Epilogue
JAHNVI
N ostalgia was such a hard feeling. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling, but it wasn’t a good feeling either. Seeing our restaurant completely devoid of any decoration or customers made me miss the times when it would be full with the line extending outside the door.
I sighed, smiling as I found the little nook behind the soda machines. This was where I used to hide from my parents and check my phone during working hours. Now, even the worn red carpet had been ripped away leaving the ugly cement floor on the bottom.
My parents had sold the restaurant to a rich Indian florist who was probably going to get some fancy tiles and redo the entire place.
“Well, this is the last time we have to get rid of the trash,” someone said, saving me from my pity party. I turned around and saw my dad holding two of the industrial-sized trash bags that always were a menace.
With a grunt, he set them down. My heart panged as I saw his gray hairs. Back when the restaurant was flourishing, he’d been able to carry two trash bags in each hand easily. Then, people slowly started not coming in as my parents couldn’t slave away anymore and our neighbor introduced to-go meals.
And then he bought us out to turn the shop into some weird floral boutique.
I offered to take the bags from my dad, and he didn’t stop me.
God, I forgot these things were a pain.
Grunting, I hoisted the trash bags over my shoulder and shuffled out the back doors. I used my entire body to smash into the doors and open them.
Just a few more feet to the dumpster and...
My feet suddenly stopped of their own accord; it was like they knew he was looking.
I looked across the street at the restaurant behind us, panting heavily under the bags, and made eye contact with the man dressed impeccably in a light-blue button-down and navy-blue dress pants. He was holding two bags of his own, easily as always.
There he was, the man I’d been looking forward to seeing all week.
The owner of the Midwest’s number one Indian restaurant chain.
Owner of the leading Indian bridal flower shop in the entire US.
My first love, Everett James.
And embarrassingly enough, I had been nervous to see him once I heard he was buying our shop and that chances of seeing him were high since I was helping close it. I mean, we weren’t eighteen anymore. I had a fiancé, and he probably had his own relationship.
But for a second, we were both transported back in time when he smiled at me.
To seven years ago when everything was simple, and we made it complicated for no reason.
“Hey Pickles.” He spoke quietly, but it still carried across the street. “You need help? I think your bags are gonna rip.”