“I was an awkward mess.”
“Please, you look great. You should see my yearbook picture from back then.”
Our food arrives, and a few minutes pass while we dig in. Yesterday was so busy, I didn’t eat a proper meal, and my body awakens at the smell of perfectly eggy, syrupy Challah, dusted with powdered sugar.
“I think you should tell him,” Kiara says eventually. “Now, I mean. Before Fable opens.”
“You think?”
“I think he’s stubborn as hell—”
“—infuriating, really,” I kick in.
“—but he listens to you. He should go into the first service thinking about it being a beginning, not some stopgap on the way to something else.”
“My dad is going to want him back in New York. There’s no way he won’t, when he sees all of this.”
“He can invest in Fable instead.”
I snort. “You don’t know my father.”
She shrugs. “He might surprise you.”
Chapter 44
Oranges
Poppy
Fable’s opening day feels like Christmas morning.
Well, if Christmas morning involved lots of running around, yelling, and frantic last-minute scrambling with purveyors.
Jack must still be feeling bad about the pop-up because he lets me into the kitchen without fuss to help with prep. There’s no opportunity to talk alone, not with Hazel, Owen, and Herman working furiously alongside us, but I feel at peace all the same; the work banishes the hamster-wheel of distraction my brain loves to run on. My chest swells with pride as I prep mushrooms for the pasta filling; Jack can’t find anything to fault about my technique. He nods approvingly, hand tugging on my braid, as he passes by on his way to the walk-in.
I wipe my hands on my apron, pass the mushrooms to Owen, then get to work on carrots.
It’s been seven days since Kiara and I got brunch. Seven days of putting the finishing touches on the restaurant, tweaking menu items, and soaking up every second of Jack’s attention. Seven days of wondering how the hell to approach him about keeping Fable. Every time I nearly bring it up, something else gets in the way. It’s been too easy to put it off; to promise myself I’ll force the issue next time we’re alone.
But when we’re alone, we’re mostly in bed, and I haven’t wantedto spoil that time together, either. Instead, I want to hear the stories—or non-stories—behind every one of Jack’s tattoos. I want to be his willing subject as he catalogues every inch of my body, answering whatever random questions come into his head. The future comes into our conversations again, first a trickle, then a torrent: Have I been to Sardinia? Would I try uni from his favorite restaurant in Tokyo? Maybe we could eat our way across France, Spain, Portugal. It’s hitting me, how I really am learning him better and deeper than anyone I’ve ever known. It hurts to even think about ruining that closeness.
My phone buzzes. I put down the knife I’m using, opening Julia’s text with the hand not covered in carrot juice.
Julia:Poppy!! We are SO excited for later!!
Julia:We are about to drive to the airport with Mom and Dad
Julia:Caroline can’t wait to see you
Julia:And neither can I, obviously <333
Her texts hang alone, unanswered, as I stare at them.
I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but it jangles my nerves. If I fall on my face tonight, Mom and Dad will just have to look at Julia across the table to be reminded of their other, better daughter.
I waver so long on my reply, Jack asks me why I’m slow on the carrots.
Me:Thanks, you too <3
