Chapter Six Lightheadedness #3
“Not since high school,” Nate says, “but my dad’s never going to let me forget it.” He gestures toward the sliding glass door. “Let’s go onto the balcony. I could use some fresh air.”
I’m intensely aware that we’re on the sixteenth floor, and my fear of heights causes my heart to race. I take a few calming breaths—one of many coping skills I’ve learned through years of exposure therapy—and follow him outside.
A small barbecue stands at one end of the balcony, and a bistro table with two chairs occupies the other.
Nate moves to the railing, but the sight of him leaning over to look down at the treetops in Victoria Park is too much for me.
I feel lightheaded, so I step sideways and press my back up against the glass door.
“I should apologize,” Nate says, turning to face me. “I was inspired by our conversation earlier, but I shouldn’t have gotten into it with my parents when you were on your way. It was bad timing.”
“What do you mean . . . gotten into it?”
“I told them I wasn’t enjoying law school,” he explains, “and I floated the idea of dropping out and going to culinary school instead. Maybe Europe or Toronto.”
I strive to focus on what Nate’s saying to me and not the sixteen-story drop behind him. “How did they respond?”
He shakes his head. “Let’s just say the idea was not well received.”
“Did they both feel that way? What about your mom?”
“It doesn’t matter because she’d never go against my dad. Not even privately, to me. They’re old school that way. Dad’s the head of the household, and Mom falls in line.”
“I see.”
Nate and I stand for a moment, staring at each other.
“Is your family like that?” he asks with drawn brows.
I don’t want to rub salt in the wound, but I do want to be honest with him. “No, my father respects my mom’s opinions. They don’t always agree on everything, but they talk it out, and he’ll admit if he’s wrong. She’s the same.”
“Do they act like that with you too?”
I nod. “Yes. I always felt like I could win a debate with them if I could convince them to see my point of view. Usually, we’d come to a compromise.”
Nate drops his gaze to his wine and sips it. “I shouldn’t have mentioned you at all, but I was just so inspired by how you followed your dream and made it real, and how your family supported you. I told them all about that, but they just sat there, frowning.”
“I guess that explains the chilly reception,” I say. “They probably hate me now. Think I’m a bad influence.”
“No, I’ve talked about quitting law school before. So don’t worry about it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
He glances over his shoulder, down at the treetops. “It is, actually, because I can’t keep letting my dad make decisions for me. If he’s angry, that’s his problem.”
I shift my weight to brace both feet squarely on the concrete floor of the balcony. “Maybe he’ll get over it eventually, if he sees that you’re happy.”
Nate sips his wine. “Not likely. He can’t stomach defeat, and he holds a grudge like nobody’s business.
He has a cousin who backed out of a real estate deal they were considering together, and to this day, that cousin is dead to him.
They were best friends when they were kids, but Dad hasn’t spoken to him in over ten years. ”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes, but that’s who he is. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch, and he won’t see anyone’s point of view except his own. And I get the worst of it because . . . oh, I don’t know. I think he wants sons he can brag about.”
A cool breeze blows through the leafy trees below us, and an ambulance, siren blaring, makes its way along Tower Road toward the hospital.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say.
He smiles at me, and the moment feels intimate. “I guess I’ll have to, before I flunk a class. I’m not sure which would be worse for my dad: his son getting a D in tax law or moving to Paris to learn how to cook.” He chuckles cynically. “Honestly? I think he’d prefer the D. As long as I graduate.”
I laugh as well, though it’s not funny. It’s incredibly sad.
“I envy you,” he says. “I wish I had the support you got from your family.”
“I’ll never take it for granted,” I reply. “This career—and the dream I had—is what got me through the past seven years. It gave me a reason to get out of bed in the mornings. And when you want to be creative and you can’t be, it’s like being deprived of oxygen.”
Nate gestures toward me with a hand. “See? You get it. I wish he could.”
Our gazes hold, and I feel a type of euphoria I’d forgotten existed. It’s both emotional and physical, concurrently.
“What would you do if you were in my shoes?” he asks.
I shrug. “I can’t answer that, because I don’t know how badly you want to be a chef or how important it is for you to not disappoint your parents.”
We look at each other with understanding until I take a brave step away from the wall. “Maybe I could provide better guidance if I could taste that steak you promised me.”
Nate’s expression brightens. “That sounds fair. But you’ll be honest?”
I give him a questioning look. “About the steak or your future?”
“Both would be nice.”
I consider this request. “For tonight, I promise to be honest about the steak.”
“Fine,” he says and rubs his hands together with enthusiasm. He turns to the barbecue, raises the lid, and begins to clean the grate with a wire brush. “I don’t want to sound overconfident, but I think you should prepare to be amazed.”
“I shall,” I reply with anticipation.
I look down at the bistro table and chairs. In an effort to feel more relaxed, I slide the whole set away from the railing and closer to the wall so that I can sit down comfortably and watch him work.