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He looked at me like he wanted to believe me but was unsure.
“You should go back to your wife,” I said gently. “I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, but didn’t budge. I got the feeling he was waiting for something. Forgiveness maybe. Or perhaps an acknowledgment that our relationship had never been built on the right kind of feelings in the first place. I didn’t hate James. I never had. He wasn’t a terrible guy. He just wasn’t meant for me.
“I’ll send over a few glasses of wine,” I said. “On the house.”
He flashed a sincere smile. “That would be great. Thanks, Mel,” he said and then returned to his wife.
I arranged for the wine to be sent over to James’s table. But I asked Jessica to serve it. That part of my life was over.
When Esposito’s closed down for the night and I returned to my office, I felt strangely at peace yet sad. I just couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t come to work each day pretending like my heart wasn’t suffering from being yanked around so roughly. I wasn’t even angry with Dominic. I’d understood what I was risking when I started up with him. I kept thinking about this movie I’d seen once. It was one of those angst-laden ensemble flicks about love and dating and all its accompanying agonies. In it the bartender informed a friend, “Look if a guy wants a relationship with you, he’ll make it happen.” Or something like that.
Anyway, I got the message. If Dominic wanted a real future with me, he would say so without reservations. He wouldn’t just talk about the places we’d go and the things we’d do; we’d actually get there. I had known from the beginning that work was Dominic’s priority, but I had hoped that at some point I might end up mattering to him as much as his restaurants did. Now I wondered if that had always been a foolish wish. After all, there was no point in trying to change someone who didn’t want to be changed. Seeing James tonight reminded me that I’d wasted too much time in the wrong relationship once. I was crazy about Dominic, but I wasn’t willing to hang out in the background in the hopes that someday I’d get promoted to first chair instead of languishing in a second fiddle role.
I heaved a very theatrical sigh and pulled my purse out from underneath my desk. I couldn’t keep waiting for some romantic grand gesture that was never going to show up. Maybe I needed to quit, to start over yet again. I could think about going back to school, or I could even ask my sister if she had use for a roommate up there in San Francisco. Staying here would only end up breaking my heart, and my heart had already taken a few beatings in this life. As soon as Dominic returned from his secret field trip, I’d explain that to him.
I was about to turn off the office light when I remembered Gio’s comment about how Dominic had left me something in the bottom drawer of my desk. With yet another sigh, I dropped my purse and went over to find out what it was.
The brown paper bag obviously held a book, a rather large hardcover book. I turned the object over in my hand curiously and then opened the bag. Authentic Mexican Cooking was the title. The colorful cover depicted thumbnail pictures of a variety of very tasty-looking dishes. But it was the note taped to the cover that really caught my attention. I knew before I started reading that it was Dominic’s handwriting.
Melanie,
I thought we could try and make some of these recipes together. Maybe we’ll even figure out the secret to your father’s tamales. I hope you like the book. I hope it makes you think of home and family. I hope it gives you pride in who you are. Food has the power to do that, you know.
There’s so much I want to tell you. There are so many things I want to share with you.
Please don’t give up on me just yet.
Love,
Dominic
I sat down and cracked open the book carefully as if it was a priceless illuminated manuscript. Some of the recipes were familiar, but many I’d never heard of. A funny thing happened as I browsed the glossy pictures and read the names of the recipes. I felt a connection to something vital and historical, a sense of familiarity. I didn’t remember much about my father’s parents, and I’d never seen the place they came from—a small town in the Mexican state of Coahuila—but as I read about the kind of food that my grandmother had probably made in her own kitchen, the same food that her own grandmother had likely made before her, I was amazed. Dominic was right about food and what it could do.
While I read through the details of the most eye-catching recipes, I snacked on a bag of Doritos that I’d forgotten I had in my desk. They tasted a little funny, but I figured they wouldn’t hurt me. After I turned every page of the book, I picked it up and hugged it to my chest.
And just like that I was no longer considering quitting Esposito’s. I wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
