I realized I don’t have your phone number. See below for information about family dinner and I’m also including my cell number. Text me so I have yours or I will be forced to get it from my son. Don’t make me do that, dear.
The rest of the email included an address, a phone number, and little room for argument.
I ignore both emails.
It takes me a month before I eventually make it to a Bardot family dinner.
Red, am I allowed to text you?
*Two hours later*
I’m feeling like that’s a no…
*One day later.*
Okay I know I’m not supposed to text you but I just wanted to offer my services for the hair thing if you need or want that again.
*One week later.*
Mom keeps asking about you which seems a little weird? Everything alright?
*Two weeks later.*
Red…
I miss you…
I’m here if you ever need anything…
Hope you’re okay
Opening Bardot Brothers Coffee Co. has been more difficult than any of us anticipated. We open in two days and we still have a to-do list a mile long. Though Jules would never outwardly show it, I can tell that he’s nervous. I watch as he fiddles with the espresso machine, inching it over so there’s enough room for stir sticks and cup sleeves to fit next to it.
When he’s adjusted it for the third time, I decide it’s time to step in.
“Placement looks good, Brother.”
He glances up, surprise flitting across his features, as if he forgot Gabe and I were in the room with him.
“Oh. Yeah? I wasn’t sure if we should move it to a different part of the counter,” he replies.
“It’s perfect,” Gabe jumps in. “And everyone is on their way for dinner. Let’s take a break and we can pick back up afterward.”
Our typical Sunday night dinner is being moved to the shop tonight. The work here is a bit overwhelming and knowing Jules would never outwardly ask for help, Gabe and I intervened. If we invite everyone here, there’s no way Jules will refuse when Dad inevitably suggests that he does some paint touch ups.
The youngest Bardot—now technically a Bardot-Olsson—will also be in attendance. Bex, Anders, and their two kids are in town from New York for the shop opening. It’s nice when all of us are together—there’s a sense of peace, completeness.
Jules feels it too. Even more so when Thea, Chloe, and Hank Rose arrive. Thea’s baby bump is evident, and I catch Jules staring at it on more than one occasion.
He’s obsessed, and I get it. At least the person he’s obsessed with will actually spend time around him.
When everyone arrives, we sit down for dinner at tables that have been pushed haphazardly together, pizza boxes scattered where everyone can reach. Not our typical, home-cooked family dinner, but perfect all the same.
I’m about to pop the first box open when the front door bangs open and Colette Russell walks in. “Sorry I’m late!” she exclaims, as if it’s perfectly normal and acceptable for her to be here.
The speed at which I burst from my seat has me knocking my knee against the table. “We aren’t open, Colette. What are you doing here?”
In my tone, you can hear my anger. I think about how I haven’t seen her in a month. I think about the string of unread text messages and how her social media has been nothing but crickets.
