Chapter Sixteen
“The baby shower is going to be football-themed.” Sal vibrates as he speaks. “I got little football-shaped cupcakes from this bakery in Jersey. Chocolate and vanilla marble. I sent you and Henry a picture. Did you see?”
Sal has been pinging Henry and me in our Facebook Messenger group chat constantly—photos of ultrasounds, baby clothes, everything. I honestly love hearing from Sal, and I love the way Henry always beats me to answering him, but the last message Sal sent us has gone unanswered—mostly because Henry and I aren’t talking.
“It’s adorable,” I say, smiling. I try to stay engaged in conversation, but my brain is in so many other places. It’s with Henry, rejecting me. It’s with Sonya, slamming the bathroom door on me. How have I been so insensitive to her feelings? I took advantage of her cheery nature and finally she snapped, that’s how. I fucked things up, like I always do.
“…And look at this backdrop for photos! They make it look like you’re standing at the goalpost. Look!” Sal zooms in on Amazon on his phone. “Oh! And these streamers…” He scrolls down in his Amazon purchase history to show me the metallic streamers he ordered.
“What if he grows up and doesn’t like football?” I ask.
Sal shrugs. “He can like whatever he wants,” he says. “The baby shower is mostly for us, anyway.”
Talking with Sal at the library has saved me over the past week. Without him, I think I’d be a puddle on the ground 24–7. Instead, for the lucky hours I sit at a desk next to him, or get to sneak away to other magical corners of the library, I don’t feel like I’m on the verge of tears.
“You’re right, Sal,” I say, packing up my things. “He’s a lucky kid.”
“I’m glad you’ve been around so much this week, sweetheart,” Sal says, tossing his backpack over his wide shoulders. “Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite one at Carlyle.”
“I don’t deserve that,” I say as we walk toward the door, incapable of stopping the events at the Frying Pan from flickering through my mind like a film. A horror film. With me as the villain.
“Doesn’t make it any less true.” He winks. “I’m off to pick up some more stuff for the shower,” he says as we exit the library onto the busy sidewalk. “What about you?”
I check my watch. “I’m going to be late for catering if I don’t leave now.” I hike the tote bag with my NYAC uniform higher on my shoulder. “See you later, Sal,” I say as I dash away. If Sal is the antidote for my emotions, NYAC is the poison.
I rub my temples on the subway up to Columbus Circle. It’s been a week and four days since I’ve seen or talked to Henry. The humiliation of that day is raw. I feel like such an idiot, and I don’t know how I’ll ever face him. Sonya is avoiding me by spending every night at Jamie’s place, and when she’s in the apartment she makes herself scarce. I fill up my time working two or three shifts a day. I don’t give myself a second off to let the loneliness catch up. Today that means back-to-back shifts at the library and NYAC.
Just because you think you’re all alone doesn’t mean that you are.
Sonya was wrong. I had my chance. I had my one person, and ever since he went away, I knew I wouldn’t get another. This whole mess is proof of that.
Sam was it.
I get off the train and rush into the loading dock at NYAC, swallowing any lingering emotions. Who cares if there’s no passion here? Passion makes things messy. It can break your heart.
NYAC is having their annual hall of fame induction, where they honor a handful of their members. All it really means for me is lots of expensive champagne and high-profile guests. I don’t pretend to know who any of them are, but I’m not there to schmooze anyway. I’m there to pass out food as quickly and quietly as possible.
Even though I try to keep them in check, my emotions are dangerously close to the surface, and I’m afraid that at any moment they will spew like a geyser.
I can’t believe I wanted something—I don’t even know what—to happen in that bathroom with Henry. I don’t know how to explain that to him. How to explain myself. I want him to be with me all the time, and simultaneously am not ready for anything beyond friendship, but I also basically attacked him with my mouth. God, I’m even confusing myself.
All I do know right now is that I miss him. I miss Sonya. And I miss Jamie. I miss what little shaky community I had with my friends, but I don’t know how to face them.
I change into my catering uniform and Dansko clogs in the bathroom and scurry onto the floor for Mr. Kirk’s pre-shift meeting. He gives me a death glare when I join the group at the back of the room, but doesn’t say anything. He can’t. I’m three minutes early. Suck on that, Mr. Jerk.
I give myself a mental high five for that sick burn, and then listen to the rest of his spiel. Easy plated dinner, three-course meal. I can do it in my sleep.
When I approach a table with a bottle of champagne for the toast, a man with speckled skin around his neck grabs me by the hand to tell me how beautiful I am. I smile and try to get away as fast as possible. When I return with the salads, he grabs me by the elbow and tells me that I smell good. I smile and try to get away as fast as possible. When I return with the filet mignon, he grabs me by the waist and tells me to smile more. I smile and try to get away as fast as possible.
Just before dessert, I find Mr. Kirk in the kitchen.
“Sir?” My voice shakes. “Can I switch sections for dessert?”
“What is it this time?” Kirk doesn’t look up from scooping ice cream onto molten lava cakes.
“One of the guests at table six is making me uncomfortable.”
He looks up to me and glares, annoyed. “How?”
“He’s…grabby.”
“Bennet,” he says, setting down the bottle of chocolate syrup. “You think you’re the only person who’s had uncomfortable run-ins with guests? That’s the way it is in the service industry. If you can’t handle it, I suggest you leave.”
“No one will notice if I switch—”
“It’s too late in service to change. You’ll have to deal with it.” He goes back to scooping ice cream, apparently done with this interaction.
I grit my teeth and try to bite back my anger.
I fill my tray with lava cakes and hoist it onto my shoulder. My pulse is fluttering faster and faster as I approach the table one more time. When I reach the final seat, the man grabs me by the ass and squeezes. He tells me I’m too beautiful to work at a place like this. I do not smile. I do not try to get away as fast as I can. I dump the entire tray of lava cakes in his lap and top it off with a full glass of champagne from the table.
Then I walk away.
···
Obviously I’m fired. Mr. Kirk screams at me for twenty minutes, spit flying everywhere. He’s not the only one who’s angry. Rage burns through me like a fuse. I throw my uniform at him and book it out of the building.
As soon as I hit the fresh air, my rage dissolves into a sobbing fit. I double over on the street, hyperventilating into a subway grate. I let the shame and anger and frustration and embarrassment wash over me. My emotions swallow me, and I welcome them. The world goes in and out of focus as I try to regain control.
“Hey.” I jerk my head in the direction of a stranger’s voice. A woman stares at me, an expression of concern and annoyance across her face. “You all right?”
Embarrassment courses through my body as I try to put a lid on my emotions. “I’m fine,” I say, wiping my eyes.
“You need help getting somewhere?” the stranger asks, cocking her head, and I realize her expression isn’t annoyance . It’s the expression of someone who’s in a rush and took time she didn’t have to ask if I needed help.
“Um.” I look around me at the city swooping by, the still-busy sidewalk full of people rushing around us. No one’s ever looked twice at me on the streets. “No. I think I’m okay.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling sweetly at me. “Whatever happened, it’s not worth it.”
And then she walks off faster than she came.
The interaction shakes me—I’d come to expect a level of anonymity on these sidewalks, assuming that no one would notice or care for a stranger crying. Or if they did, it wouldn’t be to offer help. New Yorkers don’t have time for that bullshit. But clearly they do…sometimes.
As soon as she’s gone, I feel my lip start to quiver as I try to hold in a sob. As much as I want to believe her, that it’s not worth it, I know that it is. It so is.
There’s only one place I can think of going right now.
When I arrive, the door is locked. They must’ve closed early. I peer through the window into the warmly lit restaurant. Henry is alone, wiping the bar down with a rag. He moves with such grace, and I admire how the orange light from the candles flickers against his outline.
I tap on the window and he pauses. Slowly he turns, throwing the rag over his shoulder and squinting at the window, cupping his hand over his eyes.
I watch him decide whether or not to let me in.
Please , I think. I don’t want to be alone.
He scratches his chin, walks to the door, and unlocks it.
“Hi,” he says, twisting the rag between his fingers.
When I see him, the wells of tears in my eyes start to spew. I turn away. “Sorry.” I wipe my cheek with my knuckle. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.”
“What’s wrong?” He tucks the rag into his pocket.
The muscles in my stomach squeeze as I feel my emotions come from deep inside. I hug my arms around me, trying to keep myself from breaking.
Henry seems unsure of what to do, unsure of how to approach me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m a mess.”
Tears blur my vision as Henry inches toward me. “Bennet,” he says. “Are you okay?” He puts one hand on each of my shoulders, squeezing gently.
I close my eyes and focus only on his hands. The way they feel on my shoulders. I feel the warm summer air brush against my face, dry the wet splotches on my cheeks. After a few deep breaths, my heart rate begins to decrease, my throat loosens up.
I open my eyes to him, wiping under my lashes and sniffling. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m good.”
I wish I could see his expression, see the details of his face, but he’s backlit from the restaurant. He steps inside. “Come on,” he says as he holds the door open for me to follow. He leads me to my barstool from the first night and pours me a glass of wine. He doesn’t make me talk, he doesn’t make me feel embarrassed. He cleans the rest of the tables in silence.
Then he pours himself a glass and sits down next to me.
“What happened?” His expression is sincere and concerned, but not one of pity.
I blow a breath out through my lips. “I got fired and got reported to my temp agency because some old guy groped me and I poured champagne on him, and Sonya won’t talk to me because I suck as a friend, and you’re mad at me, and I just feel like I’m making one colossal fuckup after another.” I sniffle, and it’s not a dainty one. “Every time I feel like I’m a smidge closer to getting my life together, I take a million steps back, and I just don’t understand why it’s so easy for everyone else and not me.” My chin twitches as I try to bite back the tears that want to come to the surface again. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Let’s deal with one thing at a time.” He swivels on his stool to face me. “One: I’m not mad at you. A little confused, maybe, but I wanted to give you some space. That’s all.”
“I don’t want space.” My throat tightens at the realization that I want just the opposite.
“Me neither.” He smiles, and the relief I feel is overwhelming. “Two: no one knows what the hell they’re doing, they’re just good at hiding it. Do you think I want to work here instead of starting my own business? Of course not. You can’t beat yourself up like this. You’re amazing and you’re brave and smart and you’re funny as hell. You need to give yourself some more credit.”
My skin flushes and burns, and although there’s no mirror nearby, I assume my cheeks have turned cherry-red.
“Three: Sonya cares about you. No one goes on a rant like that if they don’t care.”
“I let her down. I’m always letting people down.”
“It’s what people do. We’re imperfect. We hurt each other, but I don’t have any doubt in my mind you will make it right.”
“I want to.” My voice quakes. I will.
“Last.” He grips the edge of the bar tight, his knuckles turning white. “I cannot believe someone touched you tonight, and if I were there, he would have ended up with a lot more than some champagne on his head.” The muscles in his jaw clench. “Are you okay?”
I nod, wiping my eyes. “It’s fine. It was stupid. I’m okay.”
“Okay,” he says, releasing his grip. “And…” He scratches at his collarbone, dodging eye contact. “About the Frying Pan…”
“I’m sorry,” we blurt at the same time.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I say. “I’m mortified.”
He laughs and crosses his arms, rocking back on his stool. “How about I keep my tattoo hidden from you from now on?”
I cringe. “I’m not sure I can laugh about it yet.”
“Sorry.” He takes a gulp of his wine. “We’ll get there.”
My chest feels hot and tight. If I knew in that brief moment in a nautical bathroom that I’d never feel him that close again, I might’ve tried to remember it better. I’m not the type of person who can just do stuff like that. Even if it feels good. Not that Henry wanted it anyway. I got a clear message: No .
“Henry,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut. “You were right. I…I have no idea why I…I keep embarrassing myself in front of you.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. That bathroom was really sexy. I can’t blame you.”
I groan. “Can we please just go back to normal? I need to be normal.”
“Of course,” he says. But I have a terrible feeling that we can’t. That we have to find a new normal, because now I feel different around him—a little less guarded and so incredibly nervous about it. “Okay?” he says, nudging me on the shoulder. One nudge, and my pulse is triggered.
“Okay,” I say.
A crooked grin spreads across his lips. “Now that that’s out of the way, we need music.”
He disappears into the kitchen. After a few moments of silence, Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” blasts from the loudspeakers.
Henry bursts out of the kitchen’s double doors wearing a pink cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. “Oh my god!” I shriek through laughter. “Where did you get that?”
“Bachelorette party last week,” he says, tipping the hat to me. “Miraculously, none of them got drunk enough to puke in the bathroom.”
“Hey!”
He shrugs. “What? We can’t laugh about that either?”
I scrunch my nose. “Fine.”
“Good.” He grins. The chorus rings out over the speakers, loud and bright. Henry points in the air. “This is the best part!” he says.
He sings every word of the song, hips swaying like Elvis, and my tears turn to laughter. He grabs my hand and leads me to the middle of the restaurant between the empty tables. He places the hat on my head and swings me around, spinning me in circles until I’m dizzy and choking with laughter. When the song ends, I’m out of breath and sufficiently slaphappy, and Henry’s face is flushed pink.
“I needed that,” I say, collapsing to the floor as “Hush-a-Bye Hard Times” starts to play over the speakers.
“Everyone needs a little Dolly sometimes,” he says as he joins me. We sit facing each other, crisscross applesauce. “Feel better, cowboy?”
The kindness in his face cracks me open, and I find myself wanting to say something I’ve been feeling for a long time, but have been too ashamed to tell anyone out loud.
I clear my throat, flicking my hair back off my shoulder. “You know how when you get a piercing or a new organ or something and your body recognizes it as a foreign object and starts to reject it? Even if it’s harmless or if it’s saving your life…your body just expels it.”
He nods as though this is a totally normal analogy.
“I think New York is doing that to me.”
He shakes his head, his chest rising and falling from dancing. “I think everyone here feels like that to some degree.”
“Do you?”
“Of course,” he says, laughing. “You think it’s natural for a guy from the mountains to live here?”
“I guess not.”
He looks at me under a furrowed brow. “I hope you at least know that I’m happy you’re here.”
I rub my fingers against my chest, trying to massage away the erratic beating of my heart underneath it. I dig in my brain for the words I want to say in response, but nothing comes to the surface. Instead, I use his. “I’m happy you’re here too.”
He smiles, sincere and kind, and claps his hands together. “Good.”
“Can we keep doing the Passion Project?”
“As long as you still pick the next place.” He steals the hat back, tips it over his face, and leans back against a nearby chair like a sleepy cowboy.
“I can do that.”