I pull on Brig’s shoulder, trying to tamp down the excitement that’s basically pouring out of his mouth like a rainbow, and step in front of him. “Do you have a moment to chat?”
“Yeah, I’m on my break.” Eric’s brow crinkles. “Is everything okay?”
I nod and swallow hard. “How much time do you have?”
“Half an hour.” He looks between us. “Want to go to the pub?” He tilts his head to the side.
“That works.” Turning to Brig, I say, “Give me half an hour.”
He leans in and whispers, “Promise to tell me everything?”
“Yes, now beat it.”
Like the good brother he is, Brig reaches out to Eric, takes his hand, and gives it a good shake. “Good seeing you again, man. Have fun.”
Once he takes off, heading back around the building, probably hoping that he’ll run into bike-tour girl, Eric and I head on over to the pub next door. We slide into a booth in the far back, where we both order waters and a plate of nachos to share. I’m glad we’re in a secluded spot, just in case things get heated.
Hopefully they won’t.
In no time, the nachos are placed in front of us, and after we each grab a chip and take a bite, Eric asks, “What brings you to Boston?”
“You, actually. I wanted to talk to you.”
“You still have my phone number, unless you deleted it. You could have called.”
“This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation.” For a brief moment, I consider starting the conversation with So, I’ve been banging your twin sister out of sheer nerves . . . nerves and guilt. Despite our falling-out, I still have a sense of loyalty when it comes to Eric, and I’ve been breaking that loyalty, being with his sister. Then again, I’ve been there for her when he hasn’t, so maybe I’ve earned the right to call her my girlfriend, to call her mine. There’s a war of right and wrong raging in my head over what to do, but thankfully I hold my tongue and cut right to the chase. “My dad is starting a restaurant in Port Snow.”
Halfway through chewing a chip, Eric pauses and stares back at me, blinking a few times.
Damn, I should have started out a little softer. Maybe given us time for a little catch-up. Then again, I don’t have much time, and we have to flush out a bunch of bullshit between us.
“He’s starting a restaurant?”
I nod. “Yeah, the old warehouse next to the Lobster Landing where Dad used to make the T-shirts.”
“When he ‘hired’ us to help?” Eric asks, using air quotes.
I laugh, thinking back to when my dad thought paying us under the table to do random tasks was a good idea. It definitely wasn’t, because all Eric and I would do was fuck around. “Yeah. I guess it’s been a dream of his to have a restaurant by the Landing. People can get something to eat and then go and shop.”
“Like Cracker Barrel,” Eric suggests, eyebrows raised.
“I guess so. Didn’t think about it like that, but yeah, similar vibe.”
“Okay, so what does this have to do with me?” Eric doesn’t beat around the bush either.
I grip my glass of water, the condensation running over my fingers as my nerves eat me alive inside. I just need to fucking say it and get it over with. “He wants me to partner up with him, develop the restaurant, the menu, everything . . . and he wants me to do it with you.”
“With me? Why?”
“He can’t think of a better duo.”
“Does he have amnesia? Does he not remember what happened to our last restaurant?”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “I mentioned that, and he said something about how failure is a stepping stone to success. Either way, he wants us, and it’s not a pity ask. He really thinks we’re the best guys for the job. He’s always loved our food, our style. He wants what we can offer—our classic New England cuisine with a twist.” I smile nervously. “He has an architect already working on the building and is planning for indoor and outdoor seating, as well as a short menu and take-out window. He’s moving forward, with or without us—he just offered the job to us first.”
“So why don’t you just take it?”
This is where it gets awkward for me. I turn my glass, my hands refusing to stay still. “It’s either both of us or neither of us.”
“Wow,” Eric says, looking to the side. “That’s pretty ballsy of your dad.”
Chuckling, I nod. “Tell me about it. But I agree with him. It’s taken me a bit to come to the realization, but I was good because you were always there, pushing me to be my best.”
“Bullshit.” He pops a chip in his mouth. “You’re a good chef—”
“Was a good chef. Was is the key word there. I don’t cook anymore.”
“What do you mean, you don’t cook anymore?” Even through the tense air between us, there’s definite concern in Eric’s eyes. “Cooking was your life. Are you telling me you gave all that up?”
“Yup.” I lean back in the booth and drum my fingers against the table. “I snag lobsters now and pick up shifts at the Landing. I don’t even cook myself meals anymore. Ever since we lost the restaurant, I haven’t been able to do much more than make ends meet.”
“Shit.” Perplexed, Eric unbuttons the top of his chef coat. “How come you didn’t say anything to me?”
“Uh, in case you haven’t noticed, our relationship hasn’t exactly been great. When I got back from New Orleans, and we realized we lost the restaurant, too much shit went down between us. I wasn’t about to dump all my woes out on you, especially since you’d just lost your dad a few months earlier.”
“But you’re my best friend. Even with everything that happened, you could have turned to me.”
I shake my head. “No. Too fucking ashamed. Still am. The only reason I’m here is because I felt a tiny bit of excitement at the idea of starting over again.” I drag my hand over my face, hating that I have to admit all of this, but I might as well—what do I have to lose? “I’ve been lost, man. I’ve felt like the loser brother, the one that can’t seem to accomplish anything, and I hate that. I hate that I’ve let myself get to this point.” As the confession leaves me, the meaning behind it builds with each second.
The loser Knightly.
The one who failed.
The brother who couldn’t amount to anything.
“Yeah, I’m not quite where I want to be either. A line cook at a three-star restaurant who lives with three other guys in a two-bedroom apartment . . . that doesn’t scream wild success either. But this gig pays the bills, and after everything we lost, I can’t be a risk-taker anymore.” He glances up at me, his meaning clear in his hazel eyes.
“I get it.” He doesn’t have to say it out loud; the writing is on the wall: starting another restaurant is too big of a risk—and one I don’t think he’s ready or willing to take.
“It’s nothing personal.” He says that, but it feels incredibly personal. “I’m barely surviving as it is, and I can’t afford to not have a job, to lose everything again.”