Chapter 2 Lobster Thermidor
Lobster Thermidor
Poppy
“You’re breaking up with me?”
Across the table, Ryan frowns. “Keep your voice down.”
“Keep my—”
“Poppy, please. Don’t make this difficult.”
“But . . .” My head is spinning as I stare at his handsome face, the one I was starting to . . . “I thought you were proposing.
You had a box.” My throat feels uncomfortably tight. He scoffs, so I press on, “From Tiffany’s. I saw it in your sock drawer.”
Last week, when I slept over at his SoHo loft. He was in the shower, and I couldn’t help myself. I picked it up, nearly opened
it, then remembered that I’d want my reaction in the pictures online to be genuine, so I booked a nail appointment instead,
and not-so-patiently waited for him to set up this dinner. When he said that he wanted to go to Pastiche, my father’s most
famous restaurant, I thought it was a done deal.
“Jesus. You looked through my things?”
“It was a little hard to miss.”
He’s scowling now. “I can’t believe you.”
“You’re breaking up with me because I looked in your sock drawer?
” I know I’m being dense on purpose, but it’s that or break down entirely.
We might be in a corner booth, but it’s still a small—and exclusive—restaurant facing Central Park.
I start to wipe my sweat-slick hands on my dress, then remember it’s vintage Valentino and freeze. I jiggle my foot instead.
“Why the hell would I be proposing? We’ve barely been together five months.”
“I . . . I don’t know, I just thought—”
“People don’t do shit like that. Be serious, Poppy.”
I press my lips together. People, as in normal people who aren’t me. People who don’t jump in headfirst and think later. “Why?”
“I have to think about my future, you know?”
“Ryan—”
He gives me a look, as if I’m annoying him with all the questions. He’s the one who took me out to dinner. What did he expect?
A quiet meal by himself after I fled, humiliated?
“I mean, what do you want me to say?” He wipes his mouth with his napkin; throws it on the table. “You’re fun. But you’re
not exactly wife material.”
I’ve never been punched in the stomach, but I imagine this is what it feels like. The air leaving me in a rush, no space between
my ribs to take in more. I glance at the other diners and see a few interested stares. We’ve been spotted: Ryan McCabe, New
York Knicks basketball star, and his influencer girlfriend, @itspoppywinfield.
Well—ex-girlfriend, now.
Memories of the past few months well up. Outings with the wives and girlfriends of his teammates. Meeting his parents in his
hometown. Blowing him a kiss for good luck as I sat courtside. Going out clubbing and ending up back at his place for good
sex—okay, acceptable sex—and egg sandwiches the next morning. I wasn’t a perfect girlfriend, maybe, but not wife material?
My eyes smart, tears threatening. I did this to myself—I always do—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. I press the heel
of my hand against my nose. I wish I hadn’t started with a glass of champagne. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lowers his voice. “I’m about to sign a contract extension. I don’t have time for distractions.”
There’s pity in his voice, and I want to flee, but I’m stuck inside the booth, and the leather seat is too slippery for me
to get a grip. If I tried, I’d end up on the floor. It would bring the dining room to a halt.
“That’s what I am to you? A distraction?”
He shrugs, grimacing, as if to say, Your words, not mine. He reaches into his suit pocket, bringing out the robin’s-egg blue box and sliding it across the table. “I hope we can stay
friendly.”
Fingers numb, I pick up the Tiffany’s box. There’s a pair of earrings nestled inside, delicate and expensive. They must have
cost a couple thousand, at least. Five months and a connection that was apparently a distraction to him, reduced to a few
impersonal stones.
I wonder if I choked on my first bite of crostini, and this is hell.
“Pity jewelry? Really?” I shove the box back across the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a phone. Someone recording.
“Is this because of the team charity thing? Because your mom was the one who said girls don’t really have ADHD.”
Loudly. At a table in front of my parents, my sister, and her wife, and half a dozen other people. What was her charming parting
shot again? Although if any girl did, I suppose it would be you, Poppy.
“And that’s a good reason to bring out your pill organizer in the middle of a fucking charity ball?” he shoots back.
“I wanted to show her she was wrong!”
His jaw ticks. “That’s the thing, okay? You’re embarrassing. You’re a bad look for the team. A bad look for me. I can’t be
constantly running after a brat.”
Brat. The short word burns me like a brand. I’ve heard that one before. From my parents, from ex-boyfriends. Even a professor
once.
“You . . . were embarrassed by me?” I whisper.
“I’ll send your things to your parents’ place.”
He makes to get up—to abandon me here, before our entrees are even out—when the door to the kitchen bangs open.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a stained chef’s jacket strides into the dining room, eyes ablaze. Whatever I was about to
say shrivels in my throat at the sight of Jack Hartman.
We haven’t been face-to-face since last summer, at the disaster of Julia’s wedding.
He has a few more tattoos than I remember, and a dark, wild-edged beard to match his hair, but his eyes are the same, a tempest of green.
He stops a few tables away, staring down an older man in a tweed jacket.
He pierces the air with his index finger, practically jamming it into the man’s nose.
“Fuck you, Whittaker. You’ve had it out for me for five fucking years, and now you send back your lobster? Like hell it was
overcooked!”
The man adjusts his round glasses as he stands. He manages to look imposing, even though Jack’s a full head taller than him.
Maybe it’s the blazer. Or maybe he has experience with chefs losing their shit in front of him. I place him, suddenly. Bret
Whittaker. Dad has complained about him time after time; he’s the harshest critic in New York’s fine dining scene. “The texture
was completely rubbery. It was quite out of line with the usual experience at Pa—”
Jack practically growls with disgust. “There wasn’t a fucking thing wrong with it, and you know it.”
“Is this how Douglas Winfield allows his staff to behave?”
I gasp audibly. Jack’s gaze darts around the dining room, landing on me.
If possible, his scowl deepens. He looks torn for a second, as if part of him wants to go after me instead. Just like last
summer.
I didn’t mean for that shrimp to hit him in the face. Really. I just couldn’t take his arrogant voice one second longer.
I need to escape. Get some air.
I stand, but get tangled in the tablecloth, knocking over Ryan’s drink. He jumps to his feet, a dark stain spreading over
the crotch of his light gray slacks.
“Damnit, Poppy!” he snaps.
A nervous giggle escapes me. “Oh my god.”
“You did that on purpose,” Ryan seethes, voice rising. “Fucking bitch.”
My eyes widen at his ugly tone. “What? No.”
Behind us, Jack is still arguing with Bret Whittaker. That makes me laugh harder, nearly hysterical, even if absolutely nothing
is funny about this situation; in fact, I wish a spontaneous earthquake would send me plummeting to Earth’s core. I take a
few steps in the direction of the door, only to bump hard into another table. Everywhere I look, people are staring. Whispering.
Some outright talking, their voices rising over Jack’s argument.
“That’s definitely Ryan McCabe.”
“And Poppy Winfield.”
“Wait, as in @itspoppywinfield? Holy shit.”
“Is that a Tiffany’s ring box?”
“She doesn’t have anything on her finger.”
“Is that chef, like, having a mental breakdown?”
“Hot chef.”
“I don’t know, but she definitely is.”
“Are you getting this?”
“God, shut up!” I finally shriek. The dining room descends into startled silence, save for the instrumental music piping out of the speakers.
Even Jack stops mid-sentence. He lifts an eyebrow at me, mouth twitching at the corners.
“Poppy,” he begins.
After last summer, I swore off doing impulsive shit in public.
I thought it couldn’t get worse than interrupting my dad’s toast to my sister at her wedding by fighting the caterer.
I was wrong. There weren’t any phones at the wedding; after a donation to the club, the incident went away as swiftly as it
happened. This? This is my worst nightmare. Phones everywhere, recording, taking pictures, at my dad’s precious restaurant,
the one with three Michelin stars and reservations booked years in advance. It’s one thing to know people are looking at my
social media. Another entirely to feel their eyes in real time. Pitying me, laughing at me. Judging me and finding me lacking.
I whirl around, cutting off whatever Jack was about to say, and flee through the dining room. Phone flashes go off left and
right, but somehow, I manage to hold my head up, keep the tears in, until I spill onto the sidewalk.
I wrap my arms around myself, staring blankly across the street at the park. It’s humid, typical early August weather in New
York, without a breeze to wash away the garbage smell. I’m shaking anyway.
The door to the restaurant opens, then shuts. Jack joins me on the sidewalk.
“Well,” he says with a low whistle. “I’d say that tops last summer, Princess.”
It’s official. The universe hates me.