Page 31 of The Sweetness of Life

“Okie dokie. Are y’all going to split it all?”

“That’s the plan,” he says flatly, and she falters again with her pen.

“I’ll get that going, and it’ll be out shortly.” She gives us both a small smile, takes the menus, and leaves.

His attention swings back to me, and I wish it hadn’t. Part of me feels like shrinking, and the other part of me wants to punch him in the throat. Now that I know he doesn’t like critics, I’m almost scared to find out which version of Zach I’m going to have to spend the rest of the afternoon with.

“So let me get this straight: you write a blog, you’re somewhat of a critic, you freelance for Food Network, you co-own a restaurant, and you’re working on a cookbook?” His face is blank but his voice drips with disdain.

“Yes. It sounds like a lot more than it is, but I love my career and all the different sides to it. I would do more if I could.”

He frowns as he thinks about my answer and then surprises me when he asks, “Have you ever written about this place?”

“I have, but like I said, it was a while ago.”

“What did you say about it?” This isn’t the direction I thought the conversation was going to go. Honestly, I don’t really remember what I wrote, but I do remember how this place made me feel the first time I walked into it, so I start there.

“Take a look around and tell me what you see.” His eyes narrow in defiance, so I urge him along. “Humor me.”

After a huff, he gives in, pausing before he slowly looks around the dining room. “I see people, lots of them, and in a small space. I see large plates of food, and a shop in the back to buy stuff.”

“Boring . . .” I fake like I’m yawning.

He snorts at me and shifts in his chair.

Leaning closer to him, I ask, “Do you feel the energy of this place?”

His eyes wander around the room, and his frown deepens. “I suppose it just seems crowded to me.”

“But that’s the point. Sometimes the draw to a place is more than just the food.”

The people at the table next to us start laughing, and I can’t help but smile with them.

“Here’s the thing about being a critic: I know you said you don’t like them, but everyone is one. It’s a subjective opinion that one can agree with or not. Most critics are known for immediately walking into a place and looking for errors, but I think that’s the wrong way to do it. I love to look for the good. To me, it’s about more than the food. It’s people laughing, families eating together, celebrations, memories, and traditions. I love to feel the energy and the sense of belonging. It’s a time when people talk to one another, and that time becomes sacred. Everything that happens around the table is sacred. Who knows, maybe that’s why so many people subscribe to my blog. Maybe they’re looking for the same thing . . . something good.”

He leans back in his chair, picks up his glass, and takes a swallow of the tea. “Well, whatever floats your boat, I guess. That’s definitely a different approach to it.”

“Maybe, but it’s my approach, and that’s all that matters.” I hate that he’s making me feel defensive.

“Do you ever get criticized for not telling the truth?”

“I am telling the truth. What I write about is all true to me. Every experience is my experience.” My voice rises just a bit, and the people at the table next to us glance our way.

“What about people who disagree with your truth? Do you ever give them an opportunity to change your opinion? Seems to me a blog like yours has influence.”

“No one has ever asked me to reconsider my opinion. I’m a straightforward person. I leave my reviews open for the readers to decide, but skeptically I guess I would if the situation arose.”

“Why do you say you’re skeptical?” He crosses his arms over his chest and his brows furrow, which I find annoying. Why is he looking at me as if he’s silently judging me, and why does he want to know these things?

“Why is anyone the way they are? Individual life experiences, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders, finger the napkin in my lap, and look down at the table as I think about my parents. More than anyone except Meg realizes, I’m an extremely skeptical person. People are always fueled by motive, and most of the time it’s glaringly obvious.

He takes another sip of his drink and my eyes find his. The blue has softened, removing the edge from them, and his gaze becomes thoughtful as he considers me.

“How did you meet Meg?” he asks, changing the subject.

“We met the weekend before our freshman year of college. We were standing in line at Starbucks, and there was one blueberry muffin left behind the counter. Both of us wanted it, and in the end, we agreed to split it. We’ve been best friends ever since.” I remember that day as if it were yesterday.

“And Lexi? How did you meet her?” He tilts his head.