“Well, this is strange,” he says finally.
“I know,” I reply, balling my hands together, rubbing them nervously. “Hopefully not for long.”
“What do you meannot for long?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.
“Well. I’m selling,” I blurt out. I don’t mean to say it, and I cringe at how callous it sounds, but I can’t take it back now. Ginny warned me that in the ranking of awful conversations to have with a person, telling Leo I was going to sell fell somewhere between “We’re restructuring, and we don’t see a position for you in the new org chart” and “I stole your boyfriend, and then I shot him in the nuts.”
I sigh.At least it’s done.
“What?” he says.
“Selling. I mean, you understand, right?”
“Why?” Leo’s body tenses in the dim light, and he stands up, his arms falling back against his chest, still folded. He’s elevated behind there, just enough to feel towering in the dynamic of this conversation. “Why would you sell?”
“What do you meanwhy?” I ask, straightening up a little myself.
“You don’t mean it,” he says, tipping his head slightly.
I let out a small laugh. “Idomean it,” I say, my tone challenging.
“You can’t sell!” he says, throwing his arms open. “No.What?You can’t do that. After all these years, after everything. This is his legacy. This place is all that’s left of your dad.”
My mind flickers to the urn I am supposed to pick up from the funeral home.“Miss Stone, could you please come and collect your father,”as if he’s had one too many at the local wine bar.
“It’s notallthat’s left of him,” I mutter.
“What?” Leo leans in, stretching his neck to hear me.
“Nothing. Sorry. Ihaveto sell,” I say, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of my nose. I didn’t want to do this, this way. I wish Leo wasn’t here. Fuck him for being here.
“No, you don’t,” he snaps, taking a moment to settle his breathing.
“Excuse me?”
I narrow my eyes a little at Leo, standing there behind the bar, just like my father used to. Just likeheowns the place. A stab of anger passes through me, but it’s quickly replaced by guilt at what my decision means for him, and then finally embarrassment that I’m even in this position for no deserving reason.Only blood.Truly, a whirlwind of emotions have been swamping my brain since Dad died.
“I have to,” I say again, my voice small but steady. “Sorry.”
“You don’t want your own restaurant?” Leo asks, almost confused, as if it must be every single human being’s lifelong dream. It’s clearly Leo’s dream.
Oh god, this is a nightmare.
“I don’t understand,” he says, incredulous. “How can you just sell it? Without talking about it?”
“Talking to who?” I shoot back, frowning. He can’t mean I should run the decision by him.
Leo shakes his head, his mouth open.
“I don’t want to own a restaurant,” I say, spelling it out for him. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it.”
Leo’s eyes fix on me, hard.
“WhywouldI want it?” I challenge. “I’ve seen the books. The estate attorney shared them. This place is a fucking sinkhole.”
I shouldn’t have said that either. It’s true, but I shouldnothave said that. Leo has put his whole adult life into Nicky’s. He started here not long after I last stepped out the door. Dad, by all accounts, loved him like a son. He was the apprentice I might once have been and I’ve just said the worst thing I could about the place he obviously loves. I want to take it back. I want to grab the words like they’re on a length of rope and tug them back in.
“Olive...,” Leo says, almost in a whisper. He stops himself from continuing. Then he turns, looking at the back wall of the bar, where dozens of Italian aperitifs and digestifs line the mirrored shelves. Another jolt of heady nostalgia rockets through me as I see my dad reaching for a bottle above the shelf.“On the house,”I hear him shout over his shoulder.
