Chapter 3 – Roman
ROMAN
“Chef, Braelyn is sitting at the bar and looks like she’s been crying,” Sport, one of my weeknight bartenders, tells me, popping her head into the kitchen.
“She’s here now?” I twist my wrist, check my GMT-Master II, and frown.
It’s not even five yet, and she had a twelve-hour shift today.
I know because she was going to be off for the next two days and wanted my help tomorrow with some last-minute wedding stuff, including final say on my tux. “Wait. Did you say she’s been crying?”
Braelyn doesn’t cry. Hardly ever. The only time I ever saw her cry was when she came into the hospital and saw me for the first time after Nash died, and then again at the funeral. But that’s it.
“Yep. I made her a Manhattan with the Elijah Craig Barrel Proof we just got in.”
I curse under my breath. She’ll be drunk in no time.
Without a word to anyone, I leave the kitchen and head through the empty restaurant, going straight for the brunette who has her back to me.
She’s still in scrubs, her hair up in a ponytail that looks loose, with some of her long curls tangled around each other.
Alarm skitters through me, and I quicken my steps to a run until I’m by her side, turning her to me and taking her face in my hand so I can see her.
The moment our eyes meet, fresh tears form and instantly fall to her cheeks.
“What is it?” I whisper, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe.
Her face crumples and lands on my chest, and instinctively my arms wrap around her, holding her tightly as she cries into me. I pick her up off her seat, take her in my arms, and slide onto another stool so I can set her on my lap.
“Adam,” she manages, clinging to me. “He… I found him…”
“That motherfucker,” slips past my lips before I can stop it. She doesn’t even have to finish that. She could have told me he’s dead or something else horrible, but I know that’s not what this is. He cheated. The motherfucker cheated on my girl.
Honestly, I’m shocked.
Never in a million years would I have thought Adam would cheat on Braelyn.
“Yeah.” She gives a watery laugh and pulls back, wiping her face. She shifts on my lap and climbs off as she polishes off the end of her drink. “He’s all that and a bag of chips. I caught him and Corporate Barbie in my bed. In my favorite sheets, no less.”
“He’s still at your place?”
She shrugs. “I guess. Why?”
I stand, cracking my knuckles. “I’m going to beat him to death.” Fury pumping through my veins sets my feet in motion, but Braelyn stops me, pulling on the back of my coat.
“Don’t go. Please. I just… I need you right now.”
And just like that, my blood cools, and my heart melts, and I twist to take her pinky, squeezing it to let her know that she has me. She always has me.
“Come on. I’ll take you home. To my home.”
I get a shaky nod as she gets to her feet and lets me lead her toward the back.
“Chef?” someone calls out from the kitchen as we pass.
“Handle it,” I reply curtly.
“Wait.” Braelyn stops us. “You’re working.”
I kiss her forehead and meet her eyes. “You’re more important.”
We walk to the back room, where I take off my chef coat and slip it back into my locker. I pull out my leather jacket and drop it on Braelyn’s shoulders. Dutifully, she slips her arms through the sleeves that hang on her. She pushes them up so her hands are free, and I hand her my helmet.
“Just give me your keys. I’ll Uber to your place.”
I smooth her hair from her face. “I’m taking you home. No more arguing with me.”
“I can tell you’re fuming.”
I laugh mirthlessly. “Fuming isn’t the right word for what I am.” I’m murderous. “Come on. We’ll talk more at home.”
“Your eye looks good,” she notes as I climb onto my bike and hold out my hand for her to climb on behind me. “It’s healing nicely for only a few days in.”
“Told you I’d be fine.”
The engine rumbles beneath us, and I peel out into the cool Boston night.
Braelyn clings tightly to me. She hates riding, but this is all I had here, and I want to make a couple of stops along the way.
After I do that, I drive us over the bridge into the Seaport, where my building is.
Braelyn helped me pick out my penthouse and when I bought it, she told me it was the ultimate bachelor pad, likely because of the open two stories, massive media and great rooms, wraparound balcony, and the custom infinity-edge pool in the sunroom with a clear acrylic bottom and a retractable glass roof that opens in the summer.
Honestly, I bought the place for the kitchen, which I love, and because of the views of the Seaport.
As much as it pains me, I feel better seeing the water.
Like I’m closer to him this way. Nash was at home on the water.
It was his favorite place to be, and I’d go sailing or swimming or whatever it was that he wanted just to see his goofy smile.
He’d be twenty-seven this year. The amount of trouble he, Adam, and Braelyn used to get into would turn any parent’s hair white. I always felt it was my job to look after them since I’m six years older. I let Nash down with that, but I won’t with Braelyn now.
I walk Brae up the wraparound staircase and into one of the guest bedrooms I never use. I think she’s slept in here more than anyone else.
“I’ll bring you some clothes,” I offer.
Her arms wrap around her chest, and she takes in the view and the furniture. There isn’t much. A king bed and two end tables. Not even a dresser, though there’s a large walk-in closet, and if she ends up staying, I’ll buy her whatever she needs to make it her home.
“Will you bring me your Rebels hoodie?”
I smile. “You have such a thing for that hoodie.”
She turns back to me. “It’s my favorite.”
“It’s mine too, though.”
She points to her chest. “Cheating fiancé.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll bring it to you. But you can’t burn it in effigy when you decide you hate all men.”
She gasps. “I’d never. That sweatshirt is sacred.”
“Fair. I’ll be back.”
I shut the door behind me and jog down the hall to my bedroom.
I head for my closet and grab her the smallest pair of sweatpants I have that will still be ten sizes too big on her, a new pair of boxer briefs, a T-shirt, and the hoodie.
Girl is lucky I love her. She’s the only person I’d ever share this with.
I also grab my hairbrush for her to use.
I’m tempted to text Adam and ask him what the fuck, but I’m not ready to talk to him yet.
He’s lucky I didn’t find him. I would have killed him.
I’m not sure that’s even hyperbole. I want to squeeze him and shake him because he had her and threw her away when she’s all I’ve ever wanted. I would have held onto her forever.
I head back down the hall, knock, and when she doesn’t answer, I place the items on the bed and leave.
I can hear the shower going, and thankfully, I don’t hear her crying.
What I do hear is her phone vibrating from inside her purse.
He’s calling her. I bet he’s not even out looking for her. Lazy shit.
I’m so tempted to pick up, but I’ll deal with him in my own time.
I leave her to get herself together and head downstairs to make us an early dinner.
Braelyn and Nash were together for over a year and a half when he died.
It was a big deal for them. They were best friends before he ever made his move, but he had been crazy about her since he first realized he liked girls.
I can’t begin to explain the guilt I’ve carried.
The number of times I’ve wondered if she would have been marrying Nash in seven weeks instead of Adam.
After he died, I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t handle any of it, especially when Braelyn just held my hand and didn’t blame me. Not once. I took the love of her life from her, and she hugged me through it.
I left for Rome, then Paris, and London, doing apprenticeships and working as a sous chef in some of the best restaurants in the world.
I threw myself into cooking. Into mastering my craft.
After a couple of years, I moved back stateside to Las Vegas and LA.
Anything to avoid coming home. I was making a name for myself and even did some guest spots on Food Network shows.
Then I realized I couldn’t keep running from it or fighting it.
I loved her. It hadn’t dissipated from the moment I realized it was her.
This was about… three and a half years ago, I think.
It was the fall, and I was twenty-eight and finally starting to feel like I could take a breath without it shredding my lungs.
I moved back to Boston and opened two restaurants.
And I planned my strategy.
I made my move. Gently felt her out and tested boundaries to see if she’d respond.
I didn’t get much in return, and then Adam came barreling in.
That was that. I never told him how I felt.
I never told her either. Which is why I’m the best man maid of honor.
The best friend. The perpetual third wheel in our not-so-triangular situation.
He was good to her, and that’s what I cared about the most.
So I let the dream of one day with Braelyn die. She’s my best friend, and I can’t live without her. The ventricle to my atria, as she once called us. I’d take her like this any day over nothing, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be here while she was a newlywed with someone else.
I’ve signed contracts at three locations. Frankfurt, Paris, and London. I’m leaving for Europe in ten weeks and am living there for at least eighteen months. I haven’t told her yet, and now this.
In the kitchen, I unpack the things I picked up on the way over here and get started on Brae’s favorite dish, spicy chicken carbonara.
Usually, I make this for her with homemade bucatini, but I caved and purchased packaged fresh pasta to make it easier and faster.
I start boiling the water while I sauté the pancetta and grill the chicken on the griddle part of my stove.