Chapter Thirty
Aubrey
It was late by the time I left the Hardts’ house. After Evan had stormed from the boxing arena’s back room and informed his dad and me he’d find his own way home, Mr. Hardt and I had tried to check on Gabe ourselves, but he’d already left through a different door and taken his stuff with him.
Concern ate at me as I shot Gabe a text. All I wanted was to hunt each brother down and find some way to make it okay. One look at Mr. Hardt’s face told me he wanted to do the same. But we both knew his sons. We went to his house instead.
I waited a bit for Evan, hoping to find out what he and Gabe had said to each other, but after two hours with no sign of him, I finally caught a bus back to the city.
Now, after switching to the subway that would take me closest to my apartment, my thoughts rode away with the steady rocking of the car.
Gabe would try to fight tomorrow.
I knew it as certainly as I knew sugar was sweet. Could see it in the rage on Evan’s face as he’d left.
And where the idea of Gabe fighting in the championship match had sent me riding high on a sugar rush before this afternoon, now there was only dread.
Dread if he fought.
Dread if he didn’t.
Dread at the realization that the chances of him getting the money he needed for his gym were essentially the same either way.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d hung my hopes on him getting that prize money until now. How much I’d believed he would win. That he’d get his loan, open his gym, and stay. How fully I’d believed it would all work out despite knowing from experience how easy it was for everything to go wrong.
I hadn’t even been foolish to believe it. He’d been incredible in that ring. An unstoppable force of strength, power, and grace. If it hadn’t been for one unlucky punch, all those hopes would still be alive.
Instead, he’d responded to my text to say he’d rather be alone tonight, and the lump knotting my stomach grew bulkier with the weight of rejection.
I tried to shake it off.
Gabe was like Evan. Or maybe Evan was like Gabe. Either way, when they had something intense to process, they did the emotional equivalent of barricading themselves in an underground bunker.
It was why I could handle waiting for Evan to cool off instead of tracking him down. Unless he was ready to talk or stuck in a car with me with nowhere to run, he’d shut down more if I tried to push.
But with Gabe, a greedy part of me wanted to be his exception. To be the one person he let inside the bunker, who offered him what no one else could. The one who made the hurt hurt less just by being there.
I wanted him to need me. So much he never wanted to give me up.
The guilt of it shredded my stomach right alongside where his dismissal dug in its claws. Mixed with the worry rounding out my emotions, it felt like someone had split me open and poured inside the dump bucket Neela kept behind the bar to toss unfinished drinks into.
The mess sloshed around, making me sick, as I hauled my limbs up the stairs of the subway to the darkened street above.
When I reached the sidewalk, I just kind of…stood there. My body too drained to move and my brain too weary to instruct it differently. I’d planned to go home, but the idea of being in my empty apartment, dark, quiet, and solitary, was the last thing I wanted right now.
My stomach spoke up, growling in protest from not eating all afternoon. Between trekking back and forth to the suburbs and worrying about Gabe and Evan, I hadn’t thought to.
Which meant I should probably eat a grain bowl or a giant salad—something substantial with a bunch of colors and nourishing stuff like protein and vitamins.
Coming up with a meal that satisfied those parameters and that I also felt like eating right now seemed about as likely as me winning a pair of custom-designed Jimmy Choos.
What I wanted was the culinary equivalent of a hug. Something comforting and sweet I could drown all my worries in, since all the worrying in the world wouldn’t change things either way.
I let my legs carry me to the first place that came to mind.
The bell over the door of the Froyo shop a few blocks from my apartment rang as I walked in, and wafts of chocolate and other sweet scents filled my nose. Less than an hour till close on a chilly spring night meant I was the only customer here.
I skimmed the menu as I made my way to the front. This place offered a wide variety, like artisanal ice cream and water ice, which was probably why they hadn’t shut down like a lot of other Froyo spots in town.
But I didn’t need fancy tonight. I craved something simple and sweet under a mound of candy, cookies, and fruit. And if I could get it without having to decide which of those toppings I ended up with, even better.
I took two twenties from my wallet. “This is probably a weird request,” I said to the lone worker, whose long box braids were tied in an intricate knot held back by a brightly patterned headband.
It did way more for her cool brown skin than the black corporate T-shirt she had to wear.
If I had to guess, she was in college, maybe a little older.
I slid one bill across the counter. “If I gave you this and asked you to make me a large Froyo with as many toppings as it would get me in whatever flavor combo you think is best, is that something you’d be up for? ”
One dark eyebrow rose above her wire-rimmed glasses. She glanced at the twenty and back at me. I tucked the other twenty into the tip jar.
She shrugged as she put the first twenty in the register and reached for a large cup.
I expected her to dump some vanilla frozen yogurt in the bottom, walk down the row of toppings, grab a spoonful of each, and call it a day.
Which—for the record—I’d have been good with.
Whatever ended up in that cup worked for me as long as it was more sugar than anything else, and I didn’t have to make it myself.
So when she set the cup to the side and headed for the topping bins first, armed with a plastic tray of empty to-go sauce containers, I got curious.
After a moment of contemplation, she filled each sauce container, nine of them total, with a different topping and brought them behind the counter. Then she grabbed the large cup and went to the Froyo machines.
She picked one flavor, filled the cup a fraction of the way, brought it back, and carefully arranged a layer of toppings.
Then she set the cup on the scale, checked the weight, and went for more Froyo.
This time, she chose a different flavor, still only adding a little bit, before bringing it back and selecting a different set of toppings.
She went through the routine twice more, creating a parfait-style concoction I imagined Jase would make if he ever came here.
When the cup was overflowing and the scale read a few cents shy of twenty dollars, she went for a small cutting board and paring knife, grabbed a strawberry from a fridge behind the counter, and sliced it in a perfect fan before placing it on top of her creation.
She stuck a spoon into the cup, slid a rainbow gummy ring over the handle, and handed the whole thing to me.
“You ever work in a restaurant before?” I asked as I took it. She moved like she had. Gathering the ingredients she needed beforehand, being precise and methodical, cleaning her space as she went.
She blinked at the question. “Yeah. I do now, just…as a dishwasher. They haven’t let me cook yet.”
“Do you want to cook?” I pulled the spoon from the top layer, leaving the gummy ring on the handle, and took a bite. Mmm. Taro Froyo with coconut flakes and white chocolate chips.
Her guarded expression eased slightly when it was clear I enjoyed what she’d made. “I mean, yeah.”
“But most restaurants want you to stage for free first, and you can’t afford to lose a month’s income, right?”
A mix of surprise and suspicion knotted her brows. “Right. I work here because dishwasher pay sucks enough on its own.”
I nodded. Been there.
“Do me a favor,” I said, taking another quick bite before setting the cup down to grab a napkin and scrawl my email on it with the register pen. “Send me your résumé. I’m looking for a chef to join my team, and the pay is way better than a dishwasher. No free labor required.”
She scanned the email address. “Ardena?” Her brows rose. “The restaurant on Rittenhouse?”
I smiled. She wasn’t washing dishes at McDonald’s if she got that excited about Ardena.
“Sort of. The job is with our new catering division. Similar food, high-end events, lots of opportunity to be creative. Think about it.” I ate another scoop of frozen yogurt, this one coffee with mini marshmallows, walnuts, and dark chocolate chunks.
“And thank you,” I mumbled, mouth still full of the delicious bite. “This is perfect.”
The corners of her mouth lifted with the makings of a smile as I turned for the door.
Maybe nothing would come of it. She might not apply for the job, and Gabe still was or wasn’t going to fight tomorrow. Evan was still MIA, and no amount of gummy rings would fix the fracture between him and his brother.
Nothing was certain. All I’d gained was temporary relief from my wallowing in the form of a sweet treat and the ultimate brain freeze.
Yet it was something. The tiniest flower emerging from a busted-up sidewalk, and if nothing else, I’d let that sliver of hope get me through tonight.
There was no question that whichever way tomorrow went, Froyo wouldn’t be enough.