Page 92 of Tastes Like Summer

His words—the tone of them—are like whiplash from his previous praise. “Michael⁠—”

“Seriously, it’s the same thing that happened with us. You think you’re less than, so you decide not to fight for yourself, choosing instead to hurt both of us. You’re doing the same here: not believing in yourself, settling for a paralegal position when everyone else knows you would be the best attorney at your firm.”

I snort, but he doesn’t find my attempt to relieve the tension a bit funny. “Me not going to law school is not about not believing in myself. It’s about prioritizing my family and doing what’s best for it. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“How many times am I going to have to remind you that prioritizing yourself sometimes is what’s best for your family. That, in this case, it’s not an act of selfishness. That it’s the possibility of providing a better future for your daughters.”

I press my lips together. “Maybe it isn’t an act of selfishness for other people. Or maybe it wouldn’t be one if I didn’t have so much going on. But there is no way in hell I could go to school while having to focus so much on keeping my daughters healthy and happy.”

“Your daughters want to see you happy. I want to see you happy.”

“Well, I don’t see that happening any time soon.” I don’t mean for the words to slip out, but they do. A massive mistake, since we both immediately fall silent. And I know. I know he’s two seconds from losing the surprising and admirable control he’s maintained so far in this conversation.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I should’ve called. I guess I just… missed you. And wanted to see how you were doing.”

A silence so dead leaves me checking to see whether the call dropped or not.

“Hello? You still there?”

Michael clears his throat once. “You’re right. You shouldn’t have called,” he says, his voice a little rough, whatever hint of humor and lightness it held before now gone. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation when you’ve been drinking. Or at all, to be honest. I don’t think I have it in me.”

“Michael, I—” The pit in my stomach I’ve been trying to distract myself from opens wide, a yawning abyss.

“You wanted this, Diana. You were the one who said you didn’t want to be together long-distance. I wanted to fight for us, and you said no.”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” I say, my voice breaking. “I just⁠—”

“Missed me, I know. I miss you, too. More than I could ever explain in words. But I can’t just hop on a call with you and pretend everything is alright. And I certainly don’t want to get these calls when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“Whatever. After a few glasses of wine. When you’re feeling lonely. How do you think that makes me feel? Because I could tell you, if you’d like.” He exhales, sounding just as broken as I feel. “I just… I can’t do this. I can’t be your friend or someone you call when you’re just alone and… I thought I meant more to you than that. That you respected me more.”

“I do. I care about you. Please know that I would never intentionally hurt you.”

“Well, you’re fucking hurting me.” Now it’s his voice breaking. “I… I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. I’ve never wanted anything more in my goddamn life the way I want you. And while I respect your decision to kick me to the curb⁠—”

“I did not kick you to the curb. I⁠—”

“While I respect your decision to break things off, then, I need a clean break. I can’t do this. I can’t just keep waiting for you because it is going to end me, Diana. I can barely breathe as is, and excuse me, but I need to keep my shit together for my daughter. So… So I need to end this call, and you need to never call me again.”

I bite my fist to keep from crying too loudly, squeezing my eyes shut. I don’t want to wake the girls, or let him hear me cry.

He sighs. “I didn’t mean that last part. Of course, if you ever truly need me—like actually need me—then I’ll be there, no questions asked. But I don’t think it’s fair of you to call me a few glasses of wine in ‘just to talk’ because you miss me after the way we ended things.”

“I’m so sorry, Michael,” I say, voice wet and blubbery.

He sighs. “Goodbye, Diana.”

“I’ve told you a million times not to use this olive oil as a finishing oil. This bottle is for cooking, and this one is the fancy shit for finishing,” I seethe, reprimanding my cooks for what feels like the millionth time. “Again. Do it again. And you can be the one to explain to our customer why their order is late.”

I turn on my heel and stomp off into the restaurant office before throwing myself into the chair behind my desk. Head in my hands, eyes squeezed shut, I wait for the inevitable moment Lexi walks through the office door.

“What the hell was that?” Her voice is as venomous as mine was. “What gives you the right to speak to our kitchen staff that way? I believe when you first wanted to open this place you vowed never to be like your former Chefs de Cuisine and treat people like garbage. And yet, here you are, being an absolute dick.”

“I know,” I mumble through my hands, more ashamed than words can describe. “There’s no excuse for what I did. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me that. Go tell George and the rest of the kitchen staff. The serving staff, too. You’ve been a nightmare to work with lately.”