Chapter 26 Now
Now
I hustle through the double doors to my office Monday morning, attempting to conceal my face with a tumbler of coffee and my laptop.
I flip my phone to selfie mode and smooth my hair, praying David is on a call or absorbed in an email, too distracted to notice my frazzled entrance, but who am I kidding? Nothing gets past him.
“Well, well, well,” he says, rotating his chair toward mine and examining his watch. “Nine nineteen a.m. Angelina Mariano, did I just witness a walk of shame?”
He’s right, of course. Sebastian hadn’t explicitly said he was going to come over Sunday evening after his shift, but I’d felt hopeful enough to turn my normally efficient weekend grocery run into a leisurely spree (first stop, my favorite Italian deli for arborio rice, dried porcini mushrooms, a craggy wedge of fresh pecorino and a semolina loaf; next, the liquor store; and finally the supermarket for my usual list).
I figured if I didn’t hear from Sebastian and wound up eating risotto alone, it wouldn’t be the worst way to spend a Sunday night.
But a text from Sebastian came through at 4:00 p.m. after all. He’d just gotten off and was stopping home to shower and change. He could be at my place by 5:00. I told him to come hungry and started soaking the mushrooms.
The buzzer rang as I was plating. I pressed the button to let him up, and when I opened my door a minute later he stepped inside and started kissing me before I could even say hello.
He pulled back long enough to say, “It smells amazing in here,” then resumed the kissing, steering us backward until my back was flush with the counter. Then he lifted me so I was sitting on it. I wrapped my legs around his torso, pulling him closer, and clutched a fistful of his curls in my hand.
“The food will get cold,” I said, even as I was slipping my other hand beneath the hem of his shirt.
He grabbed my wrists gently, stopping me, and said against my mouth, “You’re right. Let’s eat first. I’m starved.”
I sat with the intention of wolfing down my meal, but one bite in I slowed my roll. This food, this wine, they were meant to be savored. Sebastian raised the fork to his mouth and the way his eyes widened told me he agreed.
So, we didn’t rush. We ate and we drank and we ate some more. And then I led Sebastian to my room and we took our time there, too.
We both had places to be in the morning: I started work at nine, and Sebastian needed to get some work done at the restaurant before driving his mom to a doctor’s appointment.
But morning Sebastian has proven to be the most difficult Sebastian for me to resist. And then he insisted on making me breakfast, which was even harder to resist.
Now, I’m uncharacteristically late for work—not that anyone but David will probably notice—and already counting the minutes until I get home later and Sebastian picks me up for dinner.
I don’t tell all of this to David, though.
Instead, I roll my eyes and sit. “Can’t a girl be late for work for the first time in her entire career without an interrogation?”
“That’s precisely why it’s interrogation-worthy.” He crosses his arms, that knowing smirk still plastered on his face as I start scanning emails. “Good for you, by the way. He actually seems like a decent guy. I liked his friends, too.”
Relief washes over me, and I bite my bottom lip, trying not to smile. David’s approval would mean a lot to me no matter what, but given Maren’s lingering hesitation it carries even more weight.
I’m about to say something to this effect when an email catches my eye. It’s from an email address I don’t immediately recognize: trina@. Realization hits me when I notice that it’s actually a reply. Subject line: Re: Shore Life inquiry.
Date: August 12, 2024
From: trina@
Subject: Re: Shore Life inquiry
Ms. Mariano,
Thank you so much for reaching out earlier this summer regarding Diamond Group’s potential expansion to the Jersey Shore!
Apologies for my delayed response—at the time of your original email it was a bit premature to share any details (you know how these things go, I’m sure!) but I’m thrilled to now be able to confirm that Diamond Group’s next venture will in fact be in the area, specifically Brantley Beach!
On Friday Diamond Group was approved to purchase and renovate the building at 11 Ocean Avenue, which currently houses the boardwalk eatery and snack bar Bubba’s (upon the current owner’s retirement at the end of the summer).
The new concept from acclaimed New York City restaurateur Chip Diamond will preserve the charm of Bubba’s while building upon Diamond Group’s legacy of excellence and innovation, with a target opening of May 2025.
I’ll circle back with an official press release in the coming weeks, and of course we’d love to have you at the restaurant next year. Please do not hesitate to reach out with any questions in the meantime!
Best,
Trina Stanford
Director of Communications
Diamond Group
New York, NY
“Earth. To. Lina,” David says in a tone that tells me it isn’t the first time. “What the hell?”
Words escape me, so I rotate my monitor toward David so he can read the email himself.
“I thought Sebastian was going to convince his mom to hold on to the restaurant,” he says carefully.
“Yeah. I did, too.” But as I say the words I feel a tremor of doubt.
Sebastian had told me he was waiting until his plan for the café was perfect to pitch it to Bubba.
I’d taken for granted that Bubba would fall in love with the idea, just like Sebastian had.
Like I had, too. What if it didn’t go over well? My heart sinks for him.
David stares at the screen, his eyes scanning the message again. I reread it, too, hoping to spot a line I missed the first time, a typo—anything that suggests another way to interpret Trina Stanford’s words.
“Maybe Bubba wouldn’t budge,” David muses, “or Diamond Group upped their offer.”
“Maybe.” I frown, a new doubt creeping in.
“But Bubba wouldn’t sign anything without him there.
… It doesn’t explain why he found out on Friday morning and then spent all weekend with me without saying anything.
” I roll the tapes on our weekend: He’d doubled down on all his big ideas for the café multiple times during our coffee tour, apparently despite knowing it wasn’t going to happen.
What if the idea was never really a serious one, and he just didn’t have the heart to tell me?
David blows out a breath. “Shit. I’m sorry, Leens. But I think you just have to talk to him, you know? There’s got to be some sort of explanation.”
I try to latch on to David’s words, but I feel them float away until they’re nothing but unintelligible whispers, out of reach. The words that replace them are loud and firm and leave little room for explanation.
Bubba is selling the restaurant.
Sebastian lied to me about it.
He’ll stay as long as his mom needs him, but then what?
Least likely to end up back in Brantley Beach, Theo had said at my apartment.
Sebastian’s oldest friend—the person who knows him better than almost anyone—was shocked by Sebastian’s return, and would be even more shocked if it proved permanent.
Keeping the restaurant would tether him to this town forever.
That he’d chosen to cut the cord probably surprised no one except me.
I close my laptop and repack my bag.
“Where are you going?” David asks.
“You’re right, I’ve got to talk to him,” I say, standing.
He nods toward our boss’s office. “I’ll cover for you with Mandy.”
“Thanks.” I hadn’t even thought about Mandy, actually.
She’d been so disappointed when the Nikolaou-Cunningham wedding feature fell through, and with it her dream of a Kleinfeld Bridal–sponsored cover.
The money bags in her eyes had disappeared, and she hadn’t mentioned my promotion again since.
I’m just as stuck as ever. I just can’t bring myself to care as much as I normally would.
I get in my car—I drove today to save time and had miraculously found a street spot—and head to Bubba’s.
Over breakfast this morning Sebastian told me that he was going to get a few hours of work done before driving his mom to a one o’clock doctor’s appointment.
I maneuver around a family of four unloading so much gear you’d think they were permanently moving into their pop-up beach tent and pull into Bubba’s small employee lot.
I spot Sebastian’s Jeep in its usual spot.
Parker smiles in recognition as I approach the hostess stand, then frowns when she realizes I’m about to sidestep her. I beeline for the back office.
“If you’re looking for Sebastian,” she calls, “he’s not here!”
I whirl to face her again, arms crossed. “I saw his car in the lot.”
Parker shrugs. “I haven’t seen him.”
I glance at the shut office door again, skeptical. But I’m obviously not going to trespass, especially not in front of a teenager. Am I?
“He’s probably at the surfing beach,” says a teenage boy who has poked his head through the snack bar door. “It’s his Monday thing.”
Parker shoots me an I-told-you-so look and says, “Thanks, Wade.”
“Thank you both for your help,” I grumble on my way out.
The surfing beach is only a couple of blocks from the restaurant.
I speed-walk down the boardwalk, growing angrier with each step.
Was Sebastian planning to spend all day surfing, when he’d told me he’d be at the restaurant?
And what about all the other Mondays we’d texted this month, when he’d told me he was working?
David had said that maybe something had happened that made Sebastian and his mom change their minds about keeping the restaurant, but I was starting to wonder if he’d ever seriously entertained an option other than selling it.
Maybe he wasn’t working here much at all.
I hold one hand up to block the sun and look toward the jetty and the section of the ocean beyond it.
Normally I avoid the surfing beach: The sight of those jagged, algae-slick black rocks reminds me of the day I slipped.
Not to mention the feeling of Sebastian’s skin against mine as he carried me.
And how innocent and boyish he looked sleeping next to my hospital bed.
Yeah. Enough of that.
I push the memory away and scan the silhouettes that dot the waves. None of them look like Sebastian.
I hear a car door slam a little ways down, and then another.
And there he is, clad in a black wetsuit, standing on the footbed of a car that is not his.
He reaches up to unfasten his board from the roof rack as a gorgeous red-haired woman in a one-piece and denim cutoffs appears, opening the hatchback trunk of the car and sliding out her own board.
Sebastian jumps down, board tucked under one arm, phone in the other.
He types something while he waits for her, then they both head toward the water.
I’m still attempting to process the scene I’ve just witnessed when my phone vibrates in the pocket of my dress.
Sebastian: Hope work is great. Have some cool updates. Excited to tell you later.
What the fuck?
I shove my phone back in my pocket like it will burn me if I hold it any longer and book it back to the parking lot. I run through the new facts along the way.
As of Friday, Diamond Group owns Bubba’s, and yet Sebastian continues to tell me his future plans for the restaurant.
He’s lied to me on multiple occasions about his whereabouts.
He spends his Monday mornings surfing, not working. The fact that—at least on this particular Monday—he does so with a beautiful woman is just icing on the cake.
I am an idiot.
I steal one last glance over my shoulder. Sebastian and the red-haired woman are in the water now, wading through the glistening waves, boards atop their pretty heads. And I’m here, watching them from afar. It’s a feeling more familiar than I care to admit.
I jog the rest of the way to my car, not looking back. I’ve seen enough.