Julia hugs me tightly. “Will you talk to Dad? Tell him these things?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Good.” She kisses my hair. “I love you, Pop Tart.”
“Love you, too.”
A long, torturous week passes.
My inbox fills with new collaboration pitches. Michelle and Lisa ask me to lunch. A reality television show, one where singles spend the entire time tipsy and sunbathing, reaches out to see if I want to join next season’s cast. I take that call in the dining room, to my father’s intense anxiety. Things are still too awkward between us to even begin to have a normal conversation. Even though he didn’t cause my relationship with Jack to collapse in spectacular fashion, I can’t seem to drop the resentment.
Maybe if I hadn’t made such a scene, Jack would have been in a better place to think about keeping Fable.
Maybe if Dad hadn’t pushed the idea of New York again, he’d have realized all he could have in Diamond Bay.
Jack texted me once, two days after I left. He sent the pop tart recipe, scrawled out in his loopy handwriting. In return, I gave him all my files on Fable. This is the worst part of breaking up with someone—untangling your lives so they won’t cross again.
And I feel no relief, either. No satisfaction. Just an ache that refuses to fade.
I miss the energy of the kitchen. The restaurant’s pulse, which grew stronger each day we worked on reviving it. I’m reading all the cookbooks I can get my hands on, but that’s not the same as listening to Jack lecture about food and technique.
One morning, a storm rolls in, dumping a miserable wintry mix on the tristate. I sleep late, dreaming of something having to do with a timer. It’s ringing at the end of a long, pristine hallway that leads into a kitchen, but no matter how fast I run, I can’t turn off the oven before whatever I’m cooking burns. I press my palms against my eyes as I shake myself out of it.
I haven’t managed to drag myself out of bed yet when someone knocks.
“Poppy,” comes Dad’s voice. “Are you awake?”
I hesitate. “Yeah. Come in.”
Gator streaks past Dad as he opens the door, intent on reaching his food bowl downstairs.
“Can we talk?” Dad asks. He pauses a moment, no doubt taking in my messy room, limp hair, and the king-size jar of peanut butter currently taking up space on my nightstand. “Maybe about you and the Winfield Group?”
“What for?” I ask warily.
“We’re looking at opening a new place in San Diego, but we haven’t settled on a direction for the personality of the restaurant. What the aesthetic should be, and the mission. I thought, given everything that happened with Fable, that you might want to take a look at what we have so far and let me know what you think.”
“Dad, come on. You don’t really...” I trail off uncomfortably. It’s the first time either of us have referenced the conversation that got me into this mess in the first place.
His voice holds a curiously gentle note. “We have a lot to talk about. Let’s go, we can have breakfast at Caroline’s bakery.”
My heart clenches painfully. “Nothing tastes good anymore.”
“Well, maybe we need to order one of everything to make sure.” My eyes must be shining with misery again, because he shakes his head slightly and says, “If you’re not up for it yet, I won’t push.”
“No.” I wipe my cheeks quickly. “I’m fine. I’ll go with you. Better than lazing around in bed, right?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
I see the concern in his eyes and try for a smile. “Really, I’m fine. I just need a shower.” I slide out of bed, shaking out my tangle of hair. “By the way, have you, um, heard from him?”
“No.” Dad laughs ruefully. “And I doubt he’ll want to hear from me anytime soon.”
“You should hire him back.” It pains me to say it. The petty part of me wants to test Dad by asking if he’d keep Jack out of the city forever. But despite it all, I still love Jack, and I want him to have what he wants.
Even if that isn’t a life with me.
Dad just knocks his knuckles against the door frame, one foot out in the hallway. “I’ll be waiting downstairs with your demon cat.”
