Chapter 12 Now
Now
It’s certainly not my best work, but it will have to do.
The day after I’d gone to all the appointments with Sebastian, I’d sent him a carefully crafted and—I thought, at least—thoughtful text message, thanking him for everything from the previous day, including opening up to me about what he was going through with this mom.
I know from past experiences that asking someone dealing with a family illness to let you know if there’s anything you can do can feel more like a burden than support, so I also sent him a list of specific ways I could help, from dropping off groceries to picking up Bubba from a treatment. I haven’t heard back.
Then Claire and I were supposed to talk on the phone, but she ghosted me.
And neither she nor Sebastian has answered any of my follow-up emails since.
I’m sure she’s busy with work, and he’s preoccupied with the restaurant and helping his mom.
But still, the radio silence is a little odd.
I debated just calling Sebastian but ultimately talked myself out of it.
After the tasting I’d briefly wondered if we’d taken a step toward something resembling a friendship, but I realize now that was never the case.
Just because we’d seen each other three times in the span of a few days and shared a difficult conversation didn’t mean we were suddenly friends again.
The one person I did manage to get ahold of shortly after the tasting was Omar.
I asked him a few clarifying questions about his inspiration for the menu and where he sourced the local ingredients, and we wound up staying on the phone for another twenty minutes catching up.
When he asked about my old friend Maren Murphy, I told him that she had a fabulous London job and actually happened to be in town visiting for the summer.
He invited us both to come to the restaurant this coming Saturday.
It’s Bubba’s sixty-fifth birthday, and he’s planning a little surprise party.
I thanked him and said I’d get back to him soon.
I’m still on the fence about whether or not we should go.
“Ready to get the hell out of here?” David asks, slamming his laptop shut decisively.
“You have no idea,” I say, hitting send.
“We’re obviously going,” Maren says an hour later. We’re at a bar on the pier overlooking Brantley Marina with David and Henry, eating coconut shrimp and drinking from rum buckets.
“Wouldn’t you rather spend the day at the beach?” I ask, even though I know trying to change her mind is futile. “Or go to the city?”
“What I want,” she says, “is to eat some greasy American food with my best friend.”
“And maybe watch said best friend try to pretend her high school crush doesn’t still have her heart in an absolute chokehold?” David asks, helpfully.
Henry laughs nervously.
“He does not! This can be strictly professional,” Maren says, draining the last of her bucket and then gesturing to our waiter for another round.
“Look: I know you, and I know you’re overthinking the whole situation.
It’s actually really simple. You’ve been having trouble getting ahold of Sebastian and Claire for your article.
This is the perfect way to get your questions answered.
And you said yourself that you wish it hadn’t taken you all these years to go by the restaurant.
That place, the people—it all means a lot to you, and now you have a chance to reconnect.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. ”
Her wise words are undercut by the burbling sound her straw makes as she tries for one last slurp, pushing a curtain of unruly curls off her face. The chic Londoner is gone, the wild teenager back in her rightful place across from me.
“I completely agree,” David says, shocking no one. “At this point it’s more suspicious if you don’t go.” He points at me with a shrimp tail. “Makes it seem like you’ve been intentionally hiding all these years.”
“I have been intentionally hiding all these years,” I point out.
“They don’t have to know that,” David counters.
The waiter returns with four fresh buckets. We’re silent for a full minute while we suck down the way-too-sweet concoctions.
“Are we too old for these?” Henry asks.
“Never!” Maren cries.
More silent sipping. Somehow we’ve already been here for two hours.
The sky has turned pinky-orange, like sherbet, boats bobbing hypnotically below, and a solo guitarist has started strumming next to the bar.
It’s one of those quintessential summer nights that reminds me Brantley Beach has its perks.
“We’ll go to the party,” I say finally. David whoops, but I shoot him a look and he quickly reins it in. Then I turn to Maren. “Just promise me you’ll act normal.”
“Of course,” she says innocently. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”