Chapter 10 Nico
TEN
Nico
I pull the car right into the lot, won’t take no for an answer. Because for some insane reason I want to hang out with Annie “My Worst Fuckin’ Nightmare But Also My Wettest Fuckin’ Dream” Li.
She pulls herself out of her book-hole as I turn the car off. We haven’t said much since turning off the Blue Ridge Parkway. I think both of us were afraid of popping that bubble of an unspoken truce.
“Where are we?”
I look over.
She’s blinking a lot.
“Asheville. We gotta eat, so we’re at the restaurant that wanted me to visit.”
Her eyes dart around, reminding me of a terrified baby rabbit.
There’s a subtle shift in her demeanor, and I can’t pin a new adjective to it.
She suddenly shuts it away, and I can almost hear the clang of her walls smashing down as she seems to come to a decision.
She looks at me. “Cool,” she says, and that’s all I get.
We both get out of the car and meet at the front of it.
She’s still swimming in the ratty Duke hoodie I pulled over her head at the overlook, the tattoos on her hands and fingers peeking out of the frayed sleeves, the soft, heather gray a stark contrast to the dark tattoos all over her exposed legs.
She pulls her hair out of its elastic, the silk curtain of it spilling into the hood.
The whole thing makes me stop dead in my tracks.
“You want it?” she asks.
I squint at her and attempt to decipher her meaning. The legs? Yes, I want it. Wrapped around my head. Or waist. Again. But maybe without clothes this time. Maybe. But I’m not picky. The hair, though? Twisted in my fist.
“The hoodie,” she thankfully clarifies.
“Absolutely not,” I tell her.
With this, Annie seems to burrow further into it, tucking her chin into the collar and shoving her hands in the front pocket.
This makes me want to take her hand out and hold it, rub my thumb over the tattoos on her fingers, but I’m not going to disturb the new armor she’s created for herself with my freakin’ sweatshirt.
I shove my hands into my own pockets. “Let’s go. ”
“Sorry, our kitchen is closing in five minutes,” the hostess tells us when we walk in.
“I’m Nico Giannuzzi from NYU,” I tell her.
“Claire’s expecting me.” Claire is the head chef of this fine establishment.
I’m proud of her. We crossed paths a million years ago when she was a sous-chef at a restaurant in the city.
Hooked up once. She and I had been chatting earlier this month while I was planning the trip, and our texting hinted at a…
reunion when I came down here. But honestly, I hadn’t thought of her once until right now, and that likely has to do with the woman standing right next to me.
This has been a grave miscalculation.
“Oh. In that case, you can go sit by the bar. I’ll let her know you’re here,” the hostess tells us.
I let Annie walk ahead of me, and she slides onto a bar stool with practiced ease. I watch her put on a costume. It’s a little scary. That soft Annie Li has transformed into something else. She’s armed herself and is ready for battle.
The bartender walks over, a tall, good-looking guy covered in as many tattoos as Annie, maybe more. That feeling comes back, the urge to bare my teeth and pound on my chest like a gorilla.
Annie gives him a look, a sly and knowing smile meant just for him, but the weight of suggestion and the force of the pheromones are so strong it probably brings every straight man, gay woman, and pansexual person within a mile radius to their fuckin’ knees.
He recovers quickly. “Can I help you?” he asks her and not me, because I no longer exist.
She licks her lips—unconscious or conscious movement I don’t know—but he for sure catches it and I suddenly feel like throwing this barstool at the wall.
“I’ll just have a sparkling water, but my friend here might want something stronger,” she tells him, immediately fuckin’ friend-zoning me, and I should be happy I’ve been elevated to the level of ‘friend’ instead of ‘worst enemy,’ but sure as hell am not.
Forget the wall, the barstool might need to smash him right in the fuckin’ teeth.
He doesn’t even glance over. “I can make you a mocktail,” he tells her, practically salivating at the need to serve her.
“Oh, yes. Please,” Annie purrs, in that voice meant for dark, private spaces like under the blankets or bent over a table, and with that, he’s in and I’m out.
I sigh.
Simple, I remind myself, and force myself to tune out of their conversation after he introduces himself to her as “Mark.” Would love a drink but it probably ain’t happenin’ unless I leap over the bar and get it myself. Mark wouldn’t even notice because of the thrall she’s captured him in.
A familiar voice cuts through the angry buzzing in my ears.
“Nico!”
I turn just in time to catch Claire barreling toward me, eyes bright, arms already wide. “I’m so happy to see you!”
I slide off the stool and pull her into a hug. “Hey, you.”
She grins. “How’s your drive going?”
I don’t even know how to answer. “It’s definitely… something.”
Claire laughs, and I turn to Annie to introduce her, but something makes me pause. Something’s changed in Annie’s demeanor, a teeny tiny shift of that something I sensed in the car. “This is—”
Annie gracefully steps off the stool, extends her hand.
“I’m Annie,” she says. “My sister’s marrying Nico’s friend so I decided to catch a ride to their wedding,” and with that I’ve been demoted even further, kicked out of the friend-zone and into the just-my-ride zone and I decide that I fuckin’ hate it here.
They continue their introductions while I sit there like an idiot. When Annie sits back down, she puts an entire barstool between us, which somehow feels like an empty, yawning chasm.
“What do you think?” Claire asks.
“Well, your menu looks awesome. Actually, everything about this place is incredible,” Annie shares, tone genuine. She looks around. “It feels warm, but elegant. Like you package comfort and serve it with good wine.”
“Wow,” Claire laughs at Annie, eyes alight. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
“You did good, girl,” Annie grins back.
I continue to sit there like a potted fern.
“You hungry?” Claire asks us. “I can whip something up real quick for you guys.”
“Starving. That would be much appreciated. Really excited to try it,” Annie replies with a smile.
“I’ll send it out with one of the guys when I’m done.” Claire turns back to me. “You wanna come back to the kitchen?” Claire asks me, her eyes sparkling.
“Uh…” It’s the plant’s turn to speak. I turn to Annie. “Do you—”
Annie glances at Claire, then looks at me. “I’m good,” she says with finality. “You won’t even remember I’m here.”
I will never forget about you for as long as I live, Annie, a strange voice says in my noggin.
Mark takes that opportunity to swoop in like a fuckin’ hawk, and Annie redirects the force of her smile at him.
Simple, I remind myself. “Let’s go,” I tell Claire.
This is one of my jobs and everything I love about this job, but for the life of me right now I can’t get into telling Claire how she can improve her foams. I say all the right things, mention lecithin and gelatin and agar and methylcellulose and xanthan gum, use a whipping siphon with nitrous oxide gas, but I try to keep it short and sweet and simple, trying to wrap it up quickly, keep it copacetic.
It doesn’t feel fast enough, though, and by the time we’re done, the kitchen’s closed and cleaned and the kitchen staff has wandered out and it’s just me and Claire.
This entire time I’m really feeling some type of way leaving Annie out there with fuckin’ Mark.
Eventually, there’s nothing left to talk about, and the conversation switches gears into more catch-up, personal topics.
“I kinda want a drink,” I tell Claire. I can’t take it any longer. “Could we go back out there?”
“Oh,” she says. “Sure! Mark will hook you up.”
That’s all Mark better be hooking up.
We step back onto the floor, and it’s a pretty standard sight. Staff lounging around, holding beers, stepping out for a cigarette, vape pens being handed off. I finally find Annie, and she’s still by the bar but now surrounded by a group of guys.
She looks fine. She looks at ease. I remember what my sister said about Annie. Annie knows how to party.
Claire and I wander over to the group, where they’re talking about Annie’s tattoos, of all things.
“Yeah, they’re Pete Cheser’s,” she’s saying.
“Sick,” Fuckin’ Mark says. “I’ve always wanted a piece by him. His waitlist was like a year long last I checked.”
She chuckles. “Well, his waitlist is now probably ten years long, because that’s the length of his incarceration.”
The guys, including me, wince.
“How’d you get so many then?” someone else asks.
She shrugs, a picture of nonchalance, but I can tell now that it’s forced. “We dated for a bit.”
Everyone marvels at her.
Annie notices us now. She glances back and forth between me and Claire. “Hey,” she says simply. “How’d it go?”
“Wonderful,” Claire grins. “I love this guy,” she says, bumping me with her shoulder.
“Wonderful,” Annie answers with a smile, looking anywhere but at me.
Wonderful.
Mark finally gets me a drink. As parties do, it ebbs and flows—groups shifting, splintering, reforming; people trading puffs, bumps, and questionable decisions. I eventually claim a spot on a couch across the room, keeping an eye on Annie.
And there she is.