Chapter 25
25
“Serious question and please do not lie to me,” Chloe says. “Am I incredibly high or is that doll staring at me?”
Lexi and I follow her gaze up to the ceiling of the Papermoon Diner, where a disembodied doll head surrounded by a wheel, a wooden chair, and an overturned piano gaze unseeingly back at us. Every inch of this place is eclectically decorated, from the nude, Crayola-hued mannequins in the garden to the collection of Pez dispensers in the lobby. It’s trippy even when you haven’t just popped an edible.
I shrug and stuff a sweet potato fry into my mouth. “I think it’s a combination of the two.”
Lexi shudders before turning her attention back to me. She pushes her half-eaten plate of banana custard French toast aside and then rests her elbows on the table, her eyes softening around the edges as she stares at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say. “This whole thing was a mistake from the beginning and it’s my own fault for letting it go on for as long as it did. But I’ve finally come to my senses and put a stop to it. Next week, Graham will marry Claire and then he’ll fuck off to New York and I’ll never have to see him again.”
Lexi’s eyes go puppy dog–round with sympathy. “It’s fine,” I say, tearing my own eyes away from her. “I’m fine. I just want to drink my milkshake and disassociate. Then we can go home and have a Bob Barker marathon.”
I take a long pull of peanut butter–laced dairy that will undoubtedly tear my stomach to shreds in the next twenty-five to forty minutes since I forgot to refill the Lactaid stash in my purse.
Lexi and Chloe exchange a look. My eyes narrow as they dart back and forth between the two of them, trying to parse out the unspoken conversation that’s currently taking place.
“What?” I finally ask. “What is it that you two so desperately want to say?”
Chloe purses her lips. “It’s just interesting that you haven’t made the connection.”
I narrow my eyes. “What connection?”
“You’re constantly telling us that Graham has the personality of a senior citizen. Meantime, your lifelong crush is quite literally an old man.”
I freeze, my straw halfway to my lips. Dear God, how have I not noticed this before? In all the time I’ve spent teasing Graham about his impending AARP membership, I’ve failed to recognize how much he reminds me of someone I’ve loved for half my life. The irony is too much to bear. I push my milkshake to the side, no longer hungry.
Lexi lets out a low sigh. “Are you sure you guys can’t work it out?”
I roll my eyes. “You really have gone soft since Jake,” I say wryly. “And didn’t the two of you just give me a lecture about how I shouldn’t ruin my career over a man?”
“That was before,” Chloe says.
“Before what?” I ask.
Chloe levels her gaze at me, her features arranged in her trademark, no-bullshit expression. “Before I saw the two of you together. Before I watched him look at you like you hung the goddamn moon.”
She leans forward, pressing her elbows into the table. “Before he told you that he loved you.”
My stomach cartwheels the same way it did when I first heard Graham say those words, the effect of it undiluted. A watery image of his face swims in front of my eyes, his expression a tormented combination of agony and desperate hope. My heart twists as I remember the way his face fell when I didn’t say it back.
Chloe leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “And you know what else? I think you love him too.”
I open my mouth to protest, but ultimately decide against it. I know better than to lie to the two people who know me best.
“Okay, fine,” I admit. “You’re right. I love him. I love his stupid Mister Rogers cardigans and his dorky glasses and his soothing BBC accent. I love his ridiculous, messy hair that is totally incongruent with the fact that the rest of him looks like a human spreadsheet. I love that he feels like my fated mate, which sounds so corny I could die, but how else do you describe a connection you have to a man with a matching tattoo? I love everything about him and it’s fucking terrible, because we can’t be together. Are you happy now?”
Lexi lowers the hand that’s crept up to her mouth at some point during my unhinged monologue.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Ali, you have to tell him how you feel.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “Why? What would that accomplish?”
“I don’t know!” she says. “But it’s got to be better than this! Sitting here drowning your sorrows in a freaky ass diner.”
I pop another sweet potato fry into my mouth. “How dare you? This place is iconic. Name one place in New York that has a superior collection of Pez dispensers.”
Chloe is staring at the ceiling again. “I’m telling you, this fucking doll just winked at me.”
“So, that’s it?” Lexi asks. “After all the hellish first dates you’ve been on, you finally found real love and you’re going to walk away from it?”
I grab an untouched chicken tender off her plate and take an enormous bite. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
Lexi opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again. Because that’s what this all boils down to, isn’t it? It’s a shitty situation but there’s nothing to be done about it.
Chloe shakes her finger at the ceiling. “Wink at me again, harlot, and I’ll come up there and cut your eyes out.”
“How many gummies did you have?” Lexi asks.
“Three,” she replies. “I had a second since the first was so good, and then you didn’t want yours, and I wasn’t going to let it go to waste. They were peach-ring flavored, for Christ’s sake.”
I wave to the waitress to signal for a check. “Think it’s time to get Snoop Dogg out of here. Mind if I stay with you guys tonight?”
Lexi reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “A sleepover, just like old times. Sounds perfect.”
Spotify is blasting the angriest Rage Against the Machine songs I could dig up, though I can barely hear over the sound of pots and pans slamming against the countertop. Every available surface is littered with produce—carrots, mushrooms, celery, onions, and garlic—all of which I’m dicing at a rate even I find borderline dangerous. But I’m in my element and it feels good to be back in the kitchen, a place where I feel in control. I’ve just dumped half the vegetables onto a baking sheet and slammed the oven door when my mom pokes her head through the doorway.
“Is it safe to enter?” she asks cautiously. I shrug.
“It’s your house.”
She purses her lips, like she’s trying to bite back a retort, before stepping inside.
“Smells good in here. What are you making?”
“Rage ragu,” I say. “Served with a side of self-loathing.”
My mom nods. “Are you making pasta to go with it?”
I gesture to the handmade pappardelle that I’ve just rolled out and cut into strips.
“Can’t have a pity party without carbs.”
Her face breaks into a cautious grin. “That’s my girl.”
She settles onto one of the kitchen stools and watches me closely.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Yes.
She tilts her head to study me. “Is this about Graham? Did you two have a fight?”
I grab a large skillet from one of the kitchen cabinets and coat the bottom in olive oil.
“No fight,” I say. “Just came to my senses. It was just a mistake to get involved with him.” Now there’s the understatement of the century. The entire affair is what my family would call classic Ali: short-lived and impulsive, with no thought to the long-term consequences. I’m nothing if not true to form.
I switch on the burner, allowing a minute for the oil to preheat, before tossing in a handful of sliced cremini mushrooms. I’d uncorked a bottle of red wine for deglazing, but when I turn back around, my mom is pouring some of it into two long-stemmed glasses. She slides one of them toward me, and I reluctantly take a long gulp.
My mom traces her fingertips around the rim of her glass as she gives me an appraising look.
“You miss cooking,” she says. It’s more of a statement than a question and I nod silently. Lately, I’ve felt a pull toward the kitchen, a place where I can harvest my creative energy, and use it to bring joy to others. It’s a high that’s incomparable to anything else. It’s what I regret most about leaving my previous job in New York.
“I do,” I admit. “I like wedding planning a lot, but… I do miss working in restaurants.”
“Have you ever thought of going back?”
My head pops up. “You mean changing careers again ?” I genuinely cannot believe what I am hearing right now. I know I’m seen as the family flake. At this point, the only way I can top my own flakiness is going back to a career I’ve already left behind.
My mom shrugs. “Why not? Life’s too short not to follow your passions.” Well, that’s rich, coming from her.
“You mean like you did?” I ask, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
My mom frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I fling a dish towel over my shoulder. “You were trying to make a career for yourself as an artist when you met Dad. But you gave up painting to have kids and settle for a nine-to-five job in a soulless, corporate field. You’re not exactly the poster child for chasing one’s passion.”
My mom sighs.
“Oh, Ali. I didn’t give up a career as an artist because I abandoned my dream. I gave it up because I found a new one. Raising you and your sister has been the best experience of my life. And as for working in the nursing home, I was surprised as anyone to discover how much I loved it. But that’s the thing about life. Sometimes it takes you in unexpected directions.”
“I guess that’s my problem,” I lament. “I don’t have direction.” I give the mushrooms a final stir. They’re browned now, so I add in the tomato paste and minced shallots, plus some oregano and red pepper. The savory aroma of the combined ingredients fills the kitchen and I take a gratuitous inhale. I might be a grade A fuckup in every other aspect of my life, but at least I can still conjure culinary magic.
I turn back to my mom before finally sharing a truth I’ve been reluctant to admit to anyone, including myself.
“Everyone in my life is settled. Lexi has her new business and her relationship with Jake. Chloe’s always had her shit together, and now she’s in love too. Sarah came out of the womb with a day planner and a ten-year plan. And then there’s me, the perennial screw-up.”
My mom reaches forward to squeeze my hand. “Baby, you are not a screw-up. Do you have any idea how proud you make me? It takes guts to change careers, let alone to move cities at the same time. You had to start all over again when you ventured into wedding planning, and I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked without complaint. If wedding planning is your life’s passion, then you have my full support. And if you want to quit and go back to being a chef, then I’ll support that too. Just promise me you won’t be so hard on yourself. Not every path to happiness is linear. I just hope that when you find the thing that is right for you, you aren’t afraid to accept it.”
Her words uncoil the knot that’s been slowly forming in my chest. Circling the counter, I throw my arms around my mom’s neck, burying my face in her shoulder. She rubs reassuring circles into my back as she hugs me close for longer than she has in years.
Later, when we’re enjoying the ragu, I reflect on what she said. When was I the happiest and most fulfilled? The answer comes to me almost immediately, the mental image of working with Graham at the murder mystery party. That was the best of both worlds: getting to work as both a chef and event planner. But as wonderful as that day was, it was a one-off. Without the perfect setting or people to vouch for me, who would trust me to both cook and plan? Trudy is still planning to sell the hotel after the wedding and Graham will be moving back to New York. All these silly dreams—of the perfect career, romance, and happy endings—are leaving with him. Wedding planning might not be perfect, but it’s a commitment that I made to myself, and I need to see it through. I’m going to put my best foot forward and finish what I’ve started. And that means making sure Claire and Graham’s wedding goes off without a hitch. No matter how much it hurts.