Chapter 6
Olivia
Now
I’m quite literally buzzing. I’ve been skydiving in Montreal.
I ate at the Disfrutar in Barcelona—with their experimental tasting menu—and even got to see their kitchen.
I once swam with bull sharks, though admittedly, I’d never do that shit again.
But there was something extra satisfying about seeing Carmello flustered over Zoom.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this tingly.
I take a long sip of my Bloody Mary, savoring the taste while trying to bring a balance to my body and the muscle beating frantically below my breastbone.
And right as I risk eating the contents of my drink, Carmello walks out of the kitchen.
He’s wide-eyed at the sight of me chomping on a dripping pickle, and I imagine that I too must look like a man-eater—with this much audacity.
If my heart was beating fast before, it’s in dangerous territory now.
Thankfully, he gets stopped by an older woman at a table a few feet away and I have time to wipe tomato juice from my mouth and throw a mint in there for good measure before studying him.
Carmello’s wavy hair is a little longer than it was when we were younger, faded on the sides, black with a healthy shine, and looks the kind of soft you’d want to run your fingers through.
He smiles at the story the woman is telling him, and I find myself smiling too.
It was always contagious back then, straight from the braces that his mom worked extra to afford, but more than that there’s something about the way it spreads to every feature on his face.
Real and hearty: Carmello smiles the way a hug feels.
But it isn’t just warm now; his full lips are complemented by a low, crisply shaped beard. Sexy.
And suddenly I can picture him going viral for shaving a steak on social media. He’d do it the smoothest way. Women going crazy in the comments. I wish I were a steak. Not my husband asking why this song keeps playing. Cute way to propose.
Carmello’s that type of fine. And I shouldn’t be noticing.
I shift focus to my surroundings. Celia mentioned needing a revamp in her email, so I was expecting to see walls still the color of fried chickpeas, framed photos from Rodriguez family adventures, customers laughing with people they love, and wooden tables with antique legs.
But instead it looks like a designer did their thing.
The brick wall in the back has been restored and brings an edgy vibe to the space.
There’s recessed lighting and glass pendants intricately designed in the shape of orbs hanging from the ceiling.
The chairs and booths look sleek, and the bar I’m sitting at was not here before, but it currently spans the left side of the restaurant.
The music is fun, the servers seem attentive, and it’s somehow stayed cozy the way it was before.
Not exactly like someone’s mom might come out from the kitchen in their apron and hug you because they’re so happy to see your face anymore, but I can still feel Celia’s energy lingering.
The restaurant still has the same savory smell that comes from Filipino food.
It’s still a place that’d make it easy to lose track of time while talking with a friend about your latest dating catastrophe.
Maybe sensible me was wrong about Celia’s reasons. Maybe Carmello doesn’t need any help at all. My throat goes dry. I reach for my glass and throw back the last of my Bloody Mary.
When I slam it back down, Carmello’s close form startles me.
I knock over a saltshaker. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Oh, hi.” I laugh, that adrenaline I felt since booking my flight evaporating like water on a hot pan.
Carmello just stares at me, not a hint of pleasure on his face to see mine after all these years.
But then his eyes flick to my mouth, lingering there in a way that makes warmth spread through my belly. Is he…checking me out?
He clears his throat, the tattoo close to it catching my attention too. Then, in the flattest voice a man ever did muster, says, “There’s tomato juice on your chin.”
Okay. Yeah, that makes more sense.
“Um…thanks,” I say, and wipe my face with a napkin while Carmello pulls up a barstool to sit down beside me. I turn to him with a smile. “No hug?” I ask. It’s a joke to break the ice, but he shakes his head like I just insulted him. My stomach has yet to stop squeezing.
“Why are you here, Olivia?” The question isn’t kind, but he seems calm, like me being close enough to touch has no effect on his body.
“You wanted to negotiate,” I say.
“I asked for a Zoom meeting.”
I stand up, take my chair, and put it behind the bar.
When I sit back down, Carmello blinks in confusion. “Now we can pretend we’re doing this over the internet,” I say, gesturing to the way we’re seated across from each other. Giving him a little wave, fixing my hair like the camera is in front of me. “Hi again.”
Forget laughter, there’s not so much as a twitch in the corner of his mouth.
His mood for me is drier than boxed potatoes.
Meanwhile, my body does all the things while he stares.
Finding him unfazed here drives me crazy.
Maybe it’s because of how long it took me to stop counting the miles between us.
Looking at maps, tracing my fingers over the states from little Rhode Island to wherever I was in the world.
Checking my cell phone for messages that never came, hoping that he’d tell me to come back, that he needed me here.
But I broke his heart, and that broke mine.
When we were kids, it took a while to crack his shell.
And once I did, we weren’t quick friends.
He was slow to warm to me emotionally before he was all in.
But the physical pull we both felt was undeniable.
A chemistry that was hard to control. It wasn’t only sexual, it was the comfort of holding hands, the intimacy of a hug, our elbows pressed when we were cooking side by side.
And I can feel that pull like it never left, finding myself fighting not to lean over the counter just to put my face closer to his. But I wonder if it’s one-sided now.
He plays with his beard, and I try not to watch. Don’t dare let my eyes wander to his neck and the tattoos stretching up from under his shirt collar. “You haven’t been here in a decade.”
“Quick math,” I say. “You must’ve missed me.”
“Olivia.” Hearing my name in his mouth triggers my brain to remember a time when he would’ve said “O” instead.
Other people call me Olive, but Carmello called me O.
Especially when he was being firm. “You know what I’m asking.
Why are you physically here? You haven’t cared about this place since we were kids. If you ever did at all.”
I suck in a breath. This is his mom’s restaurant.
And Celia didn’t mention him much in emails, but I don’t think Carmello has ever left.
I know it means something to him. But how do I make him believe it means something to me too?
It’s the piece of my history that made me the chef I am today.
I still make my sweet-and-sour sauce exactly how Celia taught me.
When I’m feeling uninspired, it’s memories of this place and this kitchen I draw from.
Carmello twists the cross ring on his pointer finger. Impatient. He doesn’t even give me a chance to deny his claims. “How much do you want? I’ll buy you out.”
“Straight to that, huh?” I ask. “Would that not bankrupt the business?”
If so, there’s no tell on his face. “I emailed you the books yesterday to discuss a financial agreement. I’m guessing you didn’t read them, but you should know that before my mom passed away, she made me a partner, which means I’m the majority shareholder between us with my…”
“Seventy-five percent of the shares,” I say with a sigh. “I can do math too, Carmello. And I read some of what you sent me, but not all of it. Regardless, I don’t want money.”
Of course, I knew he might think so, but hearing him say it out loud makes me certain that no part of him is thinking of our wild situation the way I am.
I don’t want to still be a monster in his story.
I’m not purposely trying to confuse him or keep him guessing, but I can’t just tell him that I have six weeks to accept or decline a job offer, and there’s a part of me that needs to make sure what I’m missing from my life isn’t him.
Pitching the idea of us seeing if there’s anything between us anymore—to a man who looks like he couldn’t care less whether I permanently moved to the moon, let alone Tokyo—feels crazy.
He stares at me good and long. Memories flash of the first time we ever spoke. Carmello’s gaze heavy on me while he bussed tables. The buzz in the air when we went back and forth. I wasn’t used to being challenged like that. I think I liked it a little too much.
“I refuse to believe you want the responsibility that comes with owning a restaurant,” he says, and I blink back to now, realizing I’m not sure I want that either.
Getting myself to Providence only brings me to step one: Do I want him?
Does he want me? I haven’t even crossed the bridge of what a relationship would physically look like if both of those answers were yes.
“Truthfully, I’m still in shock about all of this and I don’t know what I want yet,” I say, “but I came here to find out. I just need…some time. I need to get to know this place again. You don’t even have to give me any cuts of the profit while I’m here.”
His demeanor continues to deteriorate. He leans back on his barstool, tone shifting slightly but enough to elicit attention from customers close by. “Are you going to treat this like another nomadic journey? This is my life, Olivia. This was my mom’s life.”
“And she wanted me here,” I say. “There had to be a reason she gave me half of her shares.”
“Did you know?” He swallows hard. “Did you ask her for this?”
I flinch at the reality that he thinks I’d do something like that. “Of course I didn’t.”
He tilts his head, examining me. “So you weren’t keeping in touch with her?”
I wasn’t sure if Celia told him about our emails, but now I know she didn’t mention them. I feel a rush to defend myself with a lie, thinking he won’t believe the truth, but instead I calmly say, “I didn’t coerce her to give me her shares, Carmello. I wouldn’t.”
I think this might make Carmello feel worse because his laugh is bitter, and when he opens his mouth, I brace for whatever he’s going to say next.
But then the extroverted bartender that took my order earlier walks out from the back room with bottles to restock, shifting his gaze from my obnoxious position in his space to his boss.
He’s a white man named Bobby with a thick country accent, and he chuckles a little. “Well isn’t this a sight to see.”
I know it’s a joke after we cut it up, laughing about the extra-extra pickles I asked for in my Bloody Mary.
But suddenly it’s like I’m seeing myself on video, and the playback is pretty rough.
“Sorry I’m behind the bar, Bobby,” I say, “but I own this place too, and thought being across from Carmello here might make the conversation easier.”
His forehead creases in surprise and he looks to Carmello for confirmation. My ex-boyfriend narrows his eyes. He’s fuming, and I realize he might not have told anyone yet.
Bobby puts the bottles on the counter, and then says, “No worries from me. But uh…I think I forgot something in the room over there.” He jerks his thumb behind him, gives us a nervous smile, then walks backward until he’s out of sight.
Carmello checks his watch. He doesn’t even look at me when he says: “This conversation is over. You can see yourself out.”
With his earlier composure, I wondered if this situation was just maddening to him because no one else should own this restaurant, and I’m not making it easy to fix that.
But there’s venom in his voice for the first time.
And all I can think about are the words of Nobel Peace Prize–winning writer Elie Wiesel: The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.
Carmello doesn’t feel indifferent toward me, I realize with a jolt. And if he hates me, even just a little, it means there’s a chance of something more between us.
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” I say, catching his eyes, “so you’re not surprised again.”
“How kind of you to let me know, Olivia,” he says. Then heads back toward the kitchen.
But on my way out, I recognize someone else across the room.
Veronica’s hair is styled into a pixie cut that frames her small face. She has a pen tucked behind her ear, even though she’s taking an order by memory. I had no idea she worked here. When she shifts in my direction, I wonder if she’ll even remember which appetizer her customers ordered.
“Olive?” she asks, face morphing from surprise to possible…delight?