And what do you really want?the voice in my head says.
Ollie, I think.
Usually I ignore the question, and not only when it comes to Ollie.While I’d happily fill a cart at World Thrift with vintage Hawaiian shirts and mom jeans or stack the closet in my hallway with old board games until the closet itself resembles a precarious game of Jenga, when it comes to anything else, anythingreal, I’d rather not wonder. Why get all worked up thinking about what I want if it might not be as good as I hope? Or, and perhaps this is the real problem, what if I get exactly what I want and realize it’s perfect and lose it anyway?
My life is good. But it isn’t perfect. Why change what is working to have something that might not work out? What if getting what I want ruins everything else?
Nearly an hour later, I’m still gnawing on these questions when Ollie turns to me with a satisfied look on his face. “I’ve just got to plate this, and it’ll be ready. Why don’t you go sit?”
“I am sitting,” I say, and give myself a spin in the rolling chair.
“In the dining area, smartass,” Ollie says.
“Where—”
“Through that door. You’ll know where.”
I stare at him for a moment but decide I’d rather not ask. I get to my feet and turn away to push through the kitchen doors. I’d assumed the restaurant was empty when we got here, but Ollie has clearly had a co-conspirator. The whole place is glowing. String lights wrap around columns and hang from the ceiling. Candles flicker warmly on every table as far as the eye can see. Instrumental music plays softly overhead. It’s the very picture of romance. But then I notice the glow sticks at my feet. Neon pink, and yellow, and orange—all my favorite colors, a rainbow path leading from where I stand to the brightest spot in the room, a table for two set in its very center.
“Did you look up?” Ollie says from behind me. I hadn’t heard him follow me out.
“Oh,” I say. A bubble of emotion bursts in my chest when I tilt my head to the ceiling. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the string lights andcandles and glow sticks that I haven’t noticed the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck above me.
“I didn’t really think that through,” he says. “Can hardly see them with everything else.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, bowled over by this small, silly galaxy Ollie has made for me. I turn, wanting to reach out and touch him, but his arms are balancing plates, and beside him is a Black man I recognize from the photos Ollie has shown me of his time in culinary school.
“This is Barnabé,” Ollie says. “Barnabé, Nina.”
“I’m glad to finally meet you,” Barnabé says. He steps around Ollie to set the plates in his arms on the table.
“I can’t believe he convinced you to do this to your restaurant,” I say, shaking Barnabé’s hand when he extends it to me.
“I didn’t do it for this asshole,” Baranbé says. “I did it for me. Not sure I’d ever get him to shut up about you otherwise.”
I glance at Ollie, who simply shakes his head and sets the plates he’s carrying on the table.
“Well, whatever the reason, thank you. You have a beautiful place.”
Barnabé smiles at me. I like him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m surprised you’re as beautiful as he said. He’s been hyping you up for nearly ten years. I was a little worried I’d have to fake it.”
“He is rather dramatic, isn’t he?” I say.
“Nothing’s changed, then. I bet he never told you about the time he almost got kicked out of culinary school.”
“Shouldn’t you be going, Barnabé?” Ollie says, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, come on, Oliver. I want to hear the story.”
Barnabé laughs. “Ah, Ollie’s right. I’ll hold on to that one. Then you’ll have to come see me again.”
“I definitely will.”
Barnabé claps his hands together. “It was lovely to meet you, Nina.Don’t fuck it up, brother,” he adds, and gives Ollie a back-slapping hug. “The place is yours for the night. Have all the fun you want,” he says, shooting us a wink before he turns to go.
“He’s absolutely charming,” I say once Barnabé is out of sight. Something about meeting him means even more to me than the lights and candles and glow sticks. It’s rare I get to meet someone from Ollie’s past. And Ollie is proud. Neither of us likes to ask for favors. Yet he’s shown me this piece of himself. And given the two minutes I spent with Barnabé, Ollie surely endured plenty of teasing to make this happen.
“He’s a good fella,” Ollie says. He steps over to the table and pulls out a chair. “Now will you sit down before the food gets cold?”
