“Liar.” She nudges my shoulder.
“It’s not my restaurant.”
“But it’s not the Sailfish anymore, either.”
I swallow past the block in my throat. How the hell can I possibly explain how selfish it feels? How, if the Sailfish is officially over and done with, it’ll force me to acknowledge that Sal is truly gone, and I didn’t say goodbye?
“Fable,” I admit, finally. “I’d call it Fable.” I touch the notebooklightly. “Remember how your dad would say that cooking is just another form of storytelling?”
“Of course.”
I look into Kiara’s eyes—shining just a little, as if she can’t help it—and feel the familiar weight of guilt on my chest. A boulder, Sisyphean in nature. No matter what I do, it won’t erase the fact that I left. That I didn’t come back until it was too late.
“Are you really sure—”
“Yes.” She snags my phone from the table. “Go on. Text her now.”
I take the phone reluctantly. Poppy already texted, as of a few minutes ago.
Poppy:Are we cooking tomorrow?
I can’t help razzing her. She was entirely too pleased with herself when we exchanged numbers, and she put her contact in my phone as a pink heart and crown. For my contact in her phone, she chose a black heart and a knife.
Me:I thought we agreed no texts.
Poppy:You saying something doesn’t make it an immutable law of the universe
Me:You still don’t understand how kitchens work, do you?
Poppy:Not really, considering I haven’t so much as chopped an onion
Me:That’s what you want? To chop onions?
Poppy:You were the one who insisted on giving me lessons
Poppy:And if we start, I can film some of it to bank content
Poppy:BTW, did you decide on a name yet???
Poppy:Please say yes
Me:I heard you adopted a cat?
It takes a second, but then a selfie comes through. Poppy in a pair of silky jade pajamas, her hair loose over her shoulders, hugging a cat to her chest. He’s definitely the cat from the alley; I recognize his scarred ear.
It’s not surprising that she has ADHD. I couldn’t help but admire the way she announced it, and what she needed, so matter of fact, as if daring me to have a problem with it. Unlike me. I still struggle with acknowledging it sometimes, even though logically, I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of. A difference in how my brain works, not a flaw.
I can’t help staring—just for a moment—at her full, uptilted lips. The spaghetti strap of her top, almost halfway down her arm. A line of dangerously distracting freckles on her collarbone.
I clear my throat, typing out a reply.
Me:Be careful. That cat is a stone-cold killer.
Poppy:And yet much easier to win over than you
Kiara, peering over my shoulder, laughs. “God, I love her.”
“Don’t get too attached. She hasn’t started cooking yet.”
