Chapter 16 Eliana #2
I lift the shell to my lips, hesitate, then tip it back. The oyster slides onto my tongue—cold, briny, with a sweetness underneath that surprises me. It tastes like the ocean.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“Good?”
“It’s… ” I search for words. “Complex. Minerally. Sweet but also salty? How is it doing all these things at once?”
Bastian actually smiles—not his usual sharp smirk, but something softer. “You have a good palate. That’s a Kusshi from British Columbia. They’re known for that sweet finish.”
Dante sets out more varieties, each with its own personality.
Bastian guides me through them: Kumamotos from Washington (buttery, almost nutty), Blue Points from Connecticut (sharp, crisp, classic), Beausoleil from New Brunswick (clean, light, perfect for newbies like moi). He knows everything about each one.
“You’re like an oyster encyclopedia,” I tell him after my sixth or seventh. The wine from earlier is making me bolder than I ought to be.
“I spent a lot of time here,” he admits. “When I was starting out, trying to make a name for myself. This place was a kind of sanctuary.”
“From what?”
His jaw tightens. “From a lot of things. Dante never asked questions. Just let me sit here and learn.”
“He was runnin’ from his brother,” Dante supplies helpfully. That earns him a sharp look from Bastian. “What? She’s your project whatchamacallit, ain’t she? That’s basically family.”
“Dante.”
I want to keep prying, but there’s a hint of that storm on Bastian’s face. By now, I know better than to poke when he gets that furrowed brow. So I swallow my questions.
“My brother and I are… different,” he explains cryptically when he sees me looking. “He chose his path. I chose a different one.”
“The oyster path,” Dante says solemnly. “A noble calling.”
The tension breaks, and Bastian laughs. Just like that, the storm goes away. “Exactly. The oyster path.”
We work through more varieties, and somewhere between the Miyagis and the Wellfleets, I forget he’s my boss. It’s just too easy to fall into this slipstream of easy banter, of laughing and swilling beer between dirty jokes and silly arguments.
Another customer comes in and Dante goes shuffling off to tend to them. When he’s gone, I look sidelong at this strange, Alice-in-Wonderland version of Bastian I’m seeing tonight.
“You’re different here,” I inform him. “Away from the office. You’re… lighter.”
The smile fades slightly, and I know I’ve hit something true. “Dante brings it out of me,” he explains. “He knew me before all my… everything. Back when I was just a stubborn kid who thought he could change the world, one plate at a time.”
“And did you?” I ask. “Change the world?”
He’s silent and thoughtful for a moment, rolling an oyster shell between his fingers. “I built something. Whether that constitutes changing the world… Ask me in ninety days when Olympus launches.”
The mention of our timeline creates a small silence. The warm bubble of wine and oysters and unexpected connection pops, leaving us back in reality where I’m dying—well, no, not dying, just going blind, but it feels like dying sometimes—and he’s paying me to pretend everything’s fine.
“Not ninety,” I say.
“Huh?”
I raise my eyes. “It’s past midnight. That means eighty-seven days now,” I say. “Not ninety.”
Bastian sets down the shell and looks at me directly. His eyes in the warm light aren’t their usual arctic blue but something softer, like the ocean at dusk. “Then we’d better make them count.”
The weight of his gaze is too much. I look away, catch Dante watching us from the corner of the bar with an expression I can’t read.
“Another round?” Dante asks gently.
“I should probably stop,” I say. “I’ve had many oysters. So many oysters. All the oysters.”
“Lightweight,” Bastian teases.
“Not everyone has your cast-iron constitution.”
We settle up—Bastian pays despite my protests—and Dante hugs us both goodbye. “Bring her back, Bash!” he calls from the doorway as we climb the stairs to street level. “She’s a helluva lot easier on the eyes than you are!”
The night air is sharp after the warmth of the basement bar. I shiver, and Bastian’s hand settles on my back again. It’s becoming familiar, that touch. Dangerous in its familiarity.
In the car, I catch him smiling softly, in that way you do when things are just going right and the world feels light and easy and full of hope.
When he notices me watching, the smile doesn’t immediately disappear like I would’ve expected.
It lingers, soft around the edges, hazy, like butter melting in the pan.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just… I like this version of you.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white for just a moment before he forces them to relax. “Don’t get used to it.”
But the smile stays all the way to my apartment, through his insistence on walking me to my door, up to our awkward goodbye where neither of us seems to know how to end the evening.
I shuffle in place. The concrete below my feet has never been more fascinating. “Thank you,” I finally muster up the courage to say. “For the oysters. And the wine lesson. And saving me from Harold’s wandering hands.”
“All part of the deal,” he murmurs. “Eleven thousand dollars a day, plus protection from creepy investors.”
“And the comprehensive oyster education?”
“That was… ” He pauses, seems to search for words. “That was just because you’d never had them. Seemed wrong.”
“A lot of things seem wrong to you.”
“Most things,” he agrees. “But not this.”
I don’t ask what ‘this’ is. I’m not sure either of us could answer.
“Goodnight, Bastian.”
“Goodnight, Eliana.”
He waits until I’m inside, until he hears the lock turn, before leaving. I press my back against the door and close my eyes, still tasting salt and wine, still feeling the ghost of his hands teaching mine how to hold a knife, how to find the exact point where resistance gives way to opening.
I’m in so much trouble.