Chapter 5
FIVE
brANDON
M y fingers drum against the pristine white tablecloth at Elliot’s as the waiter hovers nearby, probably wondering, like me, if I’m being stood up.
Again.
I glance at my phone, face up next to the untouched glass of water, its screen as lifeless as my enthusiasm for this waiting game. Any second now, it should buzz with some half-assed excuse from Naomi to miss our weekly charade we call dinner dates.
Since our last encounter at my father’s memorial some weeks ago, she’s practically avoiding me, and I gave her space, but my patience is wearing thinner than the tablecloth.
“Sir, would you like to order while you wait?” The waiter, Marcus, asks for the third time.
He has been serving us every Thursday for the past year. He knows the drill: I order a steak or whatever the special and appetizers, Naomi orders a salad, pushes it around her plate, and sneaks some of the appetizers while I pretend not to notice. But she’s never been this late before. She would have canceled by now.
“Five more minutes, please.” I swipe to refresh my messages for the umpteenth time. Did something happen?
“Of course, Mr. Milton.” There’s pity in his tone, a taste I can’t stomach. “Should I bring you something from the bar while you wait?”
“No, thanks.”
Laughter drifts from a couple nearby, grating my nerves, and I catch the hostess throwing concerned glances my way—being the owner’s friend doesn’t make this any less pathetic.
Refresh. Still nothing from Naomi. I write another message.
Brandon: You good? Haven’t heard from you.
The seconds drag on like hours. The response? Nonexistent. Radio fucking silence.
Brandon: Still ignoring me? Real mature, cupcake.
I stare at the phone, willing her name to pop up. It doesn’t. Shocker.
Brandon: Naomi. Seriously?
Brandon: At least write something. Not even an emoji?
I. Am. Desperate.
Fuck.
I toss the phone back on the table, leaning back in my chair with a huff.
Where exactly did I fuck up?
Was it me mentioning her throwing up? Walking after her into the bathroom? Earlier? Me drinking too much or forcing her to eat? The speech? Touching her?
Seems like a long list. Hard to figure out the exact moment.
The restaurant’s getting busier, and the dinner rush is starting to fill empty tables. Each time the door swings open, my head snaps up, hoping for her to stride in with some perfectly reasonable explanation that might make this all bearable.
But it’s never her.
Just more strangers.
The untouched glass of water sweats onto the tablecloth, leaving a dark circle that spreads like my growing unease.
Maybe I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.
My phone rings, jolting me out of my brooding.
Is she—Nope. It’s the realtor.
Am I in the mood? I let it ring a few times. My date’s not here, and the persistent prick will keep calling.
With a sigh, I answer. “Brandon Milton.”
“It’s Jeff. Listen, this property is getting a lot of attention, and the buyers are tired of waiting. Are you ready to move forward?”
I rub my temple with my free hand. “Still thinking about it.”
“Brandon.” Switching to first-name familiarity? Never a good sign. “It’s been five almost six months. The market is hot right now. If you don’t move quickly, you could miss out.”
Miss out? As if I’m raring to cash in. “I said I’d think about it. I don’t need you calling every five minutes.”
There’s a pause, and I can practically feel Jeff’s frustration radiating through the line. “The market isn’t waiting for you.”
“Really? And here I thought the real estate market was like a good risotto. Better if you ignore it and let it sit.”
Silence.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
“I understand. But you need to think about what’s best for you. Holding onto the property out of sentimentality isn’t?—”
“I’m not sentimental,” I snap, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s just complicated.”
“Do you want to sell or not?”
“Yes.”
“So, we move forward. Great. I’ll?—”
“No.”
Silence, then, “Well, there’s a new interested party who’d like to take a look. Can we at least schedule a viewing?”
Around me, every table is filled. A suited guy gets on his knees in front of his girlfriend while she’s crying and nodding, the whole shebang.
Fantastic. Nothing like watching someone else’s happiness while I’m getting stood up. I should offer to cater their wedding. Oh wait, I can’t. My kitchen’s collecting more dust than my father’s grave.
An elderly couple shares what looks like Elliot’s signature tiramisu, the layering sloppy, the mascarpone too thick, and the most delicious dessert. A business dinner unfolds at the corner table. Did someone order suits, ties, and fake laughs? A family on the other side celebrates something, a birthday maybe, the kids’ laughter filling this place.
Two tables over, a woman in red picks at her salad, reminding me of how Naomi does the same thing. Her date chatters away, oblivious to her disinterest. Amateur.
And the seat opposite of me. Still empty.
“Brandon?” Jeff asks.
My fingers clench around the phone. “Set it up.”
“I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up.
Marcus still hovers near my table, probably gauging whether he should ask what I want to order, if I need someone to cut my food into tiny pieces, offer another pitying smile or clear my table.
They would need the space, I’m sure.
Elliot’s restaurant pulses with life, while mine gathers dust across town. Empty tables, the kitchen cold and silent, no cooks or customers. It was supposed to be my roman empire, the place where I’d make a name for myself outside the family.
It’s everything I’ve struggled to hold onto. My dream, my father’s approval, the life I thought I’d have. Letting it go feels like admitting defeat, like waving the white flag on everything I’ve bled for.
I’ve already lost.
A vivid and gut-wrenching memory flashes through my mind. Me and the realtor standing in the empty restaurant space.
“This is the kind of place where people remember you.” He gestured around, a salesman’s grin on his face.
I’d believed him. Believed that this restaurant would be my legacy, the thing that proved I was more than just Charles Milton’s fuck-up son.
What a joke. It’s laughable.
It’s a monument to my failures, proof that I am Charles Milton’s fuck-up son who had this foolish dream of becoming a chef.
I check my watch. Forty-five minutes. That’s a new record, even for Naomi.
Marcus approaches again, and this time, I don’t wait for him to speak. “Get me whatever Elliot’s cooking tonight.” If I’m going to sit here like an idiot, I might as well eat.
I grab my phone, tap Naomi’s contact, and hit call. The ring echoes in my ear once, twice?—
“Hi, you’ve reached Naomi Smith. Please leave a?—”
I hang up and try again.
One ring. Two rings.
“Hi, you’ve reached?—”
“God damn it, Naomi.” My fingers grip the phone tighter. “Pick up your fucking phone.”
Third time’s the charm, right?
Ring.
“Hi, you’ve reached Naomi Smith. Please leave a message after the tone.” Beeeep.
“Listen, cupcake.” I lean back in my chair, running a hand over my face. “I know you’re screening my calls. Real mature. What happened to our deal? I showed up to that fucking memorial like you wanted. I played nice.”
The engaged couple, given she said yes, shoots me a look.
I lower my voice. “You can’t just ghost me after—” After what? After I followed her into the bathroom? After I called her out on her bullshit? After she called me out on mine? “Just… call me back. Please.”
I hang up, staring at her contact photo. The one that’s been haunting me for weeks.
My arm curves around Naomi’s waist, holding her close against my chest. Her black dress hugs every curve, and her face is tilted up toward mine, those dark soufflé eyes wide with something between anticipation and fear. Her lips are parted, just slightly, like she’s caught mid-breath.
There’s nothing fake about the heat in her and my eyes, the way we look at each other. My fingers press possessively into her hip, and even in this frozen moment, you can see how her body melts into mine.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think we were actually…
It’s a good photo. Too good.
The whiskey, I don’t remember ordering, arrives, Marcus setting it beside my water.
“Should I cancel the food order, sir?”
“No.” I knock back half of it. “And bring another one of these, please.”
My thumb hovers over Naomi’s number again. What’s that definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results?
Fuck it.
I hit call.
Ring.
“Hi, you’ve reached Naomi Smith. Please leave a message after the tone.”
She’s giving me more radio silence than a dead kitchen on health inspection day. At least the health inspector has the decency to show up before shutting you down.
My phone chimes.
Naomi: Can’t make it.
Naomi: Oh and * middle-finger-emoji *
You didn’t.