“We’ll definitely have a full house for opening night. A lot of people want to come back to see the expanded menu.”
The server brings by our mimosas and coffees. I reach for the latte first, if only because it’s warm. Kiara curls her hands around her own mug and leans back in her chair.
“That’s good,” she says. “You both deserve it.”
I sip my coffee, relishing the warmth, my foot tapping against the floor. “Look, Ki, I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t think Jack should sell the restaurant.” I set down my mug firmly. “And I want to stay, too.”
Kiara squeals loudly enough, several people look over. “I was hoping you’d feel that way. You belong here.” She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers and squeezing. “Both of you do. With or without the restaurant.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“I want us to run Fable. Together.” I shake my head, hardly able to believe the words coming out of my mouth. I thought I wanted to earn a place at the Winfield Group, but this feels different. Real, and true, and something I want to share with one of my best friends. “I want to be his front of house manager. I know I can do it. Last night proved it.”
“It would be perfect. You already work so well together.”
“Are you sure it’s okay? I mean... it was your dad’s place first.”
“Jack doesn’t believe me, but I asked Dad to leave him the restaurant.” She shakes her head, smiling like she’s remembering something. “Maybe it was selfish of me, but I thought... if I can’t have my dad in my life anymore, at least maybe I can bring back my brother.”
My throat feels thick. “That’s sweet.”
“Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s happy, right?” She fiddles with her napkin. “That’s what I want for him.”
“I think he is.” I risk a sip of mimosa, even though it’s chilled. “But he doesn’t trust it.”
“Dad said something like that once. After Jack left for culinary school.” Kiara taps her nails against her mug, her expression thoughtful. “I thought it was bullshit at the time. A bullshit excuse, I mean.”
“He doesn’t want to acknowledge it in case he loses it.”
She shakes her head. “Exactly. Which is—”
“Sad?” I guess.
“I was going to say annoying,” she says with a laugh.
“Are you going to give him the letter?”
She nods. “Maybe after opening night.”
“After the picture is on the wall.”
“It looks amazing, by the way. Let me show you.” She pulls out her phone, bringing up the image we settled on, now resized and framed by her friend: Jack, Sal, and Kiara in the old Sailfish kitchen together, laughing. Kiara doesn’t remember who took the photo, but it managed to capture the three of them perfectly. Sal, bald and broad, who clearly was a larger-than-life character. A younger Kiara, sitting atop one of the lowboys, her long hair tumbling over her shoulders. And Jack—my Jack—as a young man, with fewer tattoos but the same distinctive eyes, a kitchen knife in hand and a smile on his face.
“This is incredible.”
She nods. “Dad looks great there. Jack, too.”
“And you.”
