28
“If you want to go home, you can. Jessica can cover for you,” Angela offers. “Just know I don’t expect you to put the Here hat on tonight. Not after that.”
I blow my nose and throw the tissue into a pile of them that’s accumulated over the last hour in the wastebasket by my desk. Our preshift meeting starts in ten minutes. There’s no way the puffiness under my eyes will go away by then, nor will I be able to concentrate on buttery wine suggestions if asked. But the thought of going home to sit on my couch and replay my afternoon just brings another round of nausea to cycle through.
“Look, Al. I wish I could sit back here and talk this through with you, but I’ve got to get out there. Family meal is already cleaned up, they’re all waiting for me. We’ve got a four-top coming in at 5:00 p.m.”
“I know, it’s fine. You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be okay,” I say. We both know that’s not true.
“Got any friends?” she asks as she sweeps a mauve-colored gloss over her lips.
“That I can call about this? No. Not really.”
Even though we’ve patched things up, I’m not ignorant of the fact I have emotionally drained Jazzy and Maya when it comes to Benji drama. It isn’t fair to bring him back into the picture, nor is it worth risking another setback to our friendship.
“Text me later. Please,” Angela says. She throws an empathetic smile my way, then disappears through the double doors back into the dining room.
Alone in the back office, I pull out my phone and begin composing a text I’m ashamed to have to be writing.
Sorry, but I need 2 talk w/ U. Can I pls call U? I send.
The reply comes back within seconds and my heart sinks further.
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Well, at least we’re conversing, I console myself. I refuse to accept the text as a complete and total shutdown.
It’s important, I nudge.
We should put some distance b/t us, Allie.
At that, I swallow all my pride and proceed to type one sickening word after the next.
Benji’s back. He found me. I can’t breathe.
Nar-Anon. 6pm. Lincoln Park Library. C U there, Rita responds.
Standing outside the library, I pace back and forth to keep warm as I keep watch for Rita. There’s no way to tell if the people filing into the building are here to return a book, or attend a support group. But one thing does stand out: they all look kind of like me. Young, professional, normal. There’s so much shame in loving a person like Benji. And up until now, I was embarrassed to be seen at a place like this. I wanted to find every reason that I didn’t belong here. But today I finally see that I’m just the same. Just a girl who can’t manage this on her own anymore.
A few moments go by and a black Range Rover slips into a narrow parking spot on the side of the street. Out hops Rita in a black blazer and Michael Kors crossbody bag. I never pictured her as a professional at anything other than organizing picnics by the beach, but she looks powerful and strong as she jaywalks across the street to greet me.
“Thank you so much for coming. I know I fucked up by not listening to you in the first place. And I know you don’t owe me anything. And I shouldn’t have texted out of the blue today. And I—”
“Shhh. Stop, honey. It’s in the past. That’s all in the past.”
Rita pulls me in for a hug and I am careful not to get any salty-tear residue on her jacket. Even though I hadn’t seen her again after our falling-out, her embrace feels as warm as the sun on the day we first met. It feels like relief.
She ushers me into the library and down a flight of stairs to a meeting room in their basement. We find seats near the front row underneath a heat duct. For some reason, I thought we’d all be sitting in a circle just staring at each other. Add that to the list of preconceived notions I was wrong about.
“So who’s running the restaurant tonight?” she whispers.
“One of our head servers is covering for me.”
“Gotcha,” she says as she waves hello to someone she recognizes a few rows behind us. She really is an NA celeb of sorts.
“So how long has it been since you’ve gone to a meeting?” she asks.
“This is my first,” I say. A wave of guilt washes over me. It’s as if I just told my mom I can’t remember the last time I went to church.
“That’s okay. This is a good one—good people. You’ll like it.”
We shush our small talk and let the session begin. It opens with the serenity prayer. I’ve never said it out loud myself, but it was printed on an NA bookmark that Benji magnetized to the fridge after he moved in. Now the words are working their way through me, which is far different than just glancing at them as I help myself to a cold can of Diet Coke. As I let go of Rita’s hand to my right and a stranger’s warm, moist palm to my left, it hits me just how much I needed this.
Earlier today, Benji walked back into my life—man-bun and all—looking fine as hell and feeling great. And the sheer fact that his clear head could make me feel like everything he put me through was just a bad dream terrifies me. I want to forgive and forget, like he taped over my favorite show on the DVR instead of tearing through my life with the hurricane force that has come to signify his very existence. Something in me knows that isn’t right, but that’s the thing about getting caught up in a storm: it happens all around you regardless of whether or not you stand still and let it come. Now I have no clue how I’m supposed to feel, what to do with this ring or which man in my life I should text first when I get out of this meeting. I quiet the noise in my head and listen to the first person brave enough to take the podium.
“Uh, hi. I’m Sarah and my dad is my qualifier.” Sarah is about my age with purple streaks in her hair and sparkly nail polish.
“Hi, Sarah,” the room says back, not unlike the way my staff says “heard” at a preshift meeting.
“My dad got out of rehab two weeks ago,” she shares. “And he just invited this girl from the market in his building to move in with him. I know her from when I stay over at his place. She’s nice and all, but I didn’t even know they were dating or that it was serious. It’s hard because my dad seems so happy with her. I just feel like there’s no way he’s going to be able to manage recovery and a relationship at the same time and I really want it to work this time. You know? I want him to stay clean.”
Sarah returns to her seat. That’s it? I think. What did she do? How does it end?
But then I realize that’s not what these meetings are about. This isn’t Hollywood. Happy endings are anything but mandatory in this world. This is a room where you release the weight on your chest, if only for the moments that you’re seated within these walls.
It’s all the same story, too. Hers, mine, Rita’s, everyone in this room. We’re like a secret society that can’t stop caring about the people who hurt us the most. Hell, Benji isn’t even my boyfriend anymore. I should give zero fucks about him, yet the moment he’s back, I have to march myself to a support group to triple-check that there’s still nothing I can do to scare his demons away. Sarah’s story reminds me that we are all in this together, doing the best we can not to get sucked under the wave. It reminds me that we don’t have to have the answers planned or the ending plotted.
The moderator heads back up to the front and thanks Sarah for sharing. “Who’s next?” she asks.
Rita stands up and takes her place at the stand.
“Good evening, I’m Rita. I’m celebrating twenty-five years in a couple of weeks.”
The room erupts in congratulatory applause.
“As someone who qualified a lot of people throughout the years, I just want to take this opportunity to remind all of you that your wellness is just as important as ours. If you don’t take care of yourself, what good are you to help us? Sarah, I can’t imagine the hours you’ve already spent sitting and stewing over your dad and his girlfriend, teetering back and forth between ‘Well, maybe it’s good he’s not alone’ and ‘He really needs to do this by himself.’ You know deep down exactly what he should be doing if he’s serious about his recovery.”
I look over to Sarah. She’s nodding intensely back at Rita, confirming that she is spot-on, per usual.
“That’s maddening!” Rita professes. “That’s no way for any of you to live—to be utterly consumed with how to keep us safe and healthy. He’s gone to meetings. He’s been to rehab. He knows what he needs to do for long-term sobriety. You can’t help him work the program. You can help yourself, though. You can always help yourself. Remember that, and find strength in that. Thank you.”
It hits me then that if Benji was really committed to his recovery, he wouldn’t have proposed. The program says he shouldn’t engage in any serious relationships until he’s a year sober, and that’s true for him as much as Sarah’s dad—confirmed by Rita, who’s been there, done that.
I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet about his latest monumental ask—my hand in marriage. But I’m not sure it needs to be discussed. This meeting has confirmed what I already knew: I cannot accept his proposal. It’d just be another false start for us, and we all saw how well that turned out the first time. I just hope the conviction I feel now after hearing Rita speak sticks with me into the night after we leave the safety and comfort of this quiet, toasty room.
The meeting goes on another thirty minutes or so. A few more people speak, we close out with the serenity prayer once more, and I exchange numbers with Sarah before walking out with Rita.
“I don’t know the rules here, Rita. But—”
“Fuck the rules. I’m here if you need me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“Do you need a ride home?” she asks. “I can drop you on my way to pick up Maverick from the sitter.”
“I don’t live far. I’m fine walking. I could use the fresh air.”
“You sure? It’s cold.”
“Positive. I’ve got some stuff to think about anyway.”
“Fair enough. It was good seeing you.” Rita comes in for another hug before she crosses the street to her car. “Stay the course,” she says before pulling away. “Stay the course.”
I wave as she speeds through a yellow and I begin my walk home. A block and a half away, I pass a familiar storefront: Molly’s Cupcakes. The swings are occupied by three little kids, all with frosting smeared around their lips. Their sugar-high smiles are enough to draw me in for a Red Velvet.
As the cashier boxes up my order, I know where I have to go next.
“Two forks, please.”
* * *
It’s around 8:00 p.m. when I build up the courage to take an Uber to the Marcel & Sons warehouse in the gritty Fulton Market neighborhood, next to the West Loop. While the rest of the world is winding down from yoga classes, heading to trivia nights at the bar or whatever else normal people do after work, Jared and his crew are diligently working to fulfill tomorrow morning’s orders—Here’s being one of them.
I hear backup beepers from their trucks, refrigerator hums and lots of shouting. Maybe this isn’t the best time to stop by, but then again, what’s the alternative?
I let myself in. Clearly their secretary has left for the day, which leaves me to meander through the chaos to find him.
“Yo, Roberto! Give me twenty pounds of spinach for Truck 13, please!” I spy him from afar. He’s got a pencil tucked behind his ear and his signature beat-up baseball cap on. God, he’s so cute. I fall into a daze watching him, the activity all around us and the very air itself seeming to slow and still the closer it gets to his calm, anchored presence.
I might have only just figured out today where I stand on things with Benji, but there’s something else I realize. Except for this thing...I’ve known it for a while.
I could love Jared. In fact, I’ve felt the potential for the L-word ever since he doubled back to Here with a crate of iceberg lettuce and saved my ass the night before we opened. I just couldn’t allow myself to go there yet. Not even now, really. But I’m heading down that path and it feels good.
I don’t need a manual on how to date a guy like Jared. He doesn’t require rules and regulations. No abstinence for alcohol, no support meetings, no ridiculous cable bill. And, not like it needs to be mentioned, but he’d never expect me to lie down for his dreams. Ever.
“You can’t be back here,” he says, drifting past me with a crate of carrots.
“I brought a cupcake,” I say.
“That’s cute.”
He’s battling me being here and I can feel my stomach sinking. I debate leaving the box on the front desk and hailing a cab home. A bottle of wine and too-big sweatpants are calling my name right now, but I think back on Rita’s parting words. Stay the course.
“Can you take a break?” I try a more direct approach.
He pauses from counting out boxes and finally looks me in the eye. “Follow me.”
Jared leads me back to his office and shuts the door. I want to absorb his headquarters, compare it to mine at Here, stare closely at the pictures he’s tacked up on his bulletin board, but I’m aware time isn’t slowing down for that.
“It’s Red Velvet. I remember you liked their cream cheese frosting,” I say, fidgeting with the tape on the pastry box.
“I’m not hungry. What can I do for you, Allie?”
Jared takes his hat off, runs his fingers through his dark, messy hair, and puts it securely back on. He folds his arms and puts quite a bit of distance between us. I don’t have a speech prepared. I’m not sure how to fix this.
“What you saw today...wasn’t what it looked like.”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” Jared says. His voice is like poured cement. “First of all, as if showing up at my work in the middle of inventory isn’t already totally inappropriate, you’ve come here to talk about your ex, who you’re clearly very much still with.”
“I’m not, though.” My weak defense barely squeaks in before he fires up again.
“I’ve honestly had enough. I know you didn’t want to put a ‘title’ on things, and I was cool with that because I really liked you and I respected what you had gone through with that monster. But if I had known the real reason you didn’t want to be my girlfriend was that you were holding out for Benji to come around and put a ring on it, I would have walked a long time ago.”
“I wasn’t holding out for Benji—you have to believe that,” I plead. “He just showed up out of nowhere.” At my place of business. Just like I’m doing to you right now. Oops.
“Mmm-hmm, got it. Can I go back to work now, or...” He grabs his clipboard and turns his back to me.
I dart my eyes to the ceiling in complete frustration. “You know, I never wanted anything to do with this place and now look. Another thing that Here has royally fucked up.”
“And that’s another thing.” He turns around. “I’m tired of hearing how Here isn’t your dream. I mean, get over it, Allie. Do you think my dream job consists of schlepping around fifty-pound boxes of squash at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night? No. But I’m here. And guess what? That’s my choice. It’s not my first choice, but it’s my choice. So I deal with it and I commit to it. You gotta grow up, Allie.”
I can’t believe how much his words sting, and from the way he’s white-knuckling his clipboard, I have a feeling he’s only getting started.
“You chose Here,” he continues. “Own that! Boo-hoo, you got sucked into a wildly successful restaurant venture that you actually seem to enjoy being a part of most of the time. Every time I’m there, I see you and Angela bouncing around like sorority sisters as you count your cash. So my advice is you quit blaming the fact that you still can’t choose him or me on your fucking restaurant. Okay? I’m done feeling sorry for you. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“It’s not about choosing him or you,” I fire back. He’s struck a chord and now I’m a little pissed. “There was a time that I waited for him, yes, I’ll admit that. Because I’m loyal. Because he was important to me—we were close, we lived together. Point is, that’s the past. All of that is in the past,” I say. When Rita uttered those same words outside the library earlier, they’d filled me with hope. I hope they have the same effect now.
“Thanks for those details, Allie. But I’m sure FoodFeed will run a refresher course on your entire relationship tomorrow and I can catch up on what I missed then.”
“You know what? Fuck you, Jared. Seriously.”
Now I have his attention. I let the closing argument begin.
“I didn’t have to come here, you know? You ignored all my calls and texts today, I could have taken the hint. But I wanted to be here. To see you and tell you that what you saw today was just me going through the motions. It was one last pulse check to make sure that during the hurricane that was opening this restaurant, I didn’t miss anything. I didn’t forget that I’m much better off without him in my life. I know it looked shitty, and it was shitty. But I had to do it. I had to know for sure. I had to deliver the blow to my own gut and so, yeah, I kissed him. You don’t have to believe me, but that would sure mean I’m a sick masochist if, after all that, I chose to be here with you only to get rejected and sent back home.”
It feels like several hours pass when my little speech is done. How many would-be movie moments can a girl really have in a single day? Everything I’ve seen on the big screen tells me we can cut to the violins now, because Jared isn’t just going to forgive me, he’s going to pick me up, twirl me around and lean in close to my face as he whispers, “If you tell me you’re mine, I want you to mean it forever. Forever, Allie. Because that’s how long I will love you.” Then he’ll kiss me, all the complication in our lives will fade to black and the credits will roll.
Shock of shocks, that’s not how it goes.
I can practically see the emotions battling for supremacy in his head. Rage, embarrassment, jealousy, maybe even something that looks like love—it’s all there, trying to dominate. Eventually, he says, “So do you know now?”
“Yes. I’m not in love with him anymore.”
Immediately, I get that there’s another way of saying that: I’m in love with you. But clearing the Benji air takes precedence.
“Good to know.”
Jared returns to his clipboard and his crates as if I just told him it’s not going to rain tomorrow. The vertical blinds on the glass panel of his office door nearly fly off the hinge with the amount of force he uses to get the hell out and away from me. I’m alone in his office with the door open; I can tell he wants me to let myself out. And for the hundredth time today, I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. Not here, not now, I scream to myself. It’s time for me to leave.
* * *
This is the first night that Angela has cut me and then not proceeded to call, text or email me with the slightest turn of events at the restaurant. Tonight, either her phone has died, she’s completely in the weeds, or she’s just respecting the fact my heart’s been ripped out and pierced with an oyster fork. Depressing as it sounds, I’m hoping it’s the latter.
How was resto tonight? I text her as I lie staring at my ceiling, unable to sleep.
Not the same w/o u. Need u back tmw.
I’ll be in, I say.
Big girl panties?
Promise.
At that, I shut off my phone and let that little exchange sink in a bit.
It felt weird being away from the restaurant today even though I had an excellent excuse. It’s just...working at Here is a testament to what can happen when you follow steps one, two and three. Things go down without a hitch and it’s, well, it’s just lovely. There’s so much peace in watching events unfold sequentially, just the way you think they should. That kind of order seems like the antithesis of the chaos Benji brought into my life, which is maybe why I’ve been so resistant to embracing how much I love it.
Because I do love it. Even though I want to hate everything Benji Zane did and said and promised and destroyed, I can’t help loving Here.
Maybe Jared was right to call me out. Sometimes the dream just changes, and maybe it’s okay to end up not hating something you once thought was a miserable curse. The trick is to change with it. Adapt and respond.
Which I want to say is Rule #58 at Here, though it’s late and my numbers might be off.
* * *
“Let me see your hands,” Angela says as I throw my purse down on my desk in the back office. “Hold them out, spread your fingers.”
I know what she’s checking for, but she has nothing to worry about. Before the sun even came up, I took a cab to the halfway house on Monroe and put the ring and Benji’s knives in a small shopping bag with his name on it and left it with the front desk attendant. I didn’t leave a note or anything—not to be cold, but because there’s nothing to say. All I want is to stay the course.
Will I wonder “what if?” Possibly. Will I picture our could-have-been wedding and how amazing the food would have been? Yeah. What our kids would have looked like? Sure, wouldn’t be the first time. But that’s okay. I’m going to give myself a hall pass to do all of that because I know that eventually, visualizing the life I would have had with that imaginary Benji Zane—the one who wouldn’t have left me at the altar or been too drunk to hold down dinner or have left me barefoot and pregnant in whatever ramshackle apartment we could afford—will go from being a heartache to a foggy notion of something lost, to plain old silly daydreams of someone who never existed in the first place.
“No rings, okay, Angela? No rings,” I say, flashing my hands front to back like I’m surrendering.
“Thank fucking god. Look, I don’t want details. But I have to ask, is it over?”
“With who?” I need clarification.
“Good question. Let’s start with your zombie ex.”
“It’s handled.” I infuse my voice with that famous fake-it-’til-you-make-it confidence this industry is laced with. But between you and me, we’ll see is probably more appropriate at this point.
“And what about the J-man? TBD?”
“Probably more like PTSD given what he had to see yesterday.”
“Or what the whole city got to see today...” She tilts her computer screen my way. It appears Alexi has funneled a series of intimate paparazzi-style pics of Benji and me to FoodFeed and suddenly there’s an article titled: “Are things heating back up between Zane and Simon?” up on Angela’s monitor.
“God bless it,” I say. “You know what, don’t even forward it to me. I don’t want to know what they’re saying. Let’s just hope Jared doesn’t have access to the internet before I get a chance to tell him I love him.”
“Um. Hey. What’s up. Hello. YOU LOVE JARED???”
Shit. Did I say just that out loud? To Angela?
“I don’t know.” (Spoiler alert: I do.) “Maybe? But either way, it’s a long shot that he’ll ever want to go for this whole situation.” I gesture toward myself from top to bottom.
“Well, if it turns out that it is love, just know that means Rule #77 is out the window. You have my blessing.”
Angela’s blessing is good—no matter what the subject is. But her advice is what I really need.
“So how do I do it, Ang? How do I get this simple, sweet produce guy to pick the bruised apple?”
She slides an arm around my shoulder and our silent accord takes us straight to the espresso machine.
“That, I don’t know. But I do know we need our own reality show on Bravo. Stat.”