Chapter 15
Cora
Saar
Why are you not answering, @Cora? It’s been four days. How was the date?
Depends
Celeste
OMG, you can’t answer like that.
I just did (winking emoji).
Celeste
So there is a story to tell.
Saar
You liked Ed! Should I cancel tomorrow’s date?
I didn’t like Ed. Sorry.
Saar
Don’t be sorry. We just started.
Celeste
I still need details.
Six hours later
Lily
I hate being in a different time zone.
@Cora I’m sure the next one will be better (kiss emoji).
“You used to tell me Ethan wasn’t good enough for me. Why, Dad?”
I’m not sure why I’m raising the question.
Dad sometimes doesn’t remember me; he for sure wouldn’t remember my deceased fiancé. And it’s not like it matters anyway.
I’m still unsettled from my reaction to Xander’s bike a few days ago. Discussing Ethan with my dad will not help me, but he’s been on my mind. What are the odds that Xander would have an orange bike as well?
It’s like I asked Ethan if he was okay with me dating, so he sent a sign? Fuck, I should call Xander and explain. But as strange as it is, I still don’t have his number.
I can ask Saar, I suppose, but that would unleash the investigator in her and… well, I don’t want to dissect what might be with Xander. Or what some part of me still hopes for.
Besides, what would I tell him? The motorcycle is non-negotiable for me.
I still remember the call on that dreadful night, when all my future plans got canceled in a pool of blood and motor oil.
Ethan had only one flaw: he was speeding… until he died.
“He never deserved you.” Dad looks at me with such clarity, I almost gasp. We hold our gazes for a moment, all the pain and unresolved feelings within reach to unravel. “You never deserved any of this.”
“What are you talking about?” I whisper.
“It’s more comfortable for you than living your own life.” A hint of disapproval—no, disappointment—flavors his statement.
What is he talking about? Ethan? What does he mean by any of this?
“Is Tessa coming?” he asks, his eyes again unfocused, staring somewhere in front of him.
Whiplash, anyone?
“She’s too busy with an event at the moment,” I say vaguely.
I might not even be lying, though I want to be petty and say she’s too busy to visit you instead. That wouldn’t serve anyone, so I push my unreasonable sibling rivalry to the side.
“Sanjay, who works at your bistro with me, offered to implement some changes.” I hold my breath, hoping to engage him.
Not sure why. To absolve me of the guilt I’m feeling about changing anything my father left behind?
Usually when I broach the topic of the bistro, he either berates me, firing suggestions, or he is completely indifferent.
To my surprise, he levels me with another focused look. “It hasn’t been my bistro in years,” he says, with such indifference that I blink a few times, as if that could bring some understanding.
My visits here are never easy, but today is dredging up something I can’t yet pinpoint. Like Dad is laying out a puzzle for me. Only every piece is black, so I can’t build a picture from it.
“What are you talking about? It will always be your bistro.”
“Oh, Coraline.” He shakes his head. “As I said, that man was never good enough for you. He took away your dreams, and then he fucked off, and you settled for chasing mine. Such a shame.” His hands shake.
Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe how bewildered this entire exchange makes me. I want to talk to him. I want to open a bottle of Zinfandel and hear his opinion, argue my point, find understanding. Like the old times.
But he can’t drink wine with all his medication. He speaks in riddles I no longer understand. And… as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m afraid to push further.
This is the most intimate conversation I’ve had with him in the longest time. It’s been unsettling, as well. For both of us.
We sit in silence for a little while longer before I say my goodbyes.
I leave the home in a daze, almost missing my train stop. Above the station, I buy myself sunflowers from a florist on the corner of my street. It brings some joy, pulls me back to the present moment, but the unnerving energy lingers.
My life is unraveling at roller coaster-like speed, and I feel like an observer. I replay my father’s words in a loop, but they don’t bring any clarity.
The farther I am from his home, the more certain I am it was one of his confused statements. From a place where he gets lost in his own world, outside of this time and dimension.
At least at work I can lean on Sanjay. And maybe I should reclaim my personal life and ask Saar for Xander’s number. He deserves my explanation.
When I enter the bistro, the hair on my neck prickles immediately. Everything seems normal. There are no visible leaks, the power is on, and the display is filled with our usuals. I walk toward the counter as a few patrons smile my way.
I can’t pinpoint the source of my premonition until my eyes meet Sanjay’s.
“What is wrong?”
He looks away, wiping the polished surface around the sink. “We need to talk.”
I frown. “Okay.”
He unties his apron, still not looking at me. “I resign. Effective immediately.”
Relief floods me as I laugh. “Seriously, Sanjay, you scared me.”
He snaps his eyes to me, his expression pained. My smile disappears, and the earlier unknown feeling gripping my stomach returns. “You’re not joking?”
He shakes his head and looks down again.
“What happened? Earlier this week you were full of enthusiasm to help out more around here. Is it about money? You know I can’t offer you more at the moment, but—”
“I got another job. I’m sorry, Cora. I-I hope you understand.”
I sigh. “No, Sanjay, I don’t understand at all. I really don’t, but I guess you made up your mind. Is there any way I can—”
“Please, Cora, just let me go.”
His plea is so desperate, I can practically feel his anguish in my stomach. “You want to leave right away?”
“Yes, I have vacation time I’m owed.” He moves toward the back door. “You don’t have to pay me. The job is closer to my sister. She got sick, so I really have to go.” He slips into the prep room, and before I can gather my wits and follow him, he returns with his backpack.
He nods, giving me a curt, guilty glance, and leaves. Just like that, after being here almost every day in the past few months, he just walks out.
What has just happened? Shit.
I don’t know how long I stare at the glass entrance, a part of me waiting for him to return and finally confirm it was just a prank. A cruel one, but still a joke.
“Can we pay?” A customer snaps me back to my new reality.
I look at him, still stunned, trying to remember how to run a register I’m perfectly familiar with under normal circumstances.
I finally manage to settle their bill. “Was everything okay?”
The elderly lady and her husband are regulars here. She smiles at me. “Yes, as always. We’ve been coming here for years.”
Smiling, I walk them to the door, but I can barely see them. It’s like I’m suspended in a different dimension, just watching myself going through the motions. The lady says something I miss, but they finally leave.
I should call the temp agency. And prep for lunch.
Instead, I flip the open sign to closed and lock the door. My legs carry me back to the counter. I check the register for the open orders and then glance at the tables.
Only three of them are currently occupied, and none of the patrons is waiting for anything. The ingrained instinct is sending me toward the tables to check if they want something else, to clean the dishes, to schmooze.
Instead, I’m standing rooted in place. If I thought I was tired before, the level of weary fatigue that hugs my nerves is so deep, I don’t think I can ever move again.
You never deserved any of this.
I don’t know what to do with Dad’s statement. Or with my current situation. So I stand there, waiting for everyone to finally fuck off.
When I lock the door after the last customer leaves at eleven in the morning, I get to the back room, grip the handle of my largest chef’s knife, and stab the wooden cutting board repeatedly.
And then I scream. At the top of my lungs until my throat hurts.
It helps only marginally. The fog in my mind clears slightly, but I’m still just tired of it all, with no drive to look for solutions. I just don’t have the energy to keep this boat afloat.
Don’t be fucking dramatic, Cora. And now I speak to myself, sounding like my sister. Great.
Okay, this is not the first time I’m left without help. I get my phone to dial the temp agency when a bang on the front glass draws my attention.
“We’re fucking closed,” I murmur, but whoever is there doesn’t leave and knocks again.
Groaning, I shuffle to the front, and when I see the property manager on the other side, the earlier premonition grows its wings and flaps around me like an angel of doom.
I unlock the door. “Mr. Petruch, how can I help you?”
“You’re closed? I guess you heard already?”
“What do you mean?”
“The building has a new owner.”
I blow a raspberry. “Okay?”
“Look, Cora, I know things haven’t been easy, but the new owner wants to double your rent.” He hands me an envelope.
I look down at the legal-sized yellow paper and watch my hand move toward it while my entire being screams, Don’t touch it. As if not accepting whatever legal document is in that envelope could change its consequences.
“I can’t pay double,” I say when the paper connects with my fingers.
“I’m sorry.” He shrugs.
“I can’t,” I repeat, and I’m not sure if I’m still talking about the rent only.
He gives me a compassionate look, or maybe it’s just pity, then nods and leaves.
And just like that, I lost my father’s life’s work.
“What are you doing here?” Tessa says as she opens the doors, her eyes red.
“Are you crying?” I forget how soaked I am, because of course, after weeks of sweltering heat, Mother Nature sent us a reprieve right as I was walking from the station.
“Why are you wet?”