Chapter 30 Now
Now
Back at my apartment, I email Mandy to let her know I’m working from home for the rest of the day and allow myself exactly ten minutes to freak out over this morning’s revelations.
Then I sit cross-legged on the couch, crack open my laptop and spend twenty more minutes re-freaking out with David via Slack messages.
He concedes that the new developments aren’t ideal but insists I still need to actually talk to Sebastian, and before I can argue he says he’s hopping on a call and sets his status to unavailable. Classic.
After struggling for an hour to write an un-snarky story about how the traditional rehearsal dinner is giving way to the unstructured welcome party, I pivot to editing a guide to the best bridesmaids’ gifts on Etsy that I’d assigned to a freelancer.
As much as I love writing, I sometimes crave the more removed process of fixing up someone else’s writing.
Writing is personal. Vulnerable. Editing, in my experience, is just work.
I publish the gift guide, then assign out a few more breezy stories to fill my editorial calendar for the rest of the month. If Mandy isn’t going to let me write about anything else, I can at least put my freelance budget to good use.
The world of getting-ready robes and modern mirror seating charts miraculously distracts me from thoughts of Sebastian until nearly 5:00 p.m., when my phone buzzes and a bubble with his name appears on my glowing screen. I pick my phone up delicately, like it might bite, and swipe open his message.
Still good for dinner at 5:30? Just wrapping a few things up, then can come get you.
I wonder what things he’s wrapping up and if they involve a certain red-haired surfer.
I debate canceling on him, but I know that would just delay the inevitable. I doubt Sebastian can sufficiently explain away all of the alarming things I’ve learned in the hours since I last saw him, but I also know that David is right: I owe him the chance to try.
I type and delete several responses, all of which sound either suspiciously clipped or overly enthusiastic.
I settle on simply hearting his message, then flip my phone facedown on the table and trudge to my room to make sure I don’t look as confused and angry as I feel.
I step out of the black linen shift dress I’d worn to the office—the same one that Sebastian had zipped for me this morning—and pull on a pair of white cropped jeans and my favorite silky tank top.
I change facing the closet to avoid looking at the bed, but the images bubble up anyway: of Sebastian’s tanned skin against white sheets, of his curls and my waves splayed across the same pillow. God help me.
I run a straightener through my hair. Touch up my mascara. Apply lip gloss. Familiar tasks that distract me from the questions I don’t want to ask. The answers I don’t want to hear.
The buzzer sounds at 5:15. I tap the button on the intercom to let Sebastian up.
When I open the door, the sight of him momentarily jumbles my thoughts.
Sebastian Nikolaou is here to see me. To take me to dinner.
He looks as handsome as ever, in a white button-down with the sleeves cuffed in a way that shows off his infuriatingly appealing forearms, chino shorts and his usual Vans, now yellowing from almost a full summer of sand and sun.
His face looks tanner than it had this morning, his nose slightly red.
Would he deny the reason if I asked? I wonder.
He smiles softly, green eyes roving over me in a way that makes my skin heat.
“You look so pretty,” he says, closing the distance between us.
He cups my cheek with one hand and pulls me toward him by my waist with the other, then presses his lips to mine.
For a moment I forget all about my anger and confusion, giving myself over to the feeling of kissing him, a feeling that still exhilarates me but now leaves an ache in its wake. I pull back.
“I need to talk to you,” I say quietly, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Those green eyes immediately swell with concern.
“Okay. Let’s talk.”
I lead him to the couch and reach for my phone. After pulling the email up, I hand it to him.
He must only read a sentence before realizing what it is. He looks at me with wide, pleading eyes. “Lina, I can explain.”
“Your mom is still selling the restaurant,” I say, matter-of-factly.
He exhales, and any shreds of hope I have that he’d deny it disintegrate with each second that passes.
“Yes,” he admits. “But it’s not what you think. My mom and I negotiated a new deal with Diamond Group—one that would let me stay involved. We aren’t just handing it over to them—not anymore.”
I shake my head. “I’ve seen these kinds of deals before, Sebastian.
They’ll keep your picture on the website, list you as some sort of advisor on their payroll.
They’ll meet with you a few times a year and pretend to care about your input so they can keep the story of a family operation going, but you won’t have any actual say or power. ”
“No,” he says, his voice firm. “They know I have ideas—good ones—and they want to hear me out. I know this restaurant, and I know this town. They see the value I bring.”
“You do bring value—plenty of it. So what do you need them for?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” He throws his hands up in exasperation.
“Money, first of all, for new equipment, better ingredients, building repairs, more staff, the list goes on. A PR team to spread the word and bring in more customers. Connections to more vendors. I want to bring this restaurant into a new era—I want it to make money again—but I’m not arrogant enough to think I can do it on my own, especially while I’m also taking care of my mom. ”
I register the logic in his words, but another truth bubbles to the surface.
“But why not just tell me all this?” I ask.
“Why act like you were working on this grand plan to keep the restaurant if that was never really the case? Why tell me you’re working while you’re surfing?
” I cringe at the words as they escape my mouth.
I sound young and petty and desperate, but I can’t help it. I feel young and petty and desperate.
His eyes narrow in confusion, which only angers me more.
“I stopped by the restaurant earlier to talk to you.” I don’t tell him the part about how I followed him to the beach and saw his lovely surfing buddy.
Sebastian exhales. “I’m not really sure why I didn’t just tell you the whole truth about the Diamond Group deal.
Maybe I thought you would be disappointed in me for not having the confidence to walk away from them altogether.
The situation is … it’s complicated. And I’m still trying to figure it out myself.
” He leans closer to me, and when I pull back hurt flickers across his face.
“But I didn’t lie to you about working today,” he continues.
“I was working, just not at the restaurant. On Mondays I’ve been working on plans for the café—driving up and down the Shore to check out competitors, casually meeting with potential vendors, drafting a budget.
I just don’t advertise all that to the staff.
They’ve mentally prepared for this summer to be our last season, and I don’t want to get their hopes up. ”
Still no explanation for Surfer Girl, and I’m too proud to ask about her.
But you were willing to get my hopes up, I think. What’s left unsaid hangs in the air, and in the silence that follows I realize I could have made the exact same accusation fourteen years ago, on Boardwalk Night. All this time later and we’re still making the same mistakes.
“You knew,” I say finally, my voice small.
When I don’t elaborate, he asks gently, “Knew what, Lina?”
I meet his eyes. “You knew how I felt about you back then. What you said to me on Boardwalk Night made that crystal clear. So I guess I just want to know—why? Why cross the line with me in the first place, if you knew how I felt? You had to know that giving me an ounce of hope would only crush me that much more in the end. Why be so cruel?”
He winces, then squeezes his eyes shut completely, as if trying to erase whatever image had flashed in his mind. He shifts closer to me on the couch, hurt flashing across his eyes again when I inch further back into the cushion.
“I don’t regret kissing you, Lina. But I do regret everything about that night on the boardwalk. I was in a god-awful headspace, but it’s no excuse for the way I treated you. I would give anything to take back what I said. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Tell me about the headspace,” I say, hating the way my voice trembles. “I want to try to understand.”
He lets out a long breath, and I’m reminded of something my mom once said to me years ago, when I’d found myself at the center of some middle school girl drama and desperately wanted to avoid confronting it.
Sometimes the truth is hard to hear but easier to live with.
I can tell that whatever Sebastian is going to say next won’t be easy for him, but I also know that, for there to be any chance of us moving forward, I need to finally hear it.
“The night we kissed in the snack bar,” he says, and I nod, allowing myself to go back to that night—a night that I haven’t let myself go back to in a long time. “It was the same night my dad told my mom and me that he was leaving us. We were completely blindsided.”
My body tenses as I absorb this new piece of information and match it up with what I remember. Sebastian’s dad had unexpectedly picked him up that night. It was the reason Sebastian didn’t drive me home like usual—the reason we didn’t get a chance to talk about the kiss and what it meant.
“Your dad left … that night?” I ask, trying to get a handle on the timeline. “So, before your senior year?”