34. Booth
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
booth
Still waters run deep.
To most, Alessandra Argiros is calm, controlled, composed.
Her waters glassy and undisturbed.
But I see her. The raging river that she is.
White waters crash along the banks as she carves out a path in the world.
She’s powerful, her inner strength running deeper than she knows.
Small ripples in her composed demeanor reveal themselves.
Hardly noticeable unless you look close enough.
I’m overly aware of everything to do with her.
The way her lips pinch tight when she’s concentrating.
The slow lift of her right brow when I say something amusing—or stupid.
The small curls framing her face that refuse to be tamed after a long, tiring day.
And the way she stares into space, distracted by her thoughts when she thinks no one is looking.
It’s been three days since the tense meeting with Martin .
She hasn’t brought it up, but I know it sits heavily on her mind.
Do either of them realize how similar they are?
How the towering walls they’ve built over the years can’t hide their obstinate nature.
Martin’s stubbornness is subtle through his silence and pride, whereas Aly’s is more obvious through her smart mouth and immoveable opinions.
I want to ask how I can help, but then I risk unraveling everything we’ve overcome.
So instead, we throw ourselves into our work.
Aly’s has demanded her attention for the last two days, and the restaurant has been surprisingly busy for mid- January .
I’m exhausted after my shifts, and while I don’t believe she’s avoiding me, we haven’t seen one another outside of Our Place since the meeting with Martin .
Our time should be spent entangled in her bedsheets or making out on my sofa like two horny teenagers.
But instead, I’m drafting up new prices for the menu as per Aly’s request.
“You almost finished here?” Patrick calls from the other side of the restaurant.
He flips over the last of the chairs before walking to where I’m trying and failing to concentrate.
Sometimes when we’re working a late shift together, I finish up on the restaurant floor rather than the office.
I’m quickly regretting my choice today.
“No,” I groan as my head thuds against the large wooden table.
The chair creaks beneath his weight as he sits opposite me.
“ Lady trouble?”
“Fuck off.”
“I’ll take that as a yes then.” He chuckles.
“ Seriously , though, I thought you and Aly were past being at each other’s necks. So what’s got your panties in a twist today?”
Sitting up, I frown at him.
“ My panties aren’t in a twist.”
He scoffs and jabs a finger toward the kitchen.
“ You bit my head off earlier when a server accidentally put through a clam chowder.”
“I eighty-sixed it not five minutes earlier!” I protest.
“Yeah, and mistakes happen. You’re the last person I expect to be a prick about it.”
My posture collapses.
He’s right. I’ve been irritable all day.
“ Sorry ,” I grumble, raise my head, and force a smile.
“ There’s just been a lot going on. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
Stacking his arms on top of each other, he leans forward, concern scoring his face.
“ You wanna talk about it?”
Yes!
I want to shout. My siblings and I don’t keep secrets from one another.
Since our dad passed, and with him being the eldest, Pat’s taken it upon himself to fill that role as best as he can.
The issue eating away at my brain isn’t mine to share, though, and I won’t betray Aly’s trust. “ Nah . Nothing to tell. Ignore me.”
He stares at me thoughtfully, not convinced.
“ You like working here, right?”
I’m so blindsided that the room spins.
Why would he ask that?
Did Aly say something?
No. She wouldn’t. We share that mutual understanding.
“What kind of question is that?” My voice pitches.
His eyes narrow. “ Something you said a couple of months ago. Before the fair. It stuck with me.”
The scrutinizing look he’s giving me makes my skin itch.
I fiddle with the stack of papers on the table.
“ You’re overthinking it. I can’t even remember what I said.”
“You said, ‘ I’m not sure how much longer I can continue doing this.’ It’s not the first time you’ve said something like that either.”
Goddamn him and his elephant memory.
“ Yeah , and I was talking about the new owner. Seriously , Pat , drop it.”
The little white lie doesn’t pacify him, and his resounding exhale makes me feel like shit.
Just tell him.
“Sometimes it feels like your heart isn’t in it anymore. Don’t get me wrong, you’re still fantastic at your job, but something’s missing. I was always so jealous of your passion, but these days, you seem eager for your day to end.” Patrick is our dad, through and through, with their wise words and logical thinking.
It might as well be my father speaking.
“ Do you want to be here?”
I almost choke on the anguish suffocating my airways.
Rationally, there’s nothing to be ashamed about.
We all fantasize. About picking the winning scratch card or owning a vintage sports car.
I imagine a career outside of these four walls—but that’s all it will ever be.
A fantasy.
I would never abandon my family to chase after a dream fated to crash and burn.
The real kicker? I’ve fooled no one.
Just myself. And in doing so, I’ve failed to see the spark I’ve lost.
My insides twist. A corkscrew of emotions.
It would gut Patrick to know the truth, so the easiest thing to do—the thing I’ve been doing for years—is put on a happy face.
My cheeks stretch, teeth flash, and lips pull tight.
“ I want to be a millionaire, but I’ll settle for you cooking me dinner next week while I hang out with my niece.” Snatching up the papers, I stand, face aching.
“ It’s all good, Pat . Don’t worry about it.”
Patrick rises, eyeing me carefully before nodding slowly.
“ Okay . I’ll drop it. But you know I’m always here, right?”
“Yes, yes.” I round the table and slap him on the back.
“ My very own Dear Abby . I’m gonna use the restroom. I’ll meet you out front.”
Seemingly persuaded, he resumes his duties.
The second I’m alone, a shaky breath leaves me.
I’ve got to get my head straight.
My dad might not be around anymore, but there are still other people relying on me.
Pulling out my phone, I type out a text and wait.
Booth: Do you want to come over tonight?
My fingers tap against the side of my cell impatiently until her reply comes through.
She-Devil: I’m snowed under with work.
Rain check?
Dejection settles deep in my bones.
Which is ridiculous considering we’ve been clear about the lack of strings in this arrangement.
Yet something deep in my heart tugs sharply at the idea of not seeing her tonight.
I delete several responses before settling.
Booth: I’m holding you to that, beautiful.
Booth: Good luck with Martin tomorrow.
Call if you need me.
Her reply doesn’t come through until hours later, when my eyelids fight to stay open.
She-Devil: Thanks
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep stirring my judgment.
Thanks. One Word . That’s not Aly .
She’d usually reply with something sarcastic about not needing my protection.
If she’s mad at me, she makes damn sure I’m aware.
This text is passive and short.
I dismiss the irrational thought and put it down to the late hour.
Easier said than done.
I toss and turn in bed, overthinking everything I’ve said and done the last few days.
This is where it becomes tricky with Aly .
She’s quick to close up when she feels cornered, but she’s had the space to unpack the last few days.
She didn’t push me away when I turned up at the cabin, so why would she now?
Then my thoughts turn dangerous.
I imagine an alternative universe where this isn’t temporary.
I picture her in my kitchen—no, our kitchen.
We’d argue about who does the dishes, she’d moan sinfully over whatever she’s eating, and then I’d worship her all night long.
The life we could have together is crystal clear in my head.
Except for one detail.
Here or there?
My dream girl versus my father’s legacy.
That’s now two dreams that will never come true.