He grimaces. “I was going to tell you.”
“Really?” I stride down the pathway to the docks, hearing his heavier footfalls behind me. “When, exactly? Before my father arrived? Because you missed the fucking boat on that.”
“I was going to tonight. After service.”
“You never should have agreed to it in the first place,” I snap over my shoulder. “I told you about my family. Why I had to do this alone. And the whole time, you were lying—pretending to support me when really—”
“Poppy, I told him the deal was off weeks ago.”
“When?”
“After the hospital.”
“And when did you make it?”
He hesitates.
“When, Jack? Before or after we started working together?”
“After,” he says uneasily. “It was before I really knew you. Not that—I know that doesn’t make it better.”
“Oh, look, a shred of self-awareness.”
“Will you slow down for a moment?”
“Why? Why should I listen to anything you say?” I’m running out of room on the dock, but I keep walking. “Did you ever mean what you said? Did you care about actually making the restaurant a success?”
“I always care.” His voice holds a note of strain. “My career is all I have, of course I fucking care about doing the restaurant justice.”
“So, I didn’t mean anything to you.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You lied. The entire time, you were lying.” I turn so abruptly, he nearly crashes into me. When he tries to steady me, I bat him away. I hate the quivering note in my voice. I hate how my body yearns for his touch, even though I’m furious with him. “Was any of it real? The feelings, the sex—Dad would have killed you if I ran off withsome random fisherman. But this was perfect, right? Talk about having your cake and eating it—”
“What’s so bad about your father caring about you?” he snaps. “Isn’t that what everyone wants? A family that cares about you so damn much, they’ll do whatever they need to in order to know you’re okay?”
“Were you ever going to consider keeping Fable?” I fling back. “Or was it another lie?”
He’s silent.
“Jack.”
“No,” he says finally. “You’d want to leave this place, sooner or later.”
I shake my head. “I’m happy here.”
“I know you think that, but I can’t.” His voice, suddenly brittle, cracks under the weight of his words. “I can’t stay.”
“You can,” I say, chest aching with want. “Look at how it’s going. We can do this together. I know you know this place is special. Sal knew that. It’s what he wanted for you, and I know you want it for yourself. Don’t be someone else’s chef when you can be your own.” He opens his mouth to reply, but I keep going, desperate to make him understand. To make him see the future I see for us both. “I’m happy here. I know you can be happy here, too. Your family is here. We won’t have to answer to anyone. We’ll be able to make it exactly like we want.”
“No, Poppy.”
“If you’d just listen—”
“It’s too much.”
“Stop punishing yourself!”
