Chapter 17 #2
There’s no sign indicating it’s an Italian restaurant, or any restaurant at all, but there is a large, life-sized statue of a moose.
Its head is brown and lifelike, with large light brown antlers.
Painted on its body is a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey, rainbow-colored knee-high socks, and a black-and-yellow pirate hat.
It was once part of some public art display in Toronto in the early 2000s, then somehow made its way up to Port Logan and the front sidewalk of Nona Sardo’s, giving the restaurant its nickname.
Tourists might be able to find the place if they stumble across the right Tripadvisor recommendation. But only locals call it “the Moose.”
We open the front door to a blast of warm air that smells like tomato sauce and garlic bread.
The Moose has only six tables, plus a room at the back reserved for family celebrations, and only if you know Nona Sardo well enough to ask.
The tables are covered with red-and-white tablecloths, with old bottles of Chianti in the middle.
Each has a long white candle inside, dripping layers of white wax over the side. It’s homey, romantic, and perfect.
“Hey, Jules.” Danielle, Nona’s youngest daughter, greets me as she emerges from the kitchen, a plate of creamy fettuccine in each hand. “You can have that table back in the corner. The other one is a reservation.”
The corner table is one Nona always keeps open for locals wandering in. I’m surprised to find it vacant.
“Actually, I think we are your reservation,” I tell her. “But that table looks great.”
Danielle tips her head sideways, looking past me. “Oh, hey, Reeve. I didn’t see you there. Mom wanted to say hello tonight, but her hip is bad, so she’s at home. She sends her love, though. I’ll be over in just a minute.” She sets the plates in front of two guests I don’t recognize.
I move to the table, slip off my coat, and place it on the back of my chair, trying to fit this new piece of Reeve into the unfinished puzzle of him in my head. “Okay, how do you know Nona?” I ask as I pull my chair back and we sit.
Reeve settles into the spot across from me. “We had a place near here in Southampton when I was a kid. There was a solid summer where the only thing I wanted to eat was gnocchi, so I always came here with my nana.”
I try to picture Reeve as a little kid but can’t.
“I came here as a kid, too, every Friday night. My mom would get paid and then pick me up from my after-school babysitter, and we’d drive down here and split a giant plate of spaghetti. You never know. You could have been sitting at one of the tables next to me and I never even noticed.”
Reeve leans forward, his forearms resting on the top of the table. “Maybe. But I think I would have noticed.”
My stomach fills with that fluttery feeling that has become synonymous with being around Reeve.
“Do you try to be charming?” I ask. “Or does it just ooze out of you naturally?”
He smiles. “With you, Jules, I’m always trying.”
We’re interrupted as Danielle comes to take our order. We select a bottle of red to split and both choose the gnocchi as our main. Danielle immediately brings the wine over and pours it into two stemless glass tumblers.
Reeve tips his glass toward mine. “I know we did things a little out of order, but I’m glad we ended up here.” He lifts his glass for a cheers. “To our first date.”
I clink my glass with his, trying to find the right words to respond. Instead, I pick up our conversation from where we left it a moment ago. “So, does your family still come up here?”
Reeve shakes his head. “No, they’ve rented the place the last few years and sold it last summer. My oldest brother is an orthopedic surgeon and works all the time, and my younger brother just finished law school and joined my dad’s firm, so the place was sitting empty most of the year.”
My eyebrows lift involuntarily. “Wow! Impressive family.”
Reeve offers what feels like a forced smile. “They like to think so.” He sets his glass down next to mine, and whether intentional or not, when he pulls his hand away, his fingers brush the back of my hand.
“What about you?” I ask. “Where does all that love for art come from? Your mom?”
Reeve leans back in his seat and shakes his head. “My mom is a CFO for a big telco. She’s probably the least interested in art. I thought I might be adopted for a while, but we all look alike, which puts a big hole in that theory.”
“Did you ever end up working in a gallery?” I think back to our conversation on the dock. “I remember you said you were trying to get an internship.”
Reeve nods. “I did. Best three months of my life. They wanted me to stay on longer, but their budgets were limited and they couldn’t guarantee when the position would become paid.
My dad golfs with Howard Mansfield. They go way back.
So when he had an opening at his company, I was strongly encouraged to take it. ”
The way Reeve smiles makes me think it was a little more than strong encouragement.
“Do you like your job?”
Reeve thinks about my question. “I wouldn’t say like.
Real estate isn’t really my thing, but I do get kind of a rush when I close a deal.
It’s kind of the same feeling as when I find a really great piece of art, so I figure that counts for something.
What about you? Do you like working at the retirement home? ”
“I do.” I nod, taking a sip of water. “I applied to work there thinking it would be a good way to pad my résumé for med school and then I fell in love with the place. The residents are great, and I feel like the work I do is actually helping people.”
Reeve takes a sip of his wine. “Do you think you’ll ever go?” he asks. “To med school, I mean.”
He is looking at me like I’m still that same girl I was on that dock. The one who saw the future she wanted and wasn’t afraid to admit it out loud—as improbable as it might be.
“I actually applied for next fall.” It feels surprisingly good to say it out loud. “So I guess that’s up to U of T.”
His eyebrows lift. “That’s amazing. When will you find out if you get in?”
I lift my wineglass to my lips and drain the last of it. “Final decisions are made by May, but I need to get invited to the interview round first.”
Reeve nods, picking up the bottle of wine and topping off my glass. “And when do you find out about that?”
My stomach squeezes. “They said we will hear, either way, by the end of January. So any day now, I guess.”
Reeve’s eyes go wide. “So are you checking your email every hour?”
My hand instinctively reaches for my coat pocket, closing around the hard edges of my Samsung phone to confirm it’s still there. “I glanced at it this morning for about thirty seconds for something unrelated, but other than that, I have avoided checking it completely.”
Reeve eyes me as if he’s waiting for some sort of punch line. “Seriously? Not even once?”
I shake my head, pulling my phone from my pocket and setting it on the table as if presenting evidence.
Reeve stares at it. “You mean, your answer could be sitting in there right now waiting for you.”
I shrug. “Theoretically, yes.”
Reeve shakes his head, smiling. “What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know…. The right time? The nerve.” The honest answer is probably some deeper Schrodinger-based explanation. Right now, that email could be in there, or it could not.
“Why not do it now?”
The way he says it makes it seem so easy. “Open your email. Take a look. Rip the Band-Aid off,” he teases.
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
He nudges my phone closer to my hand with his fingers.
Now that I’ve considered the idea, I can’t unthink it. I could do it right now, and then I’d at least know either way.
“Fine.” I slide the phone over to his side of the table. “But you have to do it.”
Reeve stares at the phone and then at me. “You want me to check your email?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I was ready to come here tonight and enjoy my wine in pure, ignorant bliss until you suggested ripping Band-Aids off.” I pick up the phone, swipe it open, click on my Gmail, and hand it to him. “Here you go. Rip away.”
He takes the phone tentatively as if trying to figure out how serious I am. “I think you should be the one doing this.”
I close my eyes, unable to watch. Afraid to see an expression cross his face that I’ll never be able to unsee. “I can’t. Right now I need to focus on not throwing up.”
I wait for a moment. With my eyes closed, I can’t tell if he’s looking or still staring at me.
“It’s here,” he finally says, and my heart jumps straight up my esophagus and into my throat.
“Do not joke, Reeve, please.” My voice cracks.
I hear Reeve’s chair scraping across the floor, then I feel his warm hand on my back.
“I really think you need to read it.”
I open one eye and then the other.
He’s holding my phone in front of me. My eyes scan the screen and stop.
The University of Toronto Admissions Office; Update to Medical School Application
The preview cuts off after application. No hint of the contents or which way they will go.
It’s like time halts around me.
After what feels like an eternity, I find my ability to speak. “They really should be more detailed in their email notifications. It’s like they’re already trying to weed out those of us with weak hearts.”
Reeve strokes my back in small, soothing circles.
My thumb hovers over the screen, shaking.
I click.
The words in front of me blur.
“Jules.” Reeve rubs my back a little firmer. “Jules, look at it.”
I open my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d even closed them in the first place. The letters in front of me come into focus enough for me to read in small chunks: congratulations…interview…Toronto.
My heart hammers hard as I look a second time.
“Holy shit. This is real, right?”
Reeve’s lips lightly press my temple. “Congratulations.”