Chapter 25
“I need you to stop whistling,” Gia says dully to me, her voice wry and bored.
I snap my head up, unaware I was even doing it. The look Gia’s giving me is like what you’d give to a lamb before slaughter. It’s pity but also a little bit happiness to be getting it over with.
“Sorry,” I say, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes as I keep dicing the giant bag of onions Gia handed to me a few minutes ago.
The last couple of weeks have flown by on a smooth cloud as I’ve settled into a new rhythm.
Nico and I have been swapping out sleeping over at each other’s places, always careful when Nico stays at mine to park outside the city walls, since I know the narrow streets of Cassero would brim with talk of a new Vespa overnight.
Perhaps it’s naive to think I can leave at the end of the summer without a train of gossip in my wake, but our arrangement also has a side benefit of not upending the other areas of my carefully curated summer life.
He doesn’t come by the restaurant unless to see Gia for something; we don’t sit closer at Belpagna than we did before; he doesn’t join me for my morning walks up the stone steps.
My internal worry that I might drown in soaking up whatever we’re doing is easily nipped in the bud by keeping those lines separated.
I wouldn’t put anything past Gia, though.
Thankfully, if she had an inkling about what’s happening, she would absolutely still completely ignore it.
She’d ignore anything personal I didn’t bring up.
I bet I could walk into Pasta Fresca with a bleeding bandage on my head, and as long as I didn’t get any blood on my prep, Gia wouldn’t ask me about it.
Happy whistling, though—some embarrassing sex-haze remnant of satisfaction, I suppose—that’s apparently a final straw for her.
My phone rings, and I get a more honed look from Gia, as though this is now a plot to make a new kind of noise. I stumble out an apology and go to turn it off, but my hands still when I see who’s calling. John.
I haven’t seen his name on my phone since that last phone call right when I arrived.
He’s done what I asked of him—he’s never checked in, never even sent a text.
I knew we couldn’t ever be completely out of touch, since his company does own my restaurant, but he’s thankfully let other people deal with me.
The updates I’ve gotten on the status of the renovations have been only via email through one of the operations guys.
John and I were cc’d next to each other but never truly connected.
So what the hell is he calling me about?
I stand there so long it stops ringing. I can feel Gia’s eyes on me, but I don’t say anything; I just go back to chopping onions.
Then it rings again, and I hear Gia sigh so loudly that I know I need to make it end. I wipe my hands on a towel, pick up the phone, and barge my way out the wooden door to the alleyway.
“Hello,” I say, as plainly as possible.
“Hey, Kit, how’s Italy?”
It’s so casual and breezy, and I want to slap him through the phone. How’s Italy? Like I’m just on an extended holiday and my entire world didn’t blow up in a single day?
“What do you want, John?” I don’t have it in me to make whatever small talk he wants to engage in.
“Ah okay, I see,” he chuckles, the overfamiliarity churning my stomach. “So I guess we’re staying mad then. I deserve that.”
“I’m at work,” I deflect, and just the sound of him on the other end of my phone further amps up my annoyance.
“I’m glad you’re taking some time to yourself.
” Even though I know I’ve described this summer as “time off” to Nico, I hate the way John’s ignoring the word “work” and instead is pinning my hiatus to the wall like a mounted insect he’s already categorized.
“I wanted to catch you up on the renovations, as well as tell you about something new you may want to hear about.”
“Mm-hmm,” I mutter casually, perfunctory so I don’t stall whatever he has to say.
I’m surprised by how little I feel, other than wanting to end this call as quickly as possible.
There’s no nostalgia from hearing the voice of the man I dated for so many years.
If anything, it’s like listening to a voice through a window—I can hear it, but the timbre I should recognize feels distant.
I’m not sure what I thought it would be like to talk to John again, but I didn’t expect to care so little.
I don’t know if that says more about me or him.
“So the investors love the idea of using the reopening as a big marquee moment. With the fire and all the publicity that’s generated, maybe you haven’t seen it, but there’s been so much commentary about you and your career—your consistency, your tenacity—and what’s next.”
“Okay,” I reply. I know this because my dad forwards me every article that mentions me, but I’m not going to say that to John. I’ve never cared about press and he knows it, so I have no idea where he’s going with this.
“One of the things we’ve been working on is signing the deal to get the exclusive rights to do the restaurants in that new building downtown with the incredible views, the one that’s going to be the tallest building since the Freedom Tower. And we’re finally ready to close the deal.”
“Okay,” I repeat, wondering why he thinks I care about his projects anymore, considering I didn’t find them that interesting even while we were dating.
“Happy for you guys that you secured that project, that’s a big one.
” It’s insincere, but at least it keeps this conversation moving.
I can’t say it to him, but I’ve got onions to chop and no team of minions to do it for me, and I’m over whatever this story is.
“They want you, Kit.”
I don’t say anything for a moment. “What do you mean they want me?”
“There’s going to be a restaurant at the top, views across the river and over Manhattan, a huge budget, and they plan to make it the marquee of the entire space. They want to give it to you.”
“I already have a restaurant.”
I’ve never wanted to be that chef, with a ton of restaurants I eventually don’t ever cook in.
I want to be on the line, working, making sure every dish that has my name on it is flawless.
Sure, I’ll admit my ultimate goal is to be an owner someday.
But I don’t want to expand someone else’s empire while diluting my food.
“You have plenty of people ready to step up for you and become chef de cuisine when you’re ready,” he says, his tone clearly in convincing mode.
“This wouldn’t be for a couple of years.
But it would be yours. You’d be a co-owner with serious equity.
They want to give you an insane budget—let you build out whatever you want.
Style it however you want. Have whatever kitchen equipment and specifications you want. It’s a chef’s dream project.”
I think I’ve stopped breathing. Holy shit.
This is a dream. I’ve heard of a few of these types of deals in recent years—hotels looking to lure a top name, iconic buildings that want up-and-coming chefs to make them seem hip again.
The money flowing into these projects can really mean a chef gets to take charge.
This is a completely different ball game from what I have right now—my name is on the door, sure, and based on press clippings you’d think it was mine, but it’s a concept and space planned by others that can override me at any moment.
Ownership is the dream. A kitchen of my own design, the budget and the space to do exactly what I want in New York City?
It’s practically impossible to say no to, no matter the trade-offs.
“What’s happening with the renovation?” I ask, trying to not let my voice tip off my thinking. I can’t help but be reminded from this conversation of how I felt that last phone call—that niggling sense of always allowing myself to be steered.
“They’ll be done the first week of September.”
“Actually?”
“Actually. They’re saying last week of August, so this is me being conservative.”
“Something you’ve never deigned to do before.” I pick at a vine that’s growing up the wall just so I have something to do with my hands.
“I want when you come back for you to see I’m deferring to you now.”
My hand stops. “Why?”
He laughs and I hate it. He’s laughing like we’re old pals; like he knows me better than I know myself; like we still share some intimacy.
“I miss you. We had a good thing going. I fucked up. But things will be different when you come back.”
“Not a chance,” I say quickly, the entire thought repulsing me more than I would’ve expected.
At the time I did think we had a good thing going. And he did fuck up. But the fuckup isn’t the thing that bothers me now. Nico is what bothers me. I know I don’t get to keep him when all this ends—I know that—but he’s made me expect something better.
Maybe I won’t ever get that in New York. But I sure as hell can’t settle for less anymore. I’m perfectly fine being alone; I’ve always thrived alone. And that’s all I can imagine for myself when I’m back home in that kitchen, because anything less wouldn’t be enough.
I take a deep breath, trying to not allow the tempest inside me to roil into a hurricane.
“Send me the details about the new space,” I say, ignoring the rest. “That’s the only part I’m interested in.
And get Gavin to send me some photos and a real update on the renovation.
I know they’ve been saying post–Labor Day for a couple months, but no offense, I don’t believe anyone in construction until I see something. ”
“Okay,” he says, backing off whatever else he clearly has on the tip of his tongue. “I’ll send that all to you by the end of the day. Look everything over—the investors want to pair reopening day in September with the announcement about the future space. So let me know when you’re in.”