Chapter 48 Peanut Butter
Peanut Butter
Poppy
“Poppy,” Julia says gently. “Can we come in?”
I turn over in bed, looking at her and Caroline, standing in the doorway to my bedroom. Julia has a mug in hand. The smell
of coffee wafts over. I wrinkle my nose.
I texted Julia the moment I hunkered down in the houseboat, begging her to rescue me. She and Caroline wrapped me up in an
embrace so all-encompassing, I swear I can still feel it, and packed my things while I coaxed Gator into a cat carrier. Mom
arranged for a car to the airport before there was the slightest risk of running into Jack again.
They sit on the edge of the bed, Caroline on one side of me, Julia on the other. Julia holds out the mug. “Here.”
I hadn’t expected to see Jack when Dad arrived at the airport after us, but it stung all the same.
And then, the entire flight, I fought to keep myself from crying.
I wasn’t that successful. I think I traumatized the old gentleman next to me. I’m also fairly certain he complained about
me, but we were both in first class, so it wasn’t like there was a better section he could move to instead. Laughter bubbles in my throat at the memory of his paunchy face. I gnaw on the inside of
my cheek to stop it. I laughed once, on the ride home from the airport, and that was a terrible mistake that quickly led to
tears.
It’s been a few days now—three, four, I don’t know—and I never realized heartbreak could hurt this much.
Julia keeps coming in, sometimes with Caroline, sometimes alone, to tempt me to eat, or watch a funny video, or hear another piece of the story, unspooling slowly, about my time with Jack.
Mom has, too; she listened to me ramble until it dissolved into sobs, holding me all the while.
I haven’t seen Dad yet.
Julia strokes my hair as I take a tentative sip of coffee. It doesn’t taste like anything. Nothing has tasted even remotely
good to me, not even Caroline’s pain au chocolat. Scrambled eggs? Jack’s were the best. Mangoes? Not in my smoothies anymore.
Even something as simple as parsley made me tear up the other day, thinking about how precise he is when he tweezes herbs
on top of a dish. He’s an artist with an edible canvas. An alchemist.
“I’m so sorry,” Julia says. “I know how much it hurts.”
My mind keeps running over my last conversation with Jack, trying to imagine a different ending for it. If someone asked me
before things ended if it would be easier to walk away, to be the one leaving instead of being left, I would have said yes
without hesitation. Now that it actually happened, I’m not sure.
All I know is that he’s a thousand miles away now, and everything hurts.
I shouldn’t have pushed and pushed until he cracked.
“I love him,” I confess eventually. I’m sure it’s obvious, but I haven’t said it aloud. “I should’ve told him that.”
“Oh, Poppy.” Caroline takes the mug out of my hands, and Julia wraps me up in a tight hug. “It won’t feel this bad forever.”
“Doubtful.”
“Trust me on this one.” After a long moment, Julia adds, “Look, Dad wants to talk to you.”
I pull away. “You know what he did.”
“I know.” My sister sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. “That’s who he is, Pops. A meddler. You should have seen him once
he realized you actually left. He wanted to go after you right away, but Mom and I convinced him to give you space.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And believe me, he heard it from both of us once you told us what happened.” She softens. “Will you talk to him? Please?”
“Why, so he can tell me again how much of a failure I am?”
“You didn’t fail. Opening night was amazing.”
“We all saw the effort you put into it,” Caroline adds.
“Bret Whittaker is writing a review,” says Julia. “A positive one.”
“Great,” I say hollowly. “It’ll help for two seconds until Jack puts it on the market.”
Julia sighs. “Don’t diminish what you accomplished, okay?”
“Jules, it’s not like when you do something great. It never is.”
Her brow wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
I take another sip of bland coffee. “I—never mind.”
“Tell me.”
Caroline squeezes my hand, a knowing look on her face. “I’ll be downstairs,” she says, pecking Julia on the lips as she stands.
Julia watches her go with a frown. “What is it?”
“I’m not you.”
“I know that,” she says slowly.
I scoot to the headboard, reaching for the mug on the nightstand. I need something to occupy my hands. “No, I mean . . . I’ve
always tried to be more like you. You’re the perfect one, you know? The one our parents are proud of.”
“Poppy—”
“Let me just . . . I need to get this out.”
She nods.
“You’re the best, Jules.” My throat is thick again. “The coolest, the smartest, the kindest—I mean, seriously. I’ve always
wanted to be like you. For Mom and Dad to see my accomplishments like they do yours. The influencing . . . I know it’s not
like being a fancy corporate lawyer, but still. I worked so hard to build that following, that career, even though I know
you all think it’s silly.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Julia says softly.
“And then I had Fable, right? And I really wanted Mom and Dad and you to see I could use those skills for other things. That
I could be in the restaurant business too. That I fit in with all of you.” I take a deep breath, blinking away tears. “That’s
why it hurt so much, knowing Dad couldn’t trust that I knew what I was doing.”
“Poppy,” she says, her voice breaking. “I had no idea you felt that way.”
My lip wobbles. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want you feeling like that.” She looks me in the eyes. “You’re amazing, okay? You’re so creative. You’re driven.
I saw everything you created for Fable. I was in the dining room that night, and I tasted the food. You were always brilliant.
We were the ones who didn’t see it.”
“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “I thought Jack saw it, too.”
Now, I don’t know. My mind keeps running over what Jessica said to me. Maybe she’s right; maybe Jack truly does look out only
for himself. Maybe any connection we made would’ve been severed just as unceremoniously, leaving pieces of my heart scattered
a thousand miles away.
Julia hugs me tightly. “Will you talk to Dad? Tell him these things?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Good.” She kisses my hair. “I love you, Pop Tart.”
“Love you, too.”
A long, torturous week passes.
My inbox fills with new collaboration pitches. Michelle and Lisa ask me to lunch. A reality television show, one where singles
spend the entire time tipsy and sunbathing, reaches out to see if I want to join next season’s cast. I take that call in the
dining room, to my father’s intense anxiety. Things are still too awkward between us to even begin to have a normal conversation.
Even though he didn’t cause my relationship with Jack to collapse in spectacular fashion, I can’t seem to drop the resentment.
Maybe if I hadn’t made such a scene, Jack would have been in a better place to think about keeping Fable.
Maybe if Dad hadn’t pushed the idea of New York again, he’d have realized all he could have in Diamond Bay.
Jack texted me once, two days after I left. He sent the pop tart recipe, scrawled out in his loopy handwriting. In return,
I gave him all my files on Fable. This is the worst part of breaking up with someone—untangling your lives so they won’t cross
again.
And I feel no relief, either. No satisfaction. Just an ache that refuses to fade.
I miss the energy of the kitchen. The restaurant’s pulse, which grew stronger each day we worked on reviving it. I’m reading
all the cookbooks I can get my hands on, but that’s not the same as listening to Jack lecture about food and technique.
One morning, a storm rolls in, dumping a miserable wintry mix on the tristate. I sleep late, dreaming of something having
to do with a timer. It’s ringing at the end of a long, pristine hallway that leads into a kitchen, but no matter how fast
I run, I can’t turn off the oven before whatever I’m cooking burns. I press my palms against my eyes as I shake myself out
of it.
I haven’t managed to drag myself out of bed yet when someone knocks.
“Poppy,” comes Dad’s voice. “Are you awake?”
I hesitate. “Yeah. Come in.”
Gator streaks past Dad as he opens the door, intent on reaching his food bowl downstairs.
“Can we talk?” Dad asks. He pauses a moment, no doubt taking in my messy room, limp hair, and the king-size jar of peanut
butter currently taking up space on my nightstand. “Maybe about you and the Winfield Group?”
“What for?” I ask warily.
“We’re looking at opening a new place in San Diego, but we haven’t settled on a direction for the personality of the restaurant.
What the aesthetic should be, and the mission. I thought, given everything that happened with Fable, that you might want to
take a look at what we have so far and let me know what you think.”
“Dad, come on. You don’t really . . .” I trail off uncomfortably. It’s the first time either of us have referenced the conversation
that got me into this mess in the first place.
His voice holds a curiously gentle note. “We have a lot to talk about. Let’s go, we can have breakfast at Caroline’s bakery.”
My heart clenches painfully. “Nothing tastes good anymore.”
“Well, maybe we need to order one of everything to make sure.” My eyes must be shining with misery again, because he shakes
his head slightly and says, “If you’re not up for it yet, I won’t push.”
“No.” I wipe my cheeks quickly. “I’m fine. I’ll go with you. Better than lazing around in bed, right?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
I see the concern in his eyes and try for a smile. “Really, I’m fine. I just need a shower.” I slide out of bed, shaking out
my tangle of hair. “By the way, have you, um, heard from him?”
“No.” Dad laughs ruefully. “And I doubt he’ll want to hear from me anytime soon.”
“You should hire him back.” It pains me to say it. The petty part of me wants to test Dad by asking if he’d keep Jack out
of the city forever. But despite it all, I still love Jack, and I want him to have what he wants.
Even if that isn’t a life with me.
Dad just knocks his knuckles against the door frame, one foot out in the hallway. “I’ll be waiting downstairs with your demon
cat.”
“He hissed at Miso one time!” I protest as the door shuts.