20. Justin
twenty
Idon’t want to be her problem.
And fuck if I’m going to let her put me on the same footing as that shithead Samuel.
But I get it. I need to stop messing with her. She has enough on her plate right now.
When she said she was going to be working on the dish, I knew where she was coming from. It was never about Shane. No. She knows her chef is a dud, and she cares about the restaurant’s reputation in this town.
She can’t trust him.
But fuck. She doesn’t even want to work with me. And no, I’m not talking to Haley. I don’t need romantic meddling. I need sound advice.
So I walk over to Cassandra’s.
It’s the second time in my life I go into her store. When I was younger, we’d linger around, elbow each other, peak inside.
Cassandra owns an internationally famous lingerie shop. By international, she means people come from Canada to shop there. That’s international. Even if it’s just half-an-hour or so away.
My first time there was not so long ago. I stopped by to pick up garlic scapes she grows at her home.
This time, I need her help. Some sort of intervention.
I don’t think I’ll ever go there to shop for lingerie.
Although, looking at what’s artfully displayed on the exposed walls of her boutique, framed like the art pieces they are, I picture Clover in them.
And waiting for Cassandra, I thumb through the garments that are on hangers, wondering which one I’d prefer Clover in. There’s a deep red set that feels like silk. It’s not an undergarment, I don’t think—rather something she’d look great wearing in my apartment, strutting around. Or in her house, as long as I’m the one there to watch it.
I never thought I’d be that guy, but now I wish I were in the position to buy lingerie for her. I certainly screwed that up, big time. I adjust my jeans and scold myself as Cassandra approaches.
“Justin!” Cassandra embraces me. She’s in her forties, slim and fit, with long, blue-streaked hair. How she’s still single, I don’t know. “That’s quite the bold move, but I love it!”
What?“Hi, Cass.”
She takes a step back, holds me at arm’s length. “You’re looking for an apology gift?”
An…?Shit.
“Oh. I misread you. Sorry.”
Cassandra prides herself on being some sort of witch, and according to Haley and my mom, she is. “I’m here to discuss the dish. For the fair.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Ooooh. Not sure how I can help with that. I thought this was about Chloe.”
Yeah. “She doesn’t want to meet in person.”
“Uh-huh? I wonder why.”
I rub the space between my eyes. “Could you—could you help with that? Like, tell her she can’t go back on her word or something.”
“Her word?”
“She emailed you that she was going to send Samuel to work with me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She did, right?”
“What’s on your heart, Justin?” She gestures to a couple of light gray chairs that are way too dainty for me and perches on one.
I sit at the edge of the other, set my elbows on my knees, and let my head hang, my gaze on the wide, polished floor planks. “I messed up.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I just don’t know if I can fix this.”
Cassandra smooths her long silk dress absent-mindedly. “How bad did you mess up?”
“Real bad.”
“So what Haley said was true.”
I sigh. “She doesn’t even know the whole story.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re coming to me because…?”
“The whole village won’t know I’m asking for advice.”
“M-hmh.”
I’m waiting for her to speak here, but swear to god, she doesn’t say more than the therapist Mom forced me to go to after the accident.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Just put yourself in her shoes, and you’ll be fine.” Then she stands and goes to the back of her shop.
Looks like I’ve just been dismissed.
Back in my office, I reopen our emails. Reread them. Try to put myself in her shoes, like Cass said.
Well hell.
I’ve been one cocky dick. I need to fix this. Start from zero.
From: Justin King
To: Chloe Sullivan
Subject: Blank Slate
Chloe,
Rereading our emails, I realize I might have come off a bit cocky. Maybe even a lot cocky. And pushy.
I want you to know this was never my intention, and I’d do anything to start with a blank slate.
Justin
Two hours later, no answer. At least she didn’t tell me to get lost. I think back to the scene at the pub. To the way I talked to her. All but threw her out.
I judged her based on who her family is. But she is not her family. I ball my fists, angry at myself. How could I do this to her? I know how she feels about her family. About her parents. Christ, she told me as much in the elevator. And yet I marched in on her, judging and berating her for something she never did. Doesn’t matter that I didn’t know who she was.
She’s their victim too.
From: Justin King
To: Chloe Sullivan
Subject: Apology
Chloe,
I owe you an apology.
I want you to know I am deeply sorry for the hurt I caused you, and I’m ashamed of myself. I passed judgement based on who your family is. I, of all people, know how wrong and hurtful this must have been to you. I would do anything to take these words back if I could.
How can I ever make it right by you, Chloe?
Justin
“Just’. Bar’s getting busy and I’m headed out.”
Why is Haley leaving? What time is it?
“It’s Thursday. Girls’ Game Night. I’m late already.”
“Right. Right. At Cassandra’s, right?” Fuck. I hope they invited Chloe.
“Is everything okay?”
“Close the door.”
She does and sits down, always game for some juicy gossip or drama.
“Hypothetically…” I start. I have to be careful, because Game Nights is gossip town on steroids. “If a man were to do a gesture to apologize…” I let her fill in the blanks.
She tilts her head at me, watching me squirm.
“What…” I continue. “What should he do.”
“What did this hypothetical asshole do?”
Aww fuck. Can’t she just help me out?
“This is all hypothetical, Haley.”
“Well, if this hypothetical asshole hypothetically broke a teacup she really liked, he could go out of his way to find a hypothetical replacement teacup, and with the new teacup send along twelve or twenty-four very real, long-stemmed roses.”
“Let’s say he didn’t break a teacup.”
“Okay. So he rear-ended her. He could send a gift certificate to get her car detailed and twelve or twenty-four long stemmed roses.”
“Let’s say—”
“Just get off your ass and send her two or three dozen roses.”
“I can’t do that! That’s a romantic gesture.”
She rolls her eyes. “Women love roses, and it depends on the color of the roses, but fine. Send her an expensive bouquet. Don’t be cheap, for chrissakes. And look up the meaning of flowers.”
“The what?”
She stands and raps her fingers on my desk. “Google the language of flowers. You need to work at this.”
Then she’s gone, and I get behind the bar, thinking about Chloe the whole time. The evening drags on.
That night, from my apartment right above the pub, I start my internet search about the meaning of flowers.
Let me tell you, I had no idea.
It’s past two in the morning when I hear voices and engines running in the back parking lot. It happens a lot with the restaurant staff. They’re never loud, but in the middle of the night, you pick up on things.
I never paid attention to it when Kevin Murphy was still there. His business, not mine. Now I feel differently. And I know the restaurant’s been closed for a while. At least three hours, if not more. The twins swung by after they helped close the place so the girls could go to Game Nights.
I leave the lights out, the glare from my computer screen and the reflection from the streetlamps guiding me through the open space of my apartment.
Samuel and David are hauling cases in a car. Not empty cases. The guys are straining, and the car does a little thump when they drop the cases in the trunk. It looks like bottles, but they’re not empty. Not for consignment. The two guys go back inside.
Besides, I thought Samuel was out tonight. That’s what Trevor said. I’m sure he did. Hospital. Made me proud, but I’m not stupid enough to brag about it. He even said Eric, the prep cook, had commented on how well dinner service had gone, considering they were down their chef for the second night in a row.
Samuel and David are coming back out, each carrying a bulky package. I can’t tell what it is. Food? Linens?
They close the trunk, get in the car together, and drive away.
Maybe they’re catering a dinner tomorrow? Maybe it wasn’t booze, but… what? Tools?
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
I wish I could talk to Chloe about it. But the way things are between us now, she wouldn’t even believe me. And I can’t blame her.