life’s work.
I throw a last look back at my family, wave a quiet goodbye, and head out the front door.
I can only hope whatever’s going on at the restaurant is worth leaving Sunday dinner for.
8
WILLOW
The last weekhas flown by. I’ve been on the jobsite by sunrise nearly every day, meeting with the general contractor and supervising the last-minute decisions and approvals. I’ve been working out of my car, taking meetings and calls with my colleagues at Culinary Capital, and lining up final in-person talent interviews for the chefs I plan to hire for the new restaurant we’re opening in Star Falls.
By the time I get back to the condo every night, unpack a few boxes, and cram some takeout into my mouth, it’s a miracle I have enough energy to text my friends and brush my teeth.
Some nights, I can’t even do both.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t also spent many of those precious few moments of free time regretting that I ran out on Benito. For a couple of days, I was acting like a safecracker, resting my head against the wall and listening to see if sound traveled between our units before I left my place. I’ve been living like a covert operative.
If I heard the faintest echo of the TV, I’d rush to the trash chute or the elevator, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t run into him. When I heard the door of his unit slam in the late evenings, I knew he was home.
And I’ve never felt so stupid.
By Sunday, I resolve to do something about how I’m feeling.
I put on my most flattering black jeans, boots with a kitten heel, and an ultra-soft white sweater. I add delicate gold earrings, a necklace, and a casual, loose bun that I hope have me looking professional but not like I’m running into an office. I check over the notes I took from when I met Mags. She works every Sunday night. So, after a very small battle with my nerves, I check the time and call Jessa from the car.
