6. Elliot
Chapter six
Elliot
I made a mistake. I knew it the moment the words left my lips, but there’s no taking them back now. Still, I can’t shake the look of hurt in her eyes.
As she rushes out of the building, I feel a sinking weight in my chest. It hits me instantly: I’ve probably just lost her for good, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Emma stands there, the awkward silence stretching between us as she probably wonders if I have cruel words for her too. Groaning in frustration, I slam my fist against the table, the sound echoing in the room before I exhale, trying to calm the storm inside me.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think she hates me?” I ask Emma, my voice flat, but she simply looks at me thoughtfully, tapping a finger under her chin.
“Tsk,” she murmurs. “Judging by the way she left, I’d say a hundred. If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under by now.” She shakes her head with sympathy, and I know she’s leaving me alone to wallow in my self-inflicted misery.
Great, so I’m not the only one who wants to strangle me for being so cruel. The truth is, I didn’t mean any of it—especially the part about her being delusional and pathetic. Sure, she can be extra with her fairytale plans and her blog posts that paint love in stark black or white. But life isn’t like that. On some days, it’s not even gray—it’s all red, raw and furious.
That doesn’t make her delusional or pathetic, though. It certainly doesn’t invalidate her dreams. The real world is cold—I’ve felt that enough to know—but that doesn’t mean everyone else deserves to suffer the same way I have.
I head for my car, pulling out my phone as I walk, my fingers trembling slightly. I dial her number without thinking, but of course, it goes straight to voicemail.
I don’t think it’s possible for a man to be his own worst enemy all the time, but somehow, that’s exactly what I am. I am my biggest tormentor. And sooner or later, I’m going to destroy myself with my own hands.
Instead of going to their house—because I know I’m the last person Ollie wants to see right now, maybe forever—I decide to send Daniel a message instead.
“I did something stupid again, Danny,” I type, the words heavy with regret. “And Ollie might hate me even more if that’s even possible.”
His response comes almost immediately: “Worse than what you did on prom night?”
I pause for a moment before texting back, “I think so. I might have called her delusional and pathetic.” My phone rings almost instantly.
“Geez, Elliot, why do you keep making things worse?” Daniel’s voice is laced with frustration as soon as I pick up.
Banging my head against the steering wheel, I feel the weight of my stupidity. “I don’t know, dude,” I groan, the words heavy with regret. “I was having a bad day, and she just happened to be on the receiving end of it.”
Daniel lets out a long sigh. I can practically hear the internal debate raging in his head: whether to defend his sister or his clueless friend.
“Please, don’t even think about coming over to the house. Ollie will be livid, and I can’t deal with both of you adding to the pressure I’m already feeling with the wedding.” His suggestion is sound—and the safest bet for everyone involved—so I agree. No point in pushing things further. I’ll wait until the next meeting, hoping that the storm will have passed by then.
I pull into the restaurant parking lot, and the tension still tightens my chest. Aaron’s been working on the wedding menu, and I need a distraction. I decide to experiment with some of the pantry ingredients, hoping that cooking will give me an outlet for the frustration that’s still eating at me.
Chopping garlic, I toss it into a sizzling pan, the sharp scent filling the air. I add cherry tomatoes and fresh parsley, mashing them gently, allowing the flavors to meld. A pinch of salt, black pepper, and a splash of heavy cream follows. The sauce thickens, and the smell of basil and thyme fills the kitchen like a calming balm.
Next, I grab the chicken breasts, pounding them flat with the kitchen mallet, taking out my anger on the meat. After seasoning them with salt, pepper, and lemon zest, I smother the chicken in the creamy tomato sauce, layering spinach leaves and sprinkling Parmesan on top.
“Are you okay, Elliot?” Aaron’s voice breaks through my focus, catching me off guard just as I drizzle oil over the dish and pop it in the oven.
I throw my apron aside, trying to mask the discomfort simmering beneath the surface. “Sure. Could you check it when it’s ready and add it to Daniel’s wedding menu?” I deflect, hoping to steer the conversation back to work.
But Aaron doesn’t let it go. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, man, but figure it out outside the kitchen. You’re making it hard for the rest of us to work.” He walks away, his words hanging in the air, heavier than I expected.
He’s right. The tension in the kitchen is palpable. Mistakes are bound to happen in an environment like this, and I swore my restaurants would never turn into a "Hell’s Kitchen" scenario. I need to get my head on straight.
I don’t give myself a chance to think about it too much before I find myself driving to Daniel’s house, even though he specifically warned me not to. Honestly, I might be signing my own death warrant if Olivia really is as angry as I suspect.
When Julia opens the door, the disappointed look on her face says everything. She’s not mad, not yet—just disappointed, which is somehow worse.
“How much did she tell you?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Enough to make me know it’s not safe for you to be here,” Julia mutters under her breath, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure Olivia isn’t watching.
This isn’t fair. Olivia’s spreading the word about what I said, but conveniently leaving out the part where she called me something worse than "pathetic." Sad and empty would be closer to the truth. But this isn’t some sick contest to see who can hurt the other more or throw the harshest words.
“I just want to make sure she’s okay,” I explain, my voice quieter, but before I can finish, I’m cut off.
“Why? Did you come here to see if I was wailing so you could think up more soul-crushing adjectives to break me with?” Olivia’s voice slices through the air as she steps into the doorway, and for a moment, relief washes over me when I see she’s not crying.
Her rage? I can handle that. It’s at least something I can deal with. It makes the guilt in my chest feel a little lighter, more manageable.
“I guess you’re fine after all,” I mutter, a bitter edge creeping into my tone. “I’ll be on my way now.”
I nod at Julia, a quick, almost apologetic gesture, and start turning toward my car. But Olivia’s glare is like a hot poker in my back. Confusion, fury, and something else dance across her features as she crosses her arms.
“I thought you came here to apologize for what you said?”
I turn to face her, lifting a brow. “I was going to, but seeing as you’re fine, maybe I should just head out before you start thinking we’re friends.”
Julia pales at my words. The shock on her face is like watching someone witness an accident they can’t stop. But I don’t react. This is how Olivia and I operate—hostile, brutal honesty.
Olivia doesn’t say a word. She just glares, her eyes like daggers, before storming into the house, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the walls.
I glance at Julia. Her face is a mixture of disbelief and something that almost looks like concern, but she’s clearly too amused by what just happened to do anything about it.
Squeezing her shoulders in a gesture of reassurance, I force a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
Maybe those words jinxed everything, because no sooner do I speak than a thwack echoes through the air. A sack of flour explodes in my face, completely blinding me in a white cloud. I freeze for a second, barely able to process what’s happening. But one thing is clear: there’s only one person bold enough to pull something like this—Olivia Reed.
“That’s for embarrassing me in front of Emma this morning!” she yells from behind the door, her voice muffled, but the fury behind it is unmistakable. The door slams against the frame, leaving me standing there, covered in flour, trying to comprehend what just happened.
Slowly, I begin brushing the white dust from my hair and clothes, trying to shake off the shock of the moment. Then I glance up at Julia, who’s standing there laughing like she just witnessed a sitcom-worthy disaster.
“Oh, Elliot,” she says between bursts of laughter. “Believe me, she’s been wanting to do that for ages. It’s oddly satisfying to watch, though, because you totally deserved it.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips as I walk back to my car. Olivia has a way of throwing the most bizarre things at me. First, it was a turkey leg—yes, a full-on turkey leg. Now, it’s flour.
“Well, at least this time I won’t end up with a black eye,” I mutter to myself, eyeing my flour-dusted reflection in the car mirror. And then, unable to stop myself, I burst out laughing.
She’s tougher than I thought. I wonder if I should be worried she’s going to come after me with a rolling pin next.