Chapter 22 #2
“Can I ask what made you so certain you wanted to stay at The Last Page?” he asked, his words tentative and a little unsure.
He was never brazenly confident in his choices or words, it seemed, waiting for someone to tell him that it was wrong.
I’d suspected there was a relationship-ending argument between him and Leo—maybe it was more tentative and unsure than I had thought.
“It’s a cliché,” I said. “And I hate it when people say this, but I just knew. It’s like when I asked my parents how they knew they were right for each other.
They said they simultaneously felt settled and restless.
Like all was right in the world and they wanted to run a marathon because of it.
I didn’t understand that until I started working at the store. ”
Henry hummed at this, looking down at the table, lost in thought.
“How’d you know you wanted to go into business consultation?” I asked.
He shrugged. “There was nothing I felt settled or restless about. Business consultation was … safe. I double majored in finance and business because it just seemed like what everyone else was doing. And I found the job posting on LinkedIn and everything went from there.”
“But you like it, right?”
Henry paused at that, his hand gripping the pisco sour, as if he was contemplating taking a sip.
“I don’t think I did. Ever, really. Charlie was the one who pointed it out.
That life was coasting me by and I should try something else.
” This time he did take a sip of his drink.
“I think I made a mistake. Maybe … I would’ve been really happy at The Last Page. ”
I didn’t know how to digest that. Horribly, part of me was glad he hadn’t come to that realization earlier. Who knows if Leo and I would’ve had the relationship that we did. But, after learning Henry in these fragmented bits, I’ve quickly realized I don’t want him to be unhappy. Ever.
“You’re here now,” I said, my voice thick. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes for you to get happy, so long as one day you reach it. And Leo was proud of you.”
Henry snorted at that. “Sure.”
“He was!” I insisted. “He’d always talk about you and your dad, telling me stories here and there. He’d say ‘my dearly departed son—’ ”
“Jesus, Leo,” Henry said with a humorless laugh.
“And ‘my brilliant grandson,’ ” I finished, my gaze snagging on his.
Henry’s cheeks warmed under the praise. Maybe he truly didn’t know that Leo never held hate for him in his heart. That this whole time all he did was miss Henry.
“I’m sure you’ve experienced my grandfather’s tendency to overexaggerate,” he said.
“Or under,” I said, annoyed. “You know, it’s a little frustrating how capable you are. Even at the rowboats, you knew how to steer, how to turn, and what to do when we fell in.”
“So maybe you can trust me with the MTA system next time?”
My heart tripped over “next time,” hoping he really meant it. “I don’t even trust myself with it.”
Our waitress came out with steaming plates of food, setting them on the table alongside a clean plate in front of both of us.
Not an inch of the table was free. My mouth watered at the sight and smell of it all.
Perhaps I’d gone a little overboard with ordering, but the way Henry eyed the food, I didn’t think he was complaining.
“Carmella,” the waitress, Juanita, said, once she set them down, in a scolding tone.
She has been operating her own food truck for a couple years before helping out at her family’s restaurant.
I’d become a little bit of a regular here because they had the best picarones in the city.
“Nunca me dijiste que tienes un enamorado.”
I choked on my pisco, my eyes darting to Henry, hoping he didn’t translate. He looked at me, anticipating a translation, but I turned back to her.
“El no es. Sólo le estoy mostrando comida peruana. Nunca lo ha tenido.”
The waitress brightened and turned to Henry. “This is the best food you’re ever going to have.”
“I’m sure it is, it smells delicious.”
“I’ll let her explain it,” Juanita said, giving my shoulder a squeeze before stalking off.
“Your life is about to change,” I said, lifting her chin. “She’s right, you know. Peruvian food was named the best cuisine in the world.”
“Are you going to keep telling me how good the food is or can I actually eat it?” he asked teasingly.
“Fine, fine. We’re sharing all of these, so put a little of everything on your plate.”
I took my time explaining the different dishes to Henry. The different flavors and influences. This was one of my favorite places in the city. There were fancier ones with a wider range of options, but this one felt closest to going up to my parents’ house in Queens.
Henry started out with a ceviche and I watched carefully as he took a bite, some sweet potato, fish, and broth on his spoon. After he slipped it in his mouth, his eyes widened.
“Hot hell.”
“Right?”
He continued to taste-test all the dishes, piling scoops onto his own plate, eagerly stuffing them in his mouth. Food was a prideful part of my culture. I loved sharing it with Henry as he asked questions, scooping each bite into his mouth.
Henry talked about himself like he wasn’t a risk taker. I didn’t think risks had to be near-death experiences. It was easy to dismiss it as moving to a new city or trying a new food, but for someone like Henry, who seemed to have lived in his comfort zone, I knew they were big strides.
“This has to make you like New York a little more,” I said, digging into my papa rellena.
“I really think my feelings toward the city are irrelevant.”
“No way. Listen, The Last Page is like a microcosm of New York. We have all the different sections, boroughs or neighborhoods. The customers are much like New Yorkers, disgruntled and wanting to get in and out as fast as possible. And all the culture and history. And I’m not talking about the books on the shelves either,” I said, finishing off my pisco. “The booksellers are eccentric, right?”
“I’ve gathered,” he said flatly. “Never step between them and their Magnolia cupcakes.”
I waved him off. “Hard lesson to learn. Anyway, they’re representations of New York. Mabel, the oldest lady who ever lived, is somewhat crotchety but also delicate. Or Joey and Stewart who have the world’s worst situationship and make it everyone’s problem—”
“I think they’re back together, by the way.”
I rubbed my temples. “Kill me. It’s almost worse when they’re together.”
“I see what you mean,” he said. “But I have to admit, this was great.”
“I know,” I said proudly. “You can think of me as your New York tour guide. The minute you think New York is lame, you can call me and I’ll just show you how wrong you are.”
Henry laughed. “You’re two for two so far, but there are some very lame parts of New York.”
“Like?”
“The subway, for one.”
“Oh, the subway’s romantic!” I argued. “You’ll think so when you run into someone from your third-grade class on it. It’s full of connections, literally and figuratively.”
“I hear you can also get popped in the throat on the train.”
“Will I ever live that down?” I moaned.
“When I stop feeling the pain from it …” He trailed off, grabbing at his neck. I nudged his knee with mine and we exchanged a smile.
We finished off our ceviche, but Henry was eager to try more, so we ordered an arroz chaufa.
“Can you cook all of this?”
I laughed. “I can barely cook a grilled cheese. When I get married, my husband will have to be a master chef.”
“I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
“Whenever my siblings got sick, I offered to help take care of them and made them soup. Jorge said it gave him food poisoning.”
“I’m actually a pretty good cook,” Henry admitted, his cheeks tinting red.
“Really? I wouldn’t expect that. You know, big macho football player.”
“Yeah, because that describes me so well,” he said, his voice flat. “I did learn because of football. I often had to meal prep and it became a relaxing thing for me.”
“Jesus, it’s so stressful for me. I swear I’m always forgetting one ingredient or the other.”
“You work in a bookstore, you would think you’d figure out cookbooks by now.”
I rolled my eyes, kicking his shin. “Some things in life you just accept. I’m bad at cooking. Pisco sours are strong.” I paused. “Should we get another round?”
Henry laughed at that. He nudged my glass of water toward me. “How about another one of these and then we’ll talk?”
“You’re about to learn, Henry Martin, that I always get my way.”
Once the restaurant closed down, I took Henry to a nearby bar I loved. Romeo’s was often open late and not too busy. They silently projected old movies onto the wall. It was a bit more expensive, but at least it wasn’t crowded with college kids desperate for a cheap drink.
By the time we finished our second pisco at the Peruvian restaurant, we had begun sketching out more plans for the book fair. Since Henry had a working budget, we could decide which ideas would work best. He held the power of veto and wasn’t afraid to use it.
We would shut the store down to the general public for a day. We couldn’t afford to do it on a weekend and lose all the traffic that comes with that, so we settled on a Friday in the middle of July.
It would be a ticketed event, but all the books and merch would be discounted at ten percent. There’d be exclusive merch, too, and the old merch would be rebranded as retro.
In the event space, we would host New York–based authors for discussions, signings, or even just meet and greets if we could snag a super popular author like Chloe Gong. There were also plenty of literary and Shakespeare-based comedy or acting troupes that could perform.
At Romeo’s, he took the napkin out from under his drink and a pen, scribbling something. Even though I should’ve been focused on the store, I couldn’t stop staring at his hands. The way they gripped a pen, passing it between his fingers with ease as he thought.