22
Quincy helps me out of the cab and holds open the door. “Miss Simon, I haven’t seen you for a while. How have you been?”
I think he means to ask where have I been, but either way, it feels like I just came back from a ten-month stint in Iraq and boy, is it good to be home.
“I’ve been...busy. Really busy,” I tell him as we walk into the lobby together. “I’m not sure if you knew, but I’m opening a restaurant called Here on Randolph Street in a couple days.”
I notice that this is the first time I’ve been able to utter those words without having a nervous breakdown. There’s an odd sprout of pride blooming deep in my chest, and talking about Here without any trace of panic feels like I’m pouring water into the soil beneath it.
“Randolph Street? Talk about the high-rent district! That’s way too fancy for me, but congratulations to you.”
Too fancy for you? I just overdrew my bank account by rolling up in that Uber just now, I want to say. But instead I smile and shrug, like I, too, am marveling at my new upscale status.
“I know, right? Well, wish me luck.”
“Good luck, my dear. I’ll tell everyone in the building to go to your spot for dinner. Great to see you, Allie,” he says, buzzing me in from behind his post.
“Oh, hey, Q, one more thing.” I double back to his desk and keep it vague. “No one has come looking for me, right?”
“No one that I know of,” he says slowly with big eyes. I can tell he knows where I’m going with this.
“Alright,” I begin, not fully believing it has come to this. “Can you take Benji Zane off my list of approved guests? He doesn’t have keys to the unit anymore, but he may try to come in through the parking garage, so could you keep an eye on those cameras for me?”
There, I said it. And of all the things I’ve been feeling lately—hope, false hope, despair, anxiety, etc.—a new one comes over me, just for a moment: relief.
“I will update your chart right now and let my team know. But between you and me,” he whispers, leaning in close. “That fucker ain’t coming by on my watch without a serious ass beating.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, and I do.
Once back up in my apartment, I inhale deeply, lock the door behind me and slide to the floor, where I collapse and sit. I know it’s dirty, I know there’s Sharpie marker still on the mirror (let’s be honest, nail polish remover is not a legitimate cleaning hack), but the incubation period is over, I can tell. It’s mine again and it feels good to be home.
Ding.
Why does Angela cut me to go home and relax when she just ends up sending me red flag emails twenty minutes later? That woman will be the death of me, I swear.
As I open my mail app, I’m surprised to find the message is not from her. It’s from Hal Huckby, possibly the second most notorious druggie chef in the Midwest...behind my most recent roommate. He’s been sober for just over two years, though, and celebrated the milestone by closing his restaurant for a week and taking his whole staff to Disneyland. FoodFeed covered it, which is how I learned about his checkered past and celebrated recovery. As soon as I read the articles on him, I figured Hal would be a great industry mentor for Benji, but surprisingly Benji wasn’t as excited as I was about him and we never even made it into his restaurant. Which leads me to my next question: How did Hal get my email address?
Dear Allie,
Forgive the shitty grammar. I’m typing on an iPhone after 10 hours on the line. Big fingers, tired brain. You get the point. Also, forgive the random email. I know we don’t know each other personally, but we know of each other and I’m in one of those “what the hell?” moods right now. Two years ago, that’d mean I’d go get a hooker and some blow. My, how times have changed!
So, you’re the chick dating Benji Zane, eh? I wish I could say it takes a special girl to do that, but I know guys like Benji. And the girls they pick to be with, they aren’t special. Stupid maybe. But not special.
I’m not trying to offend you. I’m just so fucking angry and confused as to how no one seems to get that he’s a sad sack of shit. I’ve gotten high with him before on the north side (and south side, west side, etc.). You’re not the first girl he’s gotten to buy in on his crazy antics and you won’t be the last.
Like I said, I’m not trying to offend you. I’m trying to help you. I’ve seen all the buzz about Here. I know you’re part in it—or, I should say, your wallet’s part in it. And if you give a flying fuck about that restaurant being even remotely successful or staying open longer than three weeks, break up with Benji and get his ass out of the kitchen. Keep him as far away from that place as you can. Okay? That kid’s not sober, no matter what FoodFeed has to say. Unless he’s got a clean mind and an honest heart, you’re just a pawn and a flavor of the week at best.
If you’ve made it this far in my email, then what’s it hurt to throw one more thing out there? The answer to “why do I care?” All I can say is I had an Allie Simon in my life once. She’s the only one who won’t accept my apology (that’s some cathartic program shit in case you didn’t know). It kills me every day that I don’t and won’t have closure with her. So I selfishly decided the next best thing was to help save you.
Look out for yourself.
HH
I used to get kudos from everyone about my relationship status. From my coworkers to random strangers to glimpses even from my own mother and father—everyone was at least a little jealous of the guy I landed and what he could do with a sauté pan. Then I get this email from Hal-freaking-Huckby. A washed-up fortysomething chef with skin that looks like a broken-in saddle. This guy, short of calling me a chef-chasing ditz, calls it like it fucking is in an unprovoked, foulmouthed email. And somehow, I’m not offended. I’m enlightened.
There’s a very good chance I’m too tired to care anymore. That I don’t have the energy to find the words to fight back and defend myself and the relationship I very purposefully chose to have with Benji. But there’s also a chance that I’m just really grateful to finally be understood by someone who has half a clue what it’s like going through what I’m going through because years ago, he was the perp. He was the manipulative little bastard who worked his way through some girl’s heart and her savings account because he could put the perfect med-rare sear on a steak, every time.
I reread Hal’s email a few times. Dusting away some of the f-bombs, I see a correspondence laced with good intentions. I don’t necessarily agree with his observation that I was one air valve away from being a blow-up doll that dispensed cash to Benji. There was merit in the way Benji held me. There was real care in the way he made my lunches. I believe when he said things about me were “nice,” that he meant it.
But I do appreciate Hal’s observation that when it comes to very expensive, very breakable things, Benji should be a lot further than an arm’s length away. Rita called it first. I saw it second. And now Hal is a third, and an expert, opinion. Benji’s not sober. And he’s an asshole for trying to fool me by distracting me with a big, shiny investment and a tattoo that promised me a future.
So now what? I’ve been teetering this whole time, going back and forth between despising him for what he’s done to fantasizing about the day somewhere in the future that this is all just a distant memory and my last name legally begins with a Z. It sucks because when I think of my past, it’s him. When I think of my future, it’s him. And when I think of the here and now (or, more appropriately, the Here and now), I see nothing. Because he’s left me with nothing.
Until now. Until this note. It’s the hard-hitting shake of the shoulders I needed to see something: clarity. And any other person trying to deliver this message to me would have failed. That, I know.
Up until now, I could never cut the cord. The distance and silence from Benji has been helpful, but in the back of my mind there’s always remained the whisperings of “I miss him” echoing in my head.
But now I’m thinking that missing him wasn’t quite it. If anything, that empty ache was just a symptom of withdrawal. It’s been hard to come off the high of being the woman behind the man, no matter how mad he was. And it was more than that, too. It was the lust and sex and danger and difference and other about him that got me hooked.
But now, I see it. I’m not part of the cycle anymore. I’m not in his rotation, and more importantly, he’s not in mine.
How do I repay someone I don’t even know for helping me find closure in the oddest of ways in the latest of hours? By hitting Reply, and typing two words back:
Apology accepted.