Chapter 11
Olivia
Now
The room is dark, save for the light coming from the open fridge. But Carmello clears his throat so he doesn’t startle me. I glance up to see him in the doorframe and wonder how long he’s been watching me trying to mess with this raggedy fridge.
“Let me handle it,” he says, taking a few steps into the room.
I stand up and grab some towels off the counter beside me.
I’d already mopped all the water up earlier, but Paula said this has been their solution the past few weeks.
I know the restaurant is doing well, but that doesn’t mean the profit margin is great.
Is Carmello keeping this busted beast for nostalgia?
Because he doesn’t want to spend on another one?
Or because he has so much on his plate that ordering a new fridge is a task he puts off?
“It’s no big deal,” I say. “But I think this fridge is a hazard, sir. I was leaving and almost slipped on a gooey wet spot.”
Carmello doesn’t get defensive. He walks over, and I see that there are already towels tucked under his arm. He squats down too. Starts laying them right beside the ones I’ve already placed. “That could’ve been bad,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say. But now that he’s close, giving me an apology I don’t need, I realize I’m still sore about what he said earlier when I asked for his mom’s recipe.
Neither of us speaks as we lay the last few towels.
Besides the humming of this ancient metal thing in front of us, it’s quiet.
But when we both reach to tuck a towel under the fridge, our hands touch.
My fingers are on top of his, and we’re so close I can hear the change in his breathing.
The affected sound sends pinpricks up my bare arms.
I have goose bumps even after he slowly moves away.
It was difficult to be in the kitchen with him and not feel chemistry.
Each accidental touch sparked my nervous system.
Years ago, we were magnetic, needing to be touching at all times.
But we were also young, and we didn’t explore everything.
I zoned out a couple of times at the chopping counter while watching him work.
He’s grown now—with the body to prove it.
Whenever he rolled his sleeves up and exposed the veins in those delicious forearms, I found myself wondering what I’ve been missing.
And this is the first time since I’ve arrived here that there’s been any indication that being close like this still fazes him too.
He stands and extends a hand for me.
I let him pull me up, a mix of feelings in my chest when he doesn’t let go right away.
We’re only several inches apart, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
When his eyes flick to my lips, my belly aches with longing.
In the past decade, I’d never felt a kiss that could rival Carmello’s.
Some nights I’d lie awake hating that I’d ever met him just for that.
But I don’t know what we would be like now.
If it would still be as good. And I’m not sure I ever will.
I came here hunting for a sign, but the only one I’ve gotten directly from him before this moment has been telling me to stop.
What is he telling me now?
He backs away like a warning rang through his body. Says, “Uh. Thank you.”
It takes me a second to remember what we were doing back here, and he starts to walk away, but I stop him by saying his name. I watch his shoulders tense; he doesn’t turn around. I can’t help myself. “Do you really still hate me?” I whisper.
He pushes the fridge closed. The room goes darker, but I can see the frown on his face illuminated by the light in the hall. “I never did.”
“You’re acting like it,” I say. “Giving me all the jobs you don’t want to do like I’m not just as good of a chef as you. And…”
“Those are the jobs that a small restaurant owner does when we’re short-staffed, Olivia,” he says. “Steven and I have been doing them for weeks. Welcome to the team.”
I sigh. “I can do them and more. I just want to be able to cook in her kitchen.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want you here,” he says.
I suck in a sharp breath and raise my chin, but my bottom lip is trembling when I say, “I didn’t come here looking for some kind of journey, Carmello. I came here to figure out why your mom wanted this, and if there’s something here for me. Because…”
“Because what, Olivia?” he asks when I trail off.
Maybe I’m delusional, but I swear his voice is softer now, so I gather the courage before I confess: “Because your mom and I had been keeping in contact through email. For a long time.” His face falls.
I give him a few seconds to let the news digest. I spend that time trying to calm my racing heart.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the first day I came, but I didn’t want you to think she was hiding anything from you, or that I made her give me half of her shares.
She didn’t even tell me she was sick.” The tears gather in my throat and it’s hard to keep them from my voice.
“We hardly ever talked about me working here, and I wouldn’t do that to you, Carmello. ”
He breaks eye contact and exhales. Time stretches and stretches.
Finally, he says, “I can understand why you didn’t want to tell me that day, but I had a feeling I was missing something.
” There’s defeat in his tone, and I don’t know why it’s there, but I hate that I’m the cause.
He runs a hand over the side of his face like this conversation has given him a migraine, and I feel guilty that I’m relieved he knows.
And maybe a little hopeful that he’ll open up, let me in, and stop seeing me as an outsider, now that he knows the truth. “When did the emails start?” he asks.
“Three months after I left, she reached out just to ask if I was okay. The emails were sporadic at first, but then we started to check in monthly. A lot of times, it was silly: a video she thought I might like, reviews on scary movies. When I didn’t hear from her for a few months, I just thought life got busy.
I didn’t know that you all were going through this. ”
Carmello considers my words quietly, head slightly bowed.
I wish I had direct access to his brain, his heart. I have no idea how he’s feeling. I lean against the counter. My body suddenly heavy, the early tell of cramps starting to come on.
“In her last email,” I say, needing to break the silence, “she mentioned wanting to brainstorm on revamping the restaurant. But when I tried to set up a call with her, she never responded. Then I came here and saw the beautiful renovations, and I thought maybe she didn’t need me for any ideas after all, because the two of you already figured it out. ”
His head snaps up like something I said hit him wrong. Like out of all the things I just told him, this surprises him the most.
“What is it?” I ask.
For a second, I think he’ll tell me, but the fridge makes a choked sound. As if it, too, is shocked by this conversation. Water spills out in a gush, soaking the towels we just laid.
Carmello curses under his breath. “I need to deal with this mess,” he says, pointing to the small pool starting to form at the fridge’s side. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “You need help?”
He shakes his head. “No, but…dinner rush until you leave?”
“Wait,” I say, pulse picking up, “are you asking me to cook in your kitchen, Carmello?”
“In my mom’s kitchen,” he says, voice low, and my eyes burn a little.
“I’d love that,” I say, backing out of the room slowly with a smile on my face. “Oh, and Carmello? Watch your step, the floor is wet.”
His mouth curves up slightly. “See you tomorrow, Olivia.”
When I walk out of the room, I have to catch my breath by the door. I feel so many things after talking to Carmello, but I’m also just a girl, and I can’t help remembering the way his eyes flicked to my mouth, if only for a second.
I trace my lips, and then I leave.