27
“Beautiful, beautiful. Just like that,” says the photographer. “Okay, just a few more—hold that million-dollar smile. Nice. Now, Allie, turn a little more toward me and drop your right shoulder. Perfect. Now pretend to bite the apple. GOOD! Hold still! Hold it!”
My name was first thrust into the public eye when FoodFeed broke the news of my last relationship. After seeing what that eventually led to, I swore to myself and Angela that I would never take part in another glorified piece of restaurant press again. But when Alexi Kolev, Mag Mile Magazine’s famed art director, contacted me and said he wanted to reenact the apple scene from Snow White with me wearing a beaded couture Marchesa gown and lying on top of our bar with Tabitha and Angela in the background, I immediately changed my mind. If anything, at least I’d score myself a new Facebook profile picture. Just like any twentysomething on social media, I still have my priorities.
“‘One Bite and Your Dreams Will Come True,’” says Alexi. “Just got the email from the editor—that’s going to be the title for your piece! Congratulations, dear. That’s a wrap on the group shoot. Great work, everybody!”
It’s been three months since we opened the doors to Here and not only has the place not burned to the ground, it’s on everyone’s short list of places to see and be seen in the city.
I’m not going to sit here and say I don’t know how we did it, because I know exactly how it happened: we worked our asses off, gave up our lives and dedicated ourselves to inventing and defining a restaurant concept unlike any other in Chicago. A place where our guests can dress up and be treated like royalty but still feel like they’re sitting at the dinner table with family and friends, eating a favorite meal they’ve never had before.
We’ve been in the black every week since we opened, and I’ve been trained to know that black—the color of Craig’s AmEx—is good. With me in charge of the day-to-day books and Angela in charge of the overall budget, together our calculations show we are pacing to profit throughout the winter. Angela tells me that Chicago winters tend to destroy fine-dining restaurants because no one wants to put on twelve layers to stand outside in the cold for an Uber that’s going to get stuck in the snow or slide on ice over the I-90 bridge into the West Loop, but so far, we are defying the wind, snow, ice—even the allure of ordering Grubhub in pajamas next to a fireplace.
What makes us so confident that this winter weather has nothing on the heated tile entryway of Here? Well, we sold out two separate rounds of seating on New Year’s Eve, each with fifty covers. Tab cooked up a prix fixe meal with a price of $135 per person—$200 for the patrons that felt like celebrating with the boozy pairings. Then, with all the activity in the bar afterward, we pulled just over $40,000. Forty grand in a single night—twelve more than I’m due to make in an entire year according to the bone-dry salary presented in my offer letter from Angela.
Don’t get me wrong. These last couple months haven’t always been confetti and bubbly for us. I’ve had two waitresses up and quit because they felt the tip pool they voted to have was unfair. I replaced them fairly quickly, but it takes about two full weeks of training before anyone is able to take a table solo and upsell the shit out of our seafood add-ons. That said, we were a bit “compressed”—an industry term for totally stressed and feeling it—but have since managed to onboard the newbies and create a stellar team of servers that finally feels stable.
Our back-of-house wasn’t immune to the HR drama either. One of the sous chefs was caught stealing meat off our delivery truck and carrying it around the corner to his wife who was waiting for him with a cooler. No wonder we were eighty-six filet mignon by 7:00 p.m. the first three weeks. Needless to say, the thief was fired and we held open interviews for a replacement cook.
Sebastian, Benji’s former right hand, came in to apply for the job. I said hello and kept it short and sweet before fetching Tabitha to do the interview unbiased. She chose to pass on him for being a little too green for the fast-paced environment we have at Here, but she offered him the chance to stage on any Tuesday he’d like since Tuesdays are our least busy day. And by “least busy” I mean we feed 150 people a night instead of 170. I guess he took her up on it because I’ve seen him a few times since.
FoodFeed has been shockingly complimentary of everything Here is doing, but I think that’s just because they want to keep me buttered up so I’ll agree to provide a quote for a massive exposé they are doing on Benji, due out sometime next year. But unless they’re calling me to see if I can squeeze them in for a seating on our sold-out Valentine’s Day dinner service, I plan to reserve my right to remain silent.
So, yeah, that’s what life has been like for the past three months: Here, Here and more Here.
With a hearty side of Jared.
Are we officially a “thing”? No. But knowing how I would feel if he found some other industry AGM to take to the movies or spatter off random historical facts to makes it feel like maybe we should be. Like maybe we should define this relationship.
Still, I refuse to put a title on what we are because if I fancy myself having a new boyfriend, that means I have to come to terms with what happened with my last one—and the truth is, I still don’t know. Yes, he relapsed. Yes, it was bad. And yes, (apparently) he went to rehab. But for all intents and purposes, it’s an open wound as far I’m concerned. Every day, I do my part to patch it up, but there’s a lot of healing left. That, I am not naive about.
The other reason I’m keeping this casual is that Angela will shit a brick if she finds out we’ve made whatever we are “official.” I’m basing that purely on the fact she didn’t take it well when I let it slip that I broke Rule #77 (or was it #34?) around our third-ish date. Yup, we slept together. And it. Was. Amaze-balls.
The sex is so different from what I had with Benji. I used to think nothing could ever top the carnality we shared—raw, hot, fast and furious. But I’ve come to realize that to Benji, my vagina was nothing more than a line of coke, a shot of dope. I was just another mood-altering substance in a life saturated by them. His passion for me wasn’t a matter of love, loyalty or commitment—it was just a thing to get him high when he couldn’t do cocaine. Kind of like a cup of coffee or bottle of cough syrup, but with a more intense climax.
Sex with Jared is exactly what sex should be: give-and-take and a good time for everyone involved.
Beyond just the physical, Jared and I have a connection. He’s easy to talk to and we never go more than a few hours without a text. And not in that obsessive, manic, where-the-hell-are-you way. But more like the “TELL ME you watched this week’s Game of Thrones...” variety. It’s cute.
Another thing I appreciate about Jared is the fact that he has helped me get my friendship back on track with Jazzy and Maya—and he doesn’t even realize it. For our second date, we went to the Farmer’s Market—first came cupcakes, then came cucumbers, if you will. While picking out fresh flowers, we ran into the girls. When I explained that these were my two best friends, he insisted that we all walk through the park together and he’d share who all the best vendors were. At first, I was uneasy going for a leisurely walk, crepe in hand, with two people who I was last seen with while begging for a ride to the projects. But the best part about Jared’s “come on, it’ll be fun!” attitude is that it leaves no room for details like that. I mean, who cares to discuss semantics of our past when the city’s best tomato vendor is located just a few stalls ahead?
It wasn’t long before the four of us were laughing, eating and telling stories like the cast of a TV series on the Lifetime Network. In a quiet moment, when Jared was catching up with one of his vendor pals, the girls told me how great they thought he was. How different from Benji—in a good way—he was. How perfect for me he was.
Jazzy and Maya are the only friends-and-family threshold Jared has crossed as of yet. My mom knows about him; he came up in one of our routine phone conversations. She’d probably still prefer I date a banker or an electrician, someone with less of a grip on this industry. But I think she’s equally happy that I’m at least exploring my options and not hanging on to the could-have/would-have brought on by a certain someone.
While Alexi fusses with his camera equipment, I sneak a look at my phone after being largely detached from it during the morning.
How’s the shoot? reads the text from Jared.
Got a pound of makeup on. Face hurts from smiling. Starving, I text back.
#BigShot. Lunch?
I wish. Still shooting. Can’t believe we R nominated 4 a JBF award.
I guess that’s another thing I failed to mention. Here is up for a JBF. In case you don’t know, “JBF” stands for James Beard Foundation. And in case you’re wondering, I’m in shock they consider us one of the best in the business.
The prestigious foundation is based in New York City and gives out annual awards in a multitude of categories ranging from Cookbook of the Year to Best Food Blog, Best Wine Program, Chef, Pastry Chef—you get the idea. It’s a big night in the industry, like the Grammys for foodies. Winners give speeches onstage and losers give blow jobs in the bathroom. The event is broadcast on the web and the entire Twittersphere explodes when someone—either deserving or undeserving—picks up a win.
From what I hear, it’s a cross between the best night ever and a total shit show. A prom throwback, if you will.
I’ll see for myself, in person, in just a couple months—when the event takes place right here in Chicago. The award we are up for is a biggie: Best New Restaurant. In fact, it’s the only award we even qualify for seeing that Here opened less than one calendar year before the date of the March ceremony. But because of all the buzz that’s bubbled up about us having excellent food, drink and service, we qualified. And if you ask Tabitha or Angela, we’re going to take the cake.
The girls tell me that Chicago restaurants have won this award for the Great Lakes region in the past, but largely because they were headed by celebrity, veteran chefs or because they had received actual Michelin stars (or at least a nod in their Bib Gourmand). We haven’t received anything of the sort (yet), and, of course, the whole food world knows what happened to our “celebrity chef.”
And, boy do they love to talk about it.
Jared was right when he said this industry was laced with gossip. I try not to look at the comments section of articles and blogs, but sometimes when I’m scrolling so fast, I stumble upon dangerous territory before I even realize I’m in the dead zone. I already knew that people can be cruel. It’s not like I completely blocked out that one time I spent half a day at Daxa researching @BJZane and reading what perfect strangers had to say about him. But I guess I just expected that the hate and speculation wouldn’t spill over onto me—a completely separate person with no ties, extraneous or otherwise, to illegal activity. Who knew that just things like the shoes I wear or the fact that I haven’t spent my life in the industry would be enough gas to set the blogosphere ablaze.
I have to remember, though, that for every one hater, there are at least ten people raving about how good a time they had at Here. And how can you argue with that? It’s evident we have an extremely talented and visionary general manager in Angela Blackstone, who understands the concept of Here on a deep and personal level. When I think about the fact we are up for a JBF, I’m not blind to the fact it’s really her vision for this place that captured the imaginations of the JBF committee members. My name is just what got some people curious enough to come through the doors and shove an apple in my mouth.
Yes, I’m talking about you, Mag Mile Magazine.
Our JBF nomination is being covered by the luxury, who’s-who, widely circulated Chicago glossy—and rightfully so. We’re the only local restaurant in the running for such a high-profile category this year. And because I’ve got an investment to recoup, I don’t really mind the camera flash in my face and request for an interview if it means we can trudge through this winter with a little more peace of mind. By the time this issue goes to print in the next week and a half, Angela predicts Here will go from booked solid for the next thirty-six straight nights, to somewhere around seventy-five. I can live with that. Correction: my bank account can live with that.
“Allie, can we get just a few solo shots of you in the dining room?” Alexi asks.
“My pleasure,” I tell him. It’s a phrase I’ve picked up from my time in this industry, and just one of the many little hospitable habits I’m starting to take on even while off the clock. Saying “behind!” when trying to pass someone in a narrow grocery store aisle and noting that my snack drawer is “eighty-six Hostess cupcakes” are two others.
I lead Alexi back to the empty dining area with my head held high like I do every night for the couple hundred diners who come into Here. In addition to the piece about Here’s award, the Mag Mile article will also feature a small cutout about my debut into the restaurant world. “A League of Her Own” is the working title for the five-paragraph mini-story and, for once, it feels good be in the limelight. My contribution to this industry is just that—mine. It has nothing to do with a bad boy blurting out who he was sleeping with during a drug-induced Twitter rant. And that in and of itself is a priceless accomplishment, whether I take home the JBF award or not.
“This is incredible, Allie,” Alexi says as he frames up the shot. “Can you snag the award for Best Interior Design while you’re at it? The velvet accent wall behind you is to DIE for. Let’s have you sit here and I’ll shoot with it in the background.”
“Thanks,” I say, getting into position in front of the dark, luxe wall. “It’s all Angela Blackstone’s doing, really. She picked out these finishes.”
“Well, kudos to her,” he says.
Though she isn’t within earshot, giving credit where credit is due is one of the ways I like to run my restaurant, even if I’m the freak show that everyone comes to check out. I know there’s a bulk of patrons who just want to see what I look like post–Benji Zane. Did I go on a Ben & Jerry’s binge and plump up? Do I look like I’ve been hitting my own crack pipe? I can’t be sure what exactly they’re coming to see, but they do come. And they do stare. And since they also pay a hefty tab at the end of the night, I let them. If sitting and wondering if I had anything to do with his disappearance makes me less broke at the end of the day, then so be it. Go on and get your fix, ladies and gents.
And then there’s just the simple fact that Angela is my homegirl and deserves to be treated fairly by myself and the media. Besides Jared, Angela is a huge reason I haven’t been crying on my bathroom floor each night alone for the last four and a half months. Her belief in me when it comes to being a strong, successful woman reminds me of the belief I had in Benji that he, too, could reach the stars. But her way of believing in someone is different than what mine was. Because hers is bulletproof. It’s been tested before. She doesn’t hand out acknowledgments for the fuck of it. If she believes in me, and tells me so, it’s not to cheerlead me or to walk on eggshells. It’s because that’s what she sees for me and that’s what she expects from me. And because I respect her, I make sure I do the best I can. That includes making it a point not to skimp when I give out nods to the press about my support team.
“Agh, crap. I think I’m going to need to bring in more light for this set,” Alexi says, checking the shots on his camera.
“That’s fine,” I say. “No worries.”
“Take five, will you? I’m gonna grab my umbrella and spotlight and be right back.”
A five-minute break is actually on the long side of breaks I’ve been afforded since Here became my full-time gig. But for as fleeting as it will be, I sit and soak in just how beautiful this place really is. My role at Here might not be my dream job, but when I consider there was a time in the not-so-recent past when I really doubted the potential of this place to be magnificent...well, it’s hard not to feel like I’ve come a long way.
Until, in a single second, I am right back where I started.
Because there, in a black wool jacket, is Benji Zane. He’s blowing hot air on his cold, red hands as he stands right in front of me.
If it wasn’t for the tiny snowflake that I just saw fall from his cowl neck collar and melt on the floor in front of me, I would have sworn there was something in that apple causing me to hallucinate. But, no. He’s here. And so it’s time for me to find my voice.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I say, shooting up from where I’ve been sitting to wait for Alexi’s return.
“Wow,” he says as he does a slow 360 turn right in the heart of the dining room. “This place looks great, Allie.” When he makes his way back to me, he slips in, “And you do, too.”
“Benji, I don’t know why you’re here or how you got in, but you have to leave. Angela!” I call at the top of my already-quivering voice.
I wonder if Benji can see the tremor in my hands, or if my face has gone that ghostly green you only see in cartoons. The churning in my stomach feels like that color.
“Relax, she’s outside smoking in the alley,” Benji says, placing his hands on top of my shoulders and directing me back to my seat at the table. How did he get close enough to touch me? It’s like time is collapsing in on itself.
“So, she saw you?” I say, sharply arresting our progress and turning to face him. “And she just let you in? I find that really hard to believe, Benji. ANGELA, GET IN HERE!”
No answer. It feels like I’m a kid who has been abandoned at the park.
“Shhh, Al...please, can we talk?”
As Benji takes the liberty of casually sitting down at the two-top across from me, I can tell he isn’t planning on taking no for an answer.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” I say, dropping my voice to what I hope is a dangerously low volume, “I’m sort of in the middle of something.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alexi—or rather, his DSLR. Like the rest of the insiders in the Chicago restaurant scene, he knows exactly who Benji is, and who he is to me. I hear the whir of his camera shutter. Click click click.
“Allie, give me five minutes. Please. I’ve been in rehab. I’m sober now. Can’t you tell? Look at me. Look into my eyes. I know you can tell, Allie.”
Though I know it might be my undoing, I press my eyes closed tight for just an instant before opening them and looking straight into Benji’s deep brown eyes. My kryptonite.
He looks good, I’ll give him that. Though he’s a bit on the skinnier side, his skin is clear and bright. His hair, still back in a bun, looks healthy—same with his nails, teeth and lips. I mean, without doing a strip search, I’d go so far as saying he looks better—healthier—than he ever did while I was dating him. What that probably means in relation to whether he was actually using drugs while we were together is slightly horrifying.
“Five minutes,” I say, unable to quench my curiosity.
He lets out a sigh and leans back in the chair. I know he’s thinking that clearing the first hurdle was cake. Damn.
“You. You are something else, Allie Simon. I know I’ve been absent...”
So that’s the word we’re using, absent.
“...but I’ve followed every piece of press about this place. And every good thing that was ever said, I knew was because of you. And when I saw your name, I’d lean over to whoever I was next to in the rehab center and say, ‘This is my girl.’ You know how many fist bumps I got?” He lets out a little laugh. I’m not coming with him on it.
“You’re the strongest person I know. The best woman I know. And I see that in every inch of this place. My god, it’s incredible. Better than I could have ever made it. You know, I never let myself visualize what Here would really look like when I was using. I sabotaged everything I ever had going for me—you know that. It was only a matter of time before I did that with this restaurant.”
As if he’s telling me something I don’t already know.
“Yeah, this place is pretty fucking great, isn’t it?” The snark rolls off my tongue, making me sound like the bitter ex I am.
“I know you’re mad, Allie. You have every right to be. Every right. The things I did to you, the things I said to you—I look back on it all and I can’t believe that was me. I’m not like that anymore—you have to believe me. I would never intentionally hurt you, Allie. Because when I hurt you, I hurt me. And I’m so tired of all the hurt.”
My gaze is fixed in the distance and Alexi is no longer in the foyer. He’s gotten all the paparazzi gold he could ever need and is probably off selling the shots to Bon Appétit this very instant.
“I had a slip,” he continues. “It’s no one’s fault but my own. I take full responsibility for what I’ve done. And I’m sorry.”
I let out a cold, uncomfortable laugh. “You’re sorry? Oh, good. Let’s hold hands and skip now, shall we?”
“Allie, bear with me. I’m working the program and I’m trying to make amends with those I’ve hurt and you’re at the top of the list. That’s why I’m here.”
“Are you really using the program as an excuse for slithering in through the back door? I’ve thumbed through the NA literature, Benji. And I believe the stipulation in Step Nine is that you don’t try to make amends in situations when doing so would cause more harm than good. Did it ever occur to you that waltzing unannounced into my restaurant—my restaurant, because that’s what it became after you up and left—and taking a seat at a table so you could apologize like nothing ever happened might be a bad idea? That it might do more harm than good?”
It’s unfortunate that I’m so angry I can’t tell exactly how loud my voice is going. I can only hope these expensive velvet walls will absorb some of the sound.
“I know, I know. I just knew that you’d say no if I tried to organize this ahead of time. That’s why I popped in.”
Where the hell is Angela? The woman manages to be everywhere all at once whenever Here is in service but the second our lying, drug-addicted, sociopathic ex–chef de cuisine decides to stop by, she’s nowhere to be found. My eyes settle back on Benji and I see him drawing a breath to speak again but I get there first.
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD.”
I’ve never spoken these words before. In fact, I’ve never even allowed myself to think them. But in this moment that he’s here—very much alive—the ugly truth of what has been locked away in my brain surfaces to the tip of my tongue.
“Shhhhh,” he says again, like my volume will somehow further tarnish his reputation. If only FoodFeed had wiretapped me, they’d be doing the happy dance in their stakeout van right about now.
“No! Don’t tell me to shhhh. You have no idea what I’ve gone through these last four months. No idea.”
“Trust me. I know what goes into opening a restaurant.”
“I’m not talking about picking out plates. Or...or...scheduling servers. I’m talking about myself. And my emotions. Remember those? Did you ever even know I had them? I’ve been broke, exhausted and depressed because of you. I even had to quit my job. Did you know that?”
He says nothing, just shakes his head.
“Yeah, I had to quit my job so that I could give this restaurant a fighting chance because who else was going to run it eighty hours a week for less than minimum wage and not report it to the government? Huh? Who? You? No. Because you left. And you washed your hands of it all as you got high. Fucking coward.”
I catch myself pointing at him with a tightly clenched fist.
“What do you want me to say? I already admitted it. I lost my way,” he says.
“And I lost EVERYTHING. I’m not just talking about my savings either. I gave up a promotion at Daxa—my dream! I could have been creative director at twenty-five years old, but that went down the drain. Oh, and my family had to go to counseling because of this and my friends just about gave up on me because I wouldn’t give up on you. I wouldn’t give up on someone who hit me in the face before turning his back on me for good. And now, after I finally came to terms with you being gone and this restaurant being my reality, I’m just starting to get it all back on track. We’re climbing out of the debt—the debt of opening your dream restaurant—people like what we’re doing, our chef is reliable, Angela is a goddamned saint in a Diane von Furstenberg dress and I finally don’t have to sleep in the back office and shower in the slop sink anymore. My life is starting to come back together after you ripped it apart and I think the key to that is you not being in it.”
My monologue leaves me in tears and both of us speechless. All the words that have been brewing in me for months have finally been spoken.
“And no,” I continue, drawing in a deep breath and willing my eyes to dry. “I don’t believe you’re just here to say you’re sorry, Benji. I know you’re sober now, and that’s wonderful for you, but what do you really want? What did you come here for? What do you want from me now, Benji? Do you want your job back? Because that’s not happening. That ship has sailed.”
Benji puts his hands on mine. I would have thought I’d be able to pull them away as fast as I do when I touch a hot plate off the line. Instead, I just melt down.
The Benji Effect hasn’t lost its power, it’s just been dormant—and for the moment, I am paralyzed, at a loss for words despite wanting desperately to kick and scream.
Then it hits me. This is the moment. This is the moment that every girl waits for. It’s the moment in the movies, the page in the book. The man of my dreams, my lost love, is back. And he’s holding my hands like they are precious gems. This is the moment I give in, right? The moment I’m supposed to buckle at his touch?
“Look, I don’t want my job back,” he says, his voice quiet and sincere. “I’m living in a halfway house for the next six months, and I’ve got a cooking job there. It’s not as glamorous as being up for a James Beard Award like this place is, but I’m committed to staying clean this time, so I’ll do what I have to do. I’ll sling peanut butter and jellies and grilled cheese sandwiches all day and night, no complaints. But you’re right. There is something else I want. You, Allie.”
I close my eyes and feel my makeup dissolve in dark tracks down my cheeks. The glue from my fake eyelashes pulls back ever so slightly on my lids, making it feel like my whole body is resisting the urge to shut down, shut him out, shut this off. But no matter what, I can’t stop being here, with him.
“Oh, really? Then who’s Hannah?” I say. “Do you realize your new girlfriend is the one who emailed me to tell me you were in rehab and to leave you alone, Benji? God, I don’t even know which way is up right now.”
“Oh my god, really? Hannah is not my girlfriend. She’s just some food blogger chick who took me in when you kicked me out. It was a mistake, but I panicked when I realized I had nowhere else to go.”
Rita was right. Or was it Hal? Regardless, whoever said I was just a flavor of the week and that he had backups was right. Damn it.
“It was a mistake. I should have just tried my hand at sleeping on the streets because I ended up spiraling out even more staying with someone who isn’t even half the woman you are. I was so depressed at how I botched everything, I couldn’t do anything to make myself feel better besides do all the drugs I could get my hands on and when I got to the point I knew I couldn’t get a steady hit, I got really sick. She freaked out, brought me to a rehab center and damn near pushed me out of her car without so much as saying goodbye.”
“So you aren’t moving across the country with her?” I ask with a hint of skepticism.
“What? No. Look, I had no idea she emailed you. She probably figured because I talked about you so much, maybe you ought to know? I have no idea. The bitch is crazy. And the bottom line is, I’ve deleted all the contact info of anyone who was a toxic person in my life before getting help, so I couldn’t even reach her if I wanted to. Hannah’s been axed out of my life along with about fifty other scumbags. Trust me.”
“Trust you, huh. Because that’s gotten me far.”
“Oh, come on, Allie. Drop the tough-guy act, will you? For one second?” There’s a shift in his communication style. He’s gone from complimentary to polite to apologetic to direct. Until now, I forgot that this man, who has struggled to keep his own body from slumping over in a dark alley on more than one occasion, is also the same guy who is known to have unparalleled confidence and command over a room when he really wants to turn things up. And I admit it, I am now listening.
“I’m serious. I will literally wait forever for you, Allie. I know you only had my best interests at heart and no one has ever put me first like that. The perfect girl. The perfect job. The perfect life. I wasn’t in my right mind then to receive it all, and I know at least one of those opportunities is off the table. But I refuse to believe I’ve lost my chance with you and our happily-ever-after. Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it, Allie.”
I don’t know if I believe him, or if these are just flowery words spoken softly by a guy with trusting eyes.
“Benji, don’t take this the wrong way, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” I say with defeat.
“Look, I will never love anyone else but you. If you say no, I’ll stay single forever, I swear.”
Benji lets go with his right hand and digs into his pocket. Beneath his palm, he slides something toward me across the pristine white tablecloth—it’s the Hail Mary. It’s a ring. A thin gold band embedded with a small diamond.
“What is this?”
“You know what it is.” A smile cracks across his face like a split in a windshield.
Okay, maybe this is the moment every girl waits for.
He’s not brazen enough to put the ring directly on my finger so he plants it gently in my palm. He lets me hold it, examine it. It’s like Novocain is running through my limbs, but I can feel the smooth, shiny band still warm from his pants pocket.
I look back up at him and our eyes lock in a silent stare.
“The Lincoln Park brownstone,” he says. “The kids playing in the den. The pasta carbonara cooking on the stove.”
“The dog,” I whisper.
“Shit. Yes, the dog. I always forget about Pepper the chocolate Lab, but yes, he’s there, too.”
We both smile for just a second or two. It’s the first time since he’s sat down that the air has neutralized.
“It all starts right here, babe. Right now. I promise. I want you to be my wife. I want to spend my whole life proving to you that I got this. I got you. I got us.”
He blinks hard and swallows loud, waiting for my words. But I don’t have any. Instead, I grab his face from across the table and pull him toward me in a feverish thrust. I crush my lips to his and he intertwines his fingers into my hair with his signature “never letting go” grip. Nothing has changed. We still share the single-most undeniable chemical connection known to man. And that’s what I wanted to prove.
Because here’s the thing about chemistry. It’s two unlikely substances coming together to make a reaction. And someone has to play maestro, blending the forces to make the magic. Without the deliberate mixing, there’s nothing. No spark. No pop. Everything I think I know about being a woman tells me to stay in this moment until one or both of us needs to come up for air. Fuck what I think I know.
I push him away with the same amount of force. He wipes his mouth and lets out a huff like he just did a lap at the Indy 500.
“See? It’s still there, babe,” he says, gratified.
“It’s always there. It’s always going to be there, Benji. But how is it anything special when you know you can get up and leave it at any time and come back to it whenever you want and have it just be like nothing has changed? It’s so convenient, isn’t it? You can treat me like trash and six months, a year, five years, however many lifetimes later we can just come back to it and the sex will be wonderful and we’ll both feel better about ourselves for a day or two before we end up inevitably hating ourselves more than we hate each other? I mean, what kind of circus is that?” I look to the ceiling, shaking my head. Benji’s a trap that I’m prone to walking right into.
“Oh, hell no,” comes Angela’s alto, and it sounds to me like the voice of God. “No, no, no, no. You gotta get up, buddy. Up and out, you son of a bitch.” Angela strong-arms Benji, prying him up from the chair. The ring is still in my hands.
“Yo, Andrew, can you give me a hand and get this asshole out of here? And, Jessica, call the cops—tell them there’s a trespasser at Here Restaurant in the West Loop...they’ll come right away.” This chick never stops delegating, I swear.
“Jesus, Angela, would you fucking relax? I’m going. Okay? I’m going,” Benji fires back.
“Not fast enough, motherfucker.”
“Allie. This is the real deal,” he says, pointing to the ring. “I can promise you that. Please think about it, okay? I know your love for me didn’t just die overnight. I’m staying at that place on Monroe Street. You’re on my visitor list. We can talk more about this there. I love you.”
“LET’S MOVE, you schmuck.” Angela turns Benji toward the door. “Get the fuck out before the police throw you out. I’m not fucking around, you piece of shit!”
Just like that, as quick as he came in, Benji leaves. Angela locks the door and tells Andrew to keep an eye on the front-of-house and Jessica to call the cops back; they can stand down now that our trespasser is gone. If it were anyone besides our two captains who witnessed this shit show, I’d be worried this whole thing would already be uploaded to Snapchat, but I can honestly say that everyone in the room right now has my back.
Angela rushes over to me and throws her arms around my neck. After my moment of strength, of honesty, my tears have started again unbidden, and it feels like my chest is imploding with silent sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” Angela whispers in my ear. “I didn’t see Benji come in. I just saw Jared.”
“What do you mean you just saw Jared?” I ask, confused.
“He was in the doorway holding sandwiches from Graziano’s.” She draws back to look at me with sympathy. “I don’t know how long he was standing there, but I’m sorry, Allie, I think he got an eyeful.”