The last place I feel like being is at the restaurant where I’ll be the center of attention, but if I don’t go to them, they’ll come to me. They’re too busy at this hour to leave work, so I go to them. This reminds me of being summoned to appear every night at dinnertime as a teenager so we could pretend to be a normal family that ate dinner together.
I used to hate that I had to go there every night at six o’clock or run the risk of being tracked down by one or both of my parents. Rather than face their wrath, I did what I was told and showed up on time, especially after they got me a car and told me I was to use it to get to dinner on time or lose the privilege of having my own car.
Now that I’m older, I realize the value of what they did by making sure I wasn’t home alone every night while they were at work. I did most of my high school homework while sitting at the bar at Giordino’s, which was as much my home as our house was. The habit of stopping in for dinner continued after Tony and I were married. We both enjoyed spending time with my family—and not having to cook on our rare nights off.
I did a lot of my college and grad school homework there, too, more out of habit than anything. I discovered I wasn’t as efficient at home alone, so I found myself right back there long after the choice was mine to make. Not to mention my parents kept me in food and drink while I worked, so there was that. That’s why they joke that they got me through college and grad school, which isn’t far from the truth.
They’ve gotten me through everything, and as I pull into the parking lot behind the restaurant, I’m comforted to know they’ll get me through this new heartache, too.
I pull down the visor to view the damage in the mirror. My eyes are a little red and watery, but overall, it’s not as bad as I expected. Although, my appearance doesn’t matter much, because the people closest to me will take one look and know that something has happened.
Resigned to my fate, I grab my purse and head inside through the back door, which takes me past the bustling kitchen. The smells coming from there make my mouth water, reminding me that even in the worst of times, my appetite is always robust. That became a joke of sorts after Tony died, and I ate as if nothing had happened. Food has always been my friend that way.
My stomach rumbles in anticipation of dinner as I make my way to the bar. My dad is holding court, as usual, and leans across the bar to kiss my cheek. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to your old man.”
“There’s nothing old about you.”
He raises an eyebrow, letting me know he’s not letting me off the hook.
I take a seat at the bar. “Bump in the road with Jason. Nothing to worry about. What’re the specials tonight?”
He puts a glass of chardonnay in front of me and hands me the printout of specials.
I appreciate that he doesn’t immediately start peppering me with questions the way my mother and grandmothers would. “Where’re the ladies?”
“Tending to a private party upstairs, which buys you a little time.”
I share a smile with him, appreciating that he gets that I need that bit of time before the inquisition begins.
“It’s not terminal, I hope.” He speaks quietly so he won’t be overheard by the other patrons at the bar. “I like him.”
“I do, too, and I’m not sure if it’s terminal. He might be going back to New York.” I shrug as if that’s not the worst possible outcome—for me. “It’s the best thing for him. That’s where his life is.”
“Nothing says your life couldn’t be there, too.”
I glance at him and catch the hint of sadness in warm eyes the same shade of brown as mine. “You trying to get rid of me, Pops?”
He leans his elbows on the bar. “Not even kinda, but it’s been nice to see you sparkle again.”
“It’s been nice to feel that way, but nothing says he’s the only one who can make me happy.” The words are no sooner out of my mouth when I call myself a liar. I don’t want anyone else but him.
“True.”
I can tell my dad wants to say more but is hesitant to say too much. I nudge his hand. “What?”
“It’s just that it took five years for you to meet someone who made you want to take a chance again.”
“And look at what happened when I took that chance.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem to be giving up rather easily, sweetheart.”
That has me sitting straighter. “I’m not giving up so much as taking a step back out of self-preservation. I don’t want to live in New York, especially after I just got this job and finally started my career.”
“Jobs are replaceable. People aren’t. You know that better than anyone.”
“Jeez, Dad, go for the jugular, why don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Just speaking the truth. If you care about this guy, and I think you really do, don’t let him go without a fight. Tell him what you want. You might be surprised to discover he wants the same thing you do.”
“As I said to him, we can’t make huge life and career decisions based on someone we’ve known a week. That’s insane.”
“I knew two days after I met your mother that I’d never be happy without her in my life. Did I know for sure that I’d marry her and have this amazing life with her? Nope, not yet, but I knew I could not and would not be happy without her.”
Of course, I know my parents were instantly attracted to and smitten with each other, but their story takes on new meaning for me in light of current events.
Dad wipes down glasses coming out of the steaming dishwasher. “I’m just saying, if he’s the one for you, you’ll figure it out. Don’t give up on him, sweetheart. He’s a good guy.”
“I know he is, and that makes everything so much harder. I’d love the chance to get to know him better and to spend more time with him, but I’m not willing to move to New York for a guy I just met.”
“So do the long-distance thing for a while and see what happens.”
“And how will that go when he works eighty hours a week?”
“I have a feeling he’d make time for you. The man never takes his eyes off you.”
“That is not true!”
“It’s absolutely true.” He tosses the dish towel over his shoulder. “What do you want for dinner? Dante’s marsala is outstanding tonight. Had some earlier myself.”
“That sounds good.”
“House salad, too?”
“You know me.” I love our house salad with its crispy romaine, tasty roma tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, black olives, house-made croutons and shredded parmesan cheese. I get it without the red onion.
“I know you as well as I know myself, and seeing you with him . . . I liked the look of that. Be right back with your salad, love.”
His sweet words bring new tears to my eyes. While he’s gone, I take the time to check my phone and find a text from Jason that I devour.
I’m so sorry this has gotten complicated, but one thing isn’t complicated. I like you. A LOT. A LOT. A LOT. I think about you all the time. In one week, you’ve made yourself essential to me in so many ways, most having nothing at all to do with our “project.” I’ve got a lot to figure out, and I completely understand your need to protect yourself in the midst of my madness. I get it, even if I already miss you like crazy.