Chapter Eight Summer #2
I peel my eyes open and take in my childhood bedroom.
It still looks the same in so many ways, but a lot less childish than it once did.
There are no longer posters of my favorite boy bands and celebrity crushes of the month covering the walls, and I’ve long since boxed up my old trophies and photos.
But everything else is the same. The same floral wallpaper that I picked out with my mother on my seventh birthday. The same bed and dresser my father got me for my sixteenth birthday. And the same full-length mirror hanging off the back of my closet.
It’s how I know I look like a complete wreck.
My bangs are pushed up from sleeping on my face and not pinning them back last night, and my eyes are tired from tossing and turning at all hours.
I want that person to be you.
Ezra’s offer replayed in my mind on a loop. I even put on a show on my iPad to help quiet it, but it didn’t work. All I did was end up missing three episodes of Gilmore Girls.
I both love and hate that he offered, just like I feel the same about telling him no last night.
I’m proud that I didn’t put myself back in that position again, especially when the wound from losing my last kitchen is still so fresh.
But, truthfully, I’m also sad that I said no.
It would be the perfect chance to finally make something of my own.
That’s what I was trying to do with Lore, but the owners weren’t having it.
They wouldn’t listen to me about the menu.
They wouldn’t take into account my years of schooling, real-world experience, or advice on anything. They just wanted what they wanted.
The worst part is that I get it. I would be the same way with my kitchen. If I had the chance to create the menu at Stick Taps, I would feel sick if someone came in and tried to change it.
You could stay.
That little voice in the back of my head makes itself known. I could lie and say it means nothing, but it does, and it’s been there since I set foot back in Port Harbor.
I love this little town. It has my dad, who has been my hero my whole life.
It has memories of my mother and the years I had with her.
It has friends I’ve known since childhood.
And I love the people because, even when everyone is all in one another’s business, they’re still respectful.
It has everything I could ever need except for the opportunities Chicago gave me.
Opportunities I squandered, but still opportunities.
I’m just not sure if that’s enough to go back. I have a friend who is taking over my lease while I stay here to figure things out, but maybe that doesn’t have to be temporary. Maybe I could move back here.
I want that person to be you.
Ezra’s words rattle around in my head again, and the more I hear them, the more I like them.
Still, I’m scared. I can’t say yes, because what if I fail? What if what I create for them doesn’t work like Ezra thinks it will? What if nobody orders from the new menu? What if they say what I make sucks?
There are too many “what-ifs,” and I can’t deal with them right now, so I tuck all the thoughts away and peel myself out of bed.
I get dressed for the day—which I thankfully have off from the cidery—and make my way to the living room, where I’m unsurprised to find my father enjoying a cup of coffee.
“Morning, kiddo,” he says, taking a loud sip from his mug.
“Hey, Dad. Hungry?”
He pats his stomach. “Always.”
I chuckle. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“French toast?”
“You’re supposed to be eating more heart-conscious things, which I’m pretty sure means not drowning your breakfast in sugary syrup.”
“I’m an old man, Summer. Cut me a break, will you?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I move around the kitchen, frying up some turkey bacon—which my father hates but eats anyway—egg-white scramble, and a stuffed French toast that I’m hoping will help curb his sweets craving so he can forgo the syrup.
By the time it’s done, he’s already pouring another cup of coffee and setting the table.
I like this. It reminds me of old times when I was a teenager and we’d do this every Saturday morning. It was the only time of the week he’d block off. He wouldn’t allow anyone to bother him until at least noon, and never a second before.
“This looks great,” he says, stabbing his fork into his hot-sauce-covered eggs. “I mean, I’d prefer real bacon, but you know I’ll eat anything you make.”
“You heard your doctor, Dad. Small changes lead to big results.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, then takes a bite of the bacon. I don’t miss his wince as he chews and swallows.
I wonder briefly what it would be like if my mother were still here. Would she make him eat healthier too? Or would she fry him up “real bacon” because that’s what he wanted?
I don’t know, but I do know that I’m doing the best I can to keep my dad around as long as possible, so if that means having to hear him bitch about the turkey bacon, then that’s what I’ll do.
“So, I was driving through Port Harbor the other day, and I noticed that Mr. Looper—you remember him, right?”
I nod. “He used to give out full bars of candy on Halloween. It was the good stuff too. Of course I remember him.”
Dad chuckles. “Well, he’s moving to Arizona to be closer to his grandkids and is putting his house up for rent. Just, uh, just something I noticed. You know, if you decided to stay.”
I peek up at my father. This isn’t the first time he’s made a comment like this since I’ve been back. I know he loves me and wants me to do whatever makes me happy, even if that does include going back to Chicago.
But it is the first time I’ve truly heard his words, and that’s all thanks to Ezra putting ideas in my head.
Moving back here wouldn’t be the worst thing. I could see myself here easily. Having breakfast with my dad every Saturday morning. Walking along the harbor, hiking the nearby trails on my days off. Having my own restaurant.
I could see it all. But is that what I want? I know nothing would make my dad happier than to have me close again. He let me go the first time all those years ago, but I know it wasn’t easy for him to do, especially not since I’m all he has left.
My heart aches at the thought of my father here alone, navigating all this medical stuff by himself. What if something else happens? Could I live with myself if I left again and I got another—a worse—call in the middle of the night?
No. I couldn’t.
But could I live with myself if I gave up my dream of having my own kitchen entirely?
Also no.
“Ezra told me he’s going to overhaul the menu at Stick Taps and asked me to be their head chef.”
The words come out quickly, almost like I’m afraid to say them, and maybe I am.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I said them. I already told Ezra no.
Even still, I watch my father carefully, gauging his reaction.
His next bite hovers in the air as he raises his brows at me. “Oh? And?”
“And that’s it. I told him no.”
His eyes—the same brown as my own—fall to slits for only a moment before he says, “Okay.”
Okay.