“I don’t need your pity,” he interrupts sharply. He slides his hand away from mine.
I lean back, hurt. “It’s not pity. It’s advice. You still want the Green Street job, right? The best way back to it is to show him that he’s making a mistake.”
“I was going to sell it.” The impliedbeforehangs in the air between us. His voice softens, just slightly. “I’m sure it’s an outdated mess. Sal was sick for a while.”
“So?” I bounce a little on the bar stool, taken with the idea of this restaurant waiting for Jack a thousand miles away. “Maybe you could make it even better than Pastiche.”
He scoffs. “Sure, maybe. I know I can cook, but the rest of it—I mean, the place hasn’t been on the map in ages. Can’t keep the doors open if no one knows where the fuck it is.”
“Yeah, but that’s just marketing.”
He makes a face. “Bullshit, you mean.”
“Um, no it’s not. I do that sort of thing for brands all the time. A lot of it is just about putting yourself out there.”
I nearly pull out my phone to show him, then remember it’s probably inundated with notifications. Not that he’d be impressed. My most recent ad campaign involves me eating a melting popsicle in a tiny bikini. My parents called me when they saw it and asked why I insisted on being obscene for strangers on the internet.
At least my 2.3 million Instagram followers liked it.
He snorts. “Angling for a job?”
Is it just the whisky, or did it suddenly get way warmer in here? I open my mouth to rebuff him, but for some reason, what comes out of my mouth is, “It’s not the worst idea. I might have to be careful about showing my face in New York after tonight. Knicks fans will be after me.”
Itdoessound tempting. Running away to Florida. Starting over somewhere called Diamond Bay. The ocean must be pretty there.
“Oh, sure.” Jack scowls, his eyes aflame. I might be mistaken, but it looks like there’s some gold threaded in with the green. “Like the attention won’t just send more people to your content.”
The tips of my ears are burning. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing is one thing.” Jack’s voice is clipped, flinty. “What I did could keep me out of respectable kitchens.”
“Which was your own fault,” I snap back, irritation rising. “Don’t get all mad at me about it.”
He leans in, close enough that our knees touch again. Close enough for me to parse out the shades of green in his eyes. Army green. Jungle green. Dark gold by his pupils. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
I blink. “Tired of what?”
“Tired of people treating you like an ornament. Treating yourself like a pretty object for someone to look at.” He growls a bit, and I’m not sure if it’s directed at me or the world. “You have everything you could ever want at your fingertips, and this is what you do with your life?”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My nose smarts, threatening tears. Clearly, whatever goodwill I thought we were building bysharing our fuck-ups was one-sided. This entire conversation, he was humoring me, and now I’ve reached the end of his patience.
“That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“Am I wrong?” He stares with enough intensity that I can’t look away. “You could be more, but you don’t give a shit.”
“I already told you; you don’t know me.”
He gives me a two-fingered salute. “Sure thing, Princess.”
I should leave. Find a way back home. But I stay rooted to the spot, heart racing as his words dance in my head.
An ornament. A pretty object. That’s how I felt with Ryan, and I wasn’t shiny enough to keep him. It’s how I feel after I make a new post, selling a me-shaped illusion because I’m too scattered, too frivolous, to do anything else. It’s why my family never takes me seriously, no matter what I do.
Reality slides back into focus. The breakup, the outburst, the videos that I’m sure are making the rounds on social media. I can’t ignore it forever. Jack and I might’ve slid to rock bottom on the same night, but that doesn’t mean we’re in this together. I clamber off the bar stool with unsteady legs, tossing my purse over my shoulder.
“At least I’m not wallowing in a bar getting hammered after losing my dream job,” I retort, finally. “If it was me, I’d be trying to do something about it.”
His mouth twists. “Go home to your castle, Poppy.”
