Celeste
You live in the future, babe.
Can you check if I’m heartbroken in the future?
“Mrs. Stone.” Gina Cassinetti extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“It’s Winslow-Stone.” I shake her hand, trying the name on my tongue for the first time. I ignore the weird indigestion it causes. Not the name, but my fake claim to it. “Call me Cora.”
I’ve been Mrs. Winslow-Stone for two weeks. Two weeks with Xander that feel just like a normal marriage.
That’s the most worrying part.
Xander got a marriage certificate to appease his father and follow through on the business with his client. No problem there. The bistro is getting saved in the process.
He added some amazing sex to the equation. No problem at all. I’m benefiting, and enjoying every moment of it.
But he’s also throwing in these little acts of what really feels like genuine care. That is the confusing part. Because how am I to protect my heart?
“Then, call me Gina. You have a great place here.”She walks around the bistro, which has been closed since Sanjay left.
“It’s my father’s pride and joy. Unfortunately he’s sick, and I…” For some reason, I feel like I’m on trial here.
“Mr. Stone said you want to preserve the original concept as closely as possible?” She taps her fingers on the counter, her eyes behind her blue-rimmed glasses inspecting the space with professional scrutiny.
I don’t know what she sees, but for some reason I want to apologize. “What is it you do, Gina?”
She faces me with a bright smile. “I’m a consultant in the hospitality industry. My expertise lies in restaurant processes, staffing, and marketing. I work either with new places or with already established places like yours. In both cases, it’s my job to help a restaurant succeed.”
She speaks with conviction and enthusiasm.
“My father left the place in a dire financial situation.”
“Mr. Stone said the budget is no issue.”
I guess that’s part of the deal. Whatever that means.
“But, of course, I will provide suggestions with pricing options, and you’re in charge of choosing what’s best,” Gina continues. “Will your father want to provide input?”
“I’m afraid he isn’t in a position to…” I peter out, because what am I going to say? In a position to care?
“Okay, let’s start. I have a gazillion questions.” She sits down and pulls out her tablet, saving me from the painful search for the right answer.
We spend almost two hours discussing the current operation while Gina makes notes.
The whole time I’m trying to get excited, but as it’s been lately, I still only feel exhaustion.
Maybe it’s burnout. Or just overall disillusionment with the way my life turned out. When Gina leaves, I look around the space and sit down for a moment, to reflect on my lack of motivation.
The space, closed and empty, sparks nothing besides an intense relief that I don’t have to open, prep, and serve at the moment.
I realize my break is sponsored by the man who will probably move on soon, but I need this to be able to breathe. Besides, I’m helping him as well.
Instead of forcing myself to dream about the next chapter of this venture, I take out my notebook. Escaping to fictional worlds has always helped.
I flip through the pages, but I can’t find the lines I remember writing a while ago. Regardless, the story awakens in me with its next lines:
The fox liked the building part best — thehammering, the fixing, the knowing she’d made something that would keep someone else warm.
