Chapter Twenty-Seven Madison
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Madison
ROME
“Here it is,” I say, slapping a piece of paper onto Emily’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence that I’m taking care of shit, since I know that you’re sitting in your little house sweating your cute little ass off over it.”
My type A sister looks up at me with a practiced air of disinterest, but I can see it in the brief flick of her eyes to the paper on her desk that she very much cares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I trust you completely.”
“Since when?”
“Since . . .” She shrugs. “Forever. I’ve always trusted you to take care of yourself.”
I laugh so loudly that if her students were here instead of in music class they would have jumped out of their seats.
“You’ve never trusted me! And rightfully so, I’ve been kind of a mess.
. . .” But I don’t finish that thought because it’s time to stop talking so negatively about myself all the time.
I had never even considered myself brave until James suggested it. And now it’s all I can think about.
It was almost two weeks ago that we lay on the roof of the apartment building and he told me I inspire him. I can still feel the way those words tingled across my skin as if he’s whispering them in my ear right now.
When we got back, he helped me find the perfect place to let Sammy go, and ever since we have both been so busy with our respective jobs and annoying adult shit that I’ve barely seen him.
I miss him. Aggressively.
We haven’t been completely apart, though.
There’ve been hints that we’re still best friends.
(Or whatever we are.) Occasionally I find a word search puzzle taped to my door.
A bowl of fruit salad placed in his fridge.
Drinks at Hank’s on Friday nights—and passing him and Will running together early one morning when I had to drive into the town over for some ingredients the Market doesn’t carry.
Emily closes her eyes, looking like an alcoholic trying to resist a bottle of her favorite liquid. “First, you’re not a mess. I know you are a capable woman and I don’t need to read your menu as proof that you can manage your restaurant.”
“Okay, fine.” I slide it off her desk. “Then I’ll just leave you to your school day and take this with m—”
Her hand slaps down on the paper just before I pull it away. “You came all this way . . . so I can take a quick look.”
“Mm-hmm. Great. While you’re at it, pick which menu you like better. There’s two on there.”
I’ve been playing around with several different options, cooking deep into the night, destroying my small cottage kitchen in the process, and rekindling so much delight in cooking that I find myself giggling and laughing like a maniac to my audience of mixing bowls.
It’s been a tough decision, but I’ve whittled the potential menu down to my favorites.
And Emily—my incredibly strong and wise sister—is the only person I trust to help me make this final decision.
While she reads over the menu, I stroll to the window and glance out at the kids on the playground, shrieking and running wild during recess.
I used to stand here at this exact window, counting the minutes until my students returned from specials, dreading the second half of the day. I wanted to love this job—god, it would’ve made everything simpler if I had—but there was no joy in it for me.
I’ve looked back on that time, wondering if I was just lazy or selfish or ungrateful, but now I can see that it’s just not where I was meant to be.
And that’s okay. Emily—she was built for this.
Her whole heart lights up when she talks about lesson plans and the design of her classroom themes.
I’ve always admired that about her. But the only part of this job I loved was being around her.
For a long time I thought I didn’t fit the job. But now I think maybe it didn’t fit me. Maybe I’m not a quitter or a failure, maybe I’m actually pretty good at listening to my heart.
The fear I have now—that being a chef will turn out the same way as my other jobs and I’ll have to start over again—still lingers. But it’s quieter. And I can thank Zora for that.
But just as soon as I gain some confidence, my eyes snag on a particular little redheaded boy playing on the swing set. Jeanine’s son. My mind flies back to the thought of James dating her and my stomach twists.
Did he end their relationship, or was it Jeanine?
For some reason, that fact is very important to know.
Because Jeanine and James—it makes sense.
I can see it perfectly. The three of them as a happy little family, rooted here in Rome.
Jeanine is someone you take home to Mom and Dad.
Jeanine is someone to build traditions with.
So what happened between them?
“Okay . . .” Emily cuts into my spiraling thoughts. “These are all great options. I’ve had several variations of these dishes from you and they’re all incredible.”
“But?” I narrow my eyes.
“No buts.”
“But?” I ask, firmer, more intentionally, and Emily relents.
She treats me to a massive eye roll along with a groan. “You need to mix and match these two menus until the greens are with the—”
I hold up my hand and stop her and then point my finger like a wand. “Use that favorite red pen of yours and mark it up.”
While Emily draws little circles and connecting lines across the paper (and tiny hearts to soften the blow), I wander back into my thoughts about Jeanine and James and have the most startling revelation so far: They could even be a J-name couple!
“Emily . . .”
“Hmm?” She’s finishing up on the menu but giving one last note.
“Did you know James dated Jeanine?”
Her pen drops to the desk and she looks up at me, attempting to blink her shocked expression away. “Yes. Why are you asking?”
I shrug, taking my turn at nonchalance. “No real reason. He mentioned it to me the other day, and I thought it was curious.”
“Curious that they dated?”
“Curious that they broke up.” My eyes drop to the floor, pretending to scuff a nonexistent smudge off the tile. “She seems perfect for him. Beautiful. Funny. Reliable. A redhead.”
“And James just screams ‘I love redheads’?”
“You know what I mean! On paper they seem great.”
She hums a light understanding sound and sits back in her chair, crossing her legs.
“I think Jackson could tell you a thing or two about trying to make it work with someone who is great for them on paper.” Emily’s boyfriend was in a multiyear relationship with a woman—even getting engaged and moving away with her—until he realized he didn’t love her and she wasn’t the one for him.
“Despite looking good on paper, maybe James realized early on he could never love Jeanine.”
“So you’re saying James broke up with her?”
“I don’t know,” says Emily with a measured calm, tapping her pen softly against the desk.
I step closer. “How long did they date for?”
“Also don’t know.”
“Who asked who out first?” I’m right up at her desk now, chin angled down at her.
Emily looks me straight in the eyes and over-enunciates, “I. Don’t. Know.”
I bang my hands flat onto the desk like a skilled interrogation officer. “Then what do you know, Emily Walker!” I’m sure my eyes resemble a cartoon character’s when they bug out of their head.
My sister, who could make a bull cower, only smiles at my outburst. “Not much, Madison. James is a pretty private person, as you well know—especially, I would imagine, as of late.” She sits forward and rests her forearms on the desk. “Now tell me a few things. . . . Why are you so interested?”
“Because we’re business partners. I deserve to know if a Mrs. Huxley is going to swoop in randomly and change everything.”
“Seems like a question you should ask him then.”
“Um, no.” I pivot away.
“Well, I don’t have the information you’re looking for.”
“That’s fine. I bet Mabel knows.” I snatch the menus from Emily’s desk and start backing my way out.
“Or you could just ask James.”
I scrunch my nose. “Doesn’t sound like me. Hey, by the way, sorry about taking up your grading time. I’ll buy you a few extra minutes.”
“How?” She’s frowning, skeptical.
I raise and lower my eyebrows.
“No. Madison! Halt your ass right there. I forbid you from doing whatever it is you’re considering!”
“Oh, Emily,” I say at the edge of the door. “Don’t you realize by now the more I’m forbidden from doing something . . .” I let the sentence dangle, daring Emily to finish it for me.
“The faster you do it,” she says with a resigned sigh.
I’m grinning, showing my teeth. “Don’t say I never did anything for you!”
Again, Emily senses danger. She stands quickly. “Maddie . . .”
And that’s the last word I hear before going into the hallway and pulling the fire alarm.