“I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at her then away. “I shouldn’t have been there. And I won’t come anymore.”
“It’s a free country; you’re allowed to go to a restaurant.”
There was another long pause while I struggled with what to say. But what could I say? I’m sorry? Please forgive me even though I don’t deserve it? I miss you? I have money for you, but it’s not a settlement?
It felt cold and corporate.
But then wasn’t that what I was now?
“You know,” Siobhan said, tipping her chin up, “the first time I saw you there at Alessio, I had nightmares for a week. I was furious. That restaurant was my safe zone, where I could pretend to just be normal, and you had invaded it.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry.” The words were hollow.
“I had a panic attack right before going the next week, thinking I’d see you there. My parents didn’t know what was wrong; they were so worried.”
I’d never hated myself more than I did at that moment.
You’re just as bad as your father.
I couldn’t look at my mother, letting her words cut me.
“The next Tuesday, there you were again. And the next Tuesday and the next. I began to look forward to seeing you there, so I could silently let you know that you weren’t going to steal this from me too. I would lay awake at night and obsess about you coming over to talk to me, about what you would say, about what I would yell at you. How I would pick up one of those slices of cake you were always sending over and throw it in your face.”
She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, a hauntingly familiar gesture.
“One day I met a guy, and I really liked him, despite everything. Soon he joined in on the Tuesday lunches. He wanted to go over there and confront you when I told him who you were.” She smiled softly. “You know, cause a scene, fight you. But I was worried you might hurt him.”
“I would never.” I shook my head.
She gave me an assessing look.
“I expected you to grow out of it, realize that you weren’t getting a rise out of me. But you just stood at the bar, week after week. I was thrilled that you looked desperately unhappy. It felt like I was beating you, like I was winning.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“The years passed, and I married that man, had children. And I felt what I thought I’d never be again.” She sighed heavily, her eyes shining with tears. “Happy.”
I felt sick. I wanted to curl up and die.
“Soon you were just a fixture of the restaurant, like the furniture. I didn’t think much about you at all. I had small babies, and I was busy helping my husband with his business. Every Tuesday afternoon, there you would be, at the bar, getting your paper to-go sack. And every Tuesday, week after week, month after month, year after year, you looked more and more miserable, more and more depressed, retreating in yourself, like you were just being crushed under the weight of, I don’t know—guilt pressure, stress, work. The world. I stopped being happy about it. I just felt sorry for you.”
I looked up at her. She gave me a small smile.
“And then, one day, I saw that short, red-headed girl come into the restaurant and boss you around, then walk out with almost a whole entire cake.”
I smiled at the memory.
“What’s her name?” my mom asked softly.
“Lexi, uh, Ms. Collins. Lexi Collins.”
“I like her a lot. She’s just perfect for you.” Siobhan grinned at me. “I couldn’t stop laughing to myself the rest of the day whenever I thought about you two arguing about that damn cake on the sidewalk. How absolutely appalled you were, and she gave not one flying flip. The next week she was back, chatting it up with the bartender, making you, for once in your life, eat there. I’ll never forget that for as long as I live. It was the first time I ever saw you happy, not just at the restaurant, but ever. You were always such a serious child, even as a baby. You never smiled at me; I couldn’t make you laugh. It was like you knew what a horrible place we were in and you hated me for trapping you there.”
I pulled out a box of Kleenex from my desk and offered it to her.
“I’m sorry I was such a shitty kid.”
