Chapter 19
Carmello
Now
When I walked to the front-of-house to get Teddy after Steven said he’d wandered off, my heart was racing, picturing the worst things that could’ve happened to my kid.
A voice in my head running through gruesome thoughts.
And then my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him talking to Olivia.
It took my body too long to calm down, even though he was clearly safe.
But suddenly I had to process what I was seeing.
Teddy takes a while to warm up to people, if he ever does at all.
Now I realize this is partly why I’ve been protective about having them around each other.
I had a feeling if he ever met Olivia he’d defrost fast. She has that effect on people.
She crosses one arm and holds her elbow. “He looks just like you,” she says.
“I get that a lot,” I say.
She tilts her head, squinting up at me. “He’s sweeter though.”
My mouth twitches at the corners. “I get that too.”
“So…this is…kinda weird, right?” she asks. “Or is it…kinda not? I can’t tell.”
“It’s a little weird,” I say.
“I’m sorry if I made it that way. There was water and a vase and…”
“It’s fine,” I say. “You don’t have to explain.
I didn’t think you two would run into each other today, but Teddy’s recently figured out he can go to the school nurse to be sent home sick.
We usually know it’s not true, but we’ll look like monsters to the school nurse if we don’t go pick him up.
And his mom is showing a house today, so it was my turn to get him. ”
“Oh,” Olivia says, smiling. “A swindler.”
“I swear he gets it from my mom,” I say.
“I bet,” Olivia says. “Remember that time she had us make sure every single fridge and freezer in this place was spotless, promising she’d let us cook for dinner rush if we didn’t complain, and once we were finished, she laughed and said she didn’t tell us when she’d let us cook for dinner rush.”
“A core memory,” I say. But I clock it when Olivia winces after she laughs, holding her stomach. “You good?” I ask, eyeing her.
She has her hair thrown into a messy bun, and she’s wearing joggers. No makeup. No earrings. She smells good but I think it’s just her soap.
“I’m fine,” she tells me, but with her face slightly twisted, I’m not convinced.
My mom used to say it’s rude to ask a woman about “stomach stuff” more than once in case she’s on her menstrual cycle and doesn’t want to talk about it, so I leave it there.
“Let me pivot us into something that’ll possibly be less awkward,” Olivia says.
“Which is?”
“I figured out how to translate the feeling of this space into something we can use. Before I tell you, I need you to prepare for the best thing you’ve ever heard that you’ll also need to keep an extremely open mind about. Okay, Mello? As open as the sea. Accepting too,” she says.
“You’re scaring me,” I say.
“Change is scary. But usually that means it’s good.”
I want to tell her I’m not sure that’s true, but instead I say, “I’ll be a lake.”
“Good enough,” she says. “Okay, so…a date night.” She holds up her hands like she’s prepared for an argument.
“And before you say it’s basic, that people go on restaurant dates all the time, I will counter you with: exactly.
But the restaurants aren’t specifically curated for people to get to know each other, to help people open up to someone special.
So, what if we make a space for that? Whether for singles trying to see if they met a good match or for established partners looking to reignite their flame, we advertise it as date-night specific and…
” She sighs as I stare. “Carmello, your eyes are glazing over. But we just talked about our first date last night. I know you remember the effort your mom and Paula put into it. They practically forced us to sit down and get to know each other. And the karaoke machine?”
“That was comical,” I say.
“Yet your tone is flat in opposition to your words,” she says.
“Because, Olivia. This idea is…”
“Different,” she cuts in. “Think about how enticing it is to say we can give people their best chance on these dates. Half the battle is opening up, being vulnerable. We’ll have games and tools to help people with that.
I mean, you’ve been dating lately, so I’m sure you know what it’s like to think you have something in common with someone only to realize you hate doing that shared hobby together because you don’t mesh on the inside.
Or the opposite: you think everything lines up, but you quickly realize you don’t like spending time together.
Speaking of quick, we could even offer speed dating.
” I raise my brows, and she says, “Don’t knock it till you try it, Mello. It’s fun.”
“I don’t know about speed dating,” I say.
“But you think the regular date night idea is good?”
“I don’t think it’s bad,” I say, “but I’m not sure it’s the right one for me.”
She pouts. Such a brat. “Why?”
“It’s just not…”
When I trail off, she crosses her arms to her chest and inserts, “Masculine enough?”
“That’s not it,” I say. “But do I look like a matchmaker?”
“All you have to do is cook the food and have the spot. We’ll ensure the team is in place to work out any kinks, but the customers will do most of the work on their own,” she says.
“And maybe we can offer packages for private dates to people who want to have the place all to themselves. That could be an opportunity to bring in big money.”
The idea starts to settle in my brain, and I can almost see it. I’m still skeptical though. “But what if it doesn’t?” I ask. “After a long day of cooking, I’m not trying to waste time on…”
She raises her pointer finger, almost touches my lips.
I have the urge to press my mouth to her raised skin there.
She smiles like she knows it. “I was thinking maybe you can do it after hours at the restaurant on Tuesdays, since you close early that day. And we can call the event Table for Twos-Days. Get it—like a table for two people? On Tuesday?”
We’ve always closed early on Mondays, but when my mom passed away I needed extra time off, especially so that I could make sure Teddy was getting my attention.
Even though I don’t want to give that up now, a few hours here for an event on a Tuesday night might make more sense than staying open even later than we already do on a different night.
“That name is a little corny,” I say. “But I guess people love that stuff.”
“It’s cute.” She grins. “And remember when you said my hair smells like blueberries?”
Memories of being close to her in the car last night come back, and I wet my lips. “Yup.”
“I went to a place called Wildly Green. They have a service for finding the right products for your hair and skin.”
“I know what they do,” I say. “And I see your point. They’re matchmaking, in a sense.”
“Exactly,” she says. “And I’ll be leaving here early today for an appointment with them. I’ll ask them for some time-management tips so we can make sure you’re not overworking yourself on Tuesdays.”
“Knowing you, you’ll come back with a folder of their business accounts,” I say.
She smirks. “So, is it a go?”
My watch beeps with the reminder I set to check on the chicken that’s in the oven. “Let me think about it,” I say.
“I’ll give you until the end of the day,” she says.
I blink at her. “Okay, boss.”
She winks. And damn if it isn’t sexy.
But when she starts to head to the kitchen, I realize she’ll be in the same room as my son for hours today. “Olivia,” I call, and she turns around. “What did Teddy say to you?”
“He told me the names of the flowers.” She tilts her head. “Your mom taught him?”
“She taught him a lot of things,” I say.
“Something we all have in common,” Olivia says, then disappears through the door.
***
I tried not to imagine what it would be like to have Olivia around Teddy.
I just knew I never wanted to see it. And it was because of this: Teddy helping Steven, then gravitating toward Olivia.
Playing on his iPad on an upside-down milk crate a couple of feet from where she’s cooking.
Every so often, she’ll say something to him that I can’t hear, and he’ll give her a belly laugh like he does with Zeke.
And each time she points at an object nearby (an oven mitt, tongs, paper towels), he’ll hurry to go get it for her.
“Do you have any food allergies, kid?” I hear her ask him. He shakes his head. “Carmello,” she calls, “is your son allergic to anything?”
I’m grateful she has the good sense to be safe rather than trust a six-year-old with that question, but if Teddy had allergies, he’d list them out in order of severity. I turn around to find them both staring at me. She’s got a ladle held up and he’s standing beside her, waiting.
“No,” I say, “but he’s not your taste-test dummy.”
A flash of annoyance crosses her face. “He said he wants to try it,” she tells me.
“Is that true, Teddy?” I ask because I want the confirmation that he keeps speaking to her. The boy knows how to use words; getting him to actively open his mouth to say them is the feat.
“The sinigang smells good, Dad,” Teddy tells me.
The taste test happens. Teddy approves. Olivia smiles at him, then she slices me up with her eyes. Steven whistles like he knows what’s going to happen before my phone dings.
If you don’t want Teddy near me then tell him to sit by you, Olivia texts.
I never said I don’t want him near you. It’s fine, I reply.
All right. Well, stop acting strange. It’s not my fault he likes me.