by Virna DePaul
“Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean. And look Lee, do whatever you want. I'm also going to do whatever you want, because I want to keep my Ferrari, and Nancy will kill me if I don't take her and the kids to Hawaii this year. But I'm your friend, too, Lee. And I know you can be rash. You're impulsive and you live life without a safety net.”
I patiently listen while he gives me his speech, because he's a friend and I have no qualms about sipping his ridiculously priced whiskey.
“Lee, I just want to make sure you're not going to regret your decision.”
I throw back the last of the whiskey and stand up. Joe watches me with wary eyes, and I know he isn't going to like what I'm going to say. But I'm going to say it.
“All of them, Joe.” I point a finger at him and smile. “Sell all of them.”
I leave his office, and he shouts after me, “All of them?”
“All of them!” I shout back as I step onto the elevator.
I lean against the wall and close my eyes as the buttons beep from floor to floor. I feel good. I feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted. I'm proud of my restaurants I've built from the ground up here in New York. Prouder than I can say. Every brick has my name on it. Every decoration, linen selection, and menu creation has my name on it. From the floor to the ceiling, I've touched everything. They are mine.
But in a lot of ways, they've been taken from me. It's become about the fame and less about the restaurants themselves. They're about my persona and not about the food I touch and create and love.
So, I'm going to go find something that will reflect the real me.
Bryce will be shocked, of course. When he gets back from Japan, I won’t be here. I’m going to need to tell him everything eventually. That I’d taken my shot with Jenna and had failed. And I’d also thank him for encouraging me to take my shot, because otherwise I’d always have wondered what could have been.
The elevator doors open, and I slide through the crowd and out onto the street. More than ever, it feels like everything is before me.
My phone beeps and I check a new email. I'm selling the cars, the loft, the clothes, the furniture, the stuff, the watches and pocket squares and shoes. I'm getting rid of all this expensive stuff I've hidden behind. All the stuff I thought I needed to be who I wanted to be, but was really making me someone I wasn't.
Once I get rid of it all, I'm leaving the city. Maybe I'll be back at some point, but not for a long while. I'm going to travel around the world and study and learn and listen. With every new location and new culture, I want to know how those people cook, how they share food, how they build connections around dining and eating and laughing. I want to get back to the craft and the passion behind the craft, not all the 'fun' stuff, as Joe put it.
As I pass by Jenna's building, I can't help but think of her. How could I not? She is, after all, the reason for all of this. Her drunken blog, I should say. I can't remember the last time someone was honest with me, and that blog was certainly honest. Maybe a little too honest, but that's beside the point now.
Of course, my investors weren't happy with the blog. I can't wait to tell them about selling off all my restaurants and canceling plans for the new one. They're going to lose their fucking minds. It’s good to feel a little smug about that. They were a pain in the ass, anyway.
I’m going to have to call Owen Kiss eventually. Thank him for sticking by me through this mess and then release him from our contract. No more restaurants means no televised cooking show. No cookbooks. No Lee Bowers merchandise. And that's just fine. I don’t feel the loss of those things. I just feel the loss of Jenna.
The sooner I get rid of everything and settle all of my old business here, the better. Then I’m going to spin a globe. Well, not a real globe. I’ll just open Google Earth, close my eyes, and press my finger to some random spot on the screen. That’s where I’ll go first. I’ll buy a ticket, and then I’m off.
If only I was buying two tickets. Then, I really wouldn’t want anything else, material or not, for the rest of my life.
It’s true, and I can admit it’s true, that I’ve lived most of my life selfishly. But I just wanted to do for Jenna what she did for me. No one should be held back by fear. No one should be afraid to let go.
I messed up by not telling Jenna I knew about her blog. Maybe things would have gone differently if I had told her the moment I saw the editor's screen that morning. Would everything have worked out if I had jostled her awake right then and there and said, “What the fuck, Jenna Harrison, you sexy beast?”
But I think back to the open and honest conversations we had over instant messaging. I've known Jenna for years and years, and I've never, ever come close to having such an intimate conversation with her. Not even fucking close.
What I did wasn't the most honest way to go about things, but there is no way she would have said those things if she knew that I knew it was her.
Rubbing my forehead, I wait for the subway so I can meet with my realtor. I still get confused by the ‘who knew’ and ‘who didn't know’ of this fiasco. But I think I said that right.
I think I did ...
Since the night Jenna walked away from me at Torch, I've wondered if there was maybe another reason why I didn't just come out and tell her earlier, a reason I wasn't willing to admit even to myself.
The subway doors open, and I squeeze in. Across from me a beautiful girl makes eyes at me. Two months ago, I’d be making eyes right back and probably be leaving the subway with her. But today, I just smile politely and stare out the window as the tunnel flashes by.
That drunken blog and all the chaos that followed all ended up in the most unintended but wonderful consequence: a relationship with Jenna. We’d been friends for so long, and I'd always viewed her as entirely out of my league. She’s so smart and successful and driven. It felt so fragile and unbelievable that she wanted to be with me. I didn't want to let go of whatever strange thing we had. Maybe that’s the secret reason I didn’t come out and tell her. What we had was because of the blog, so I worried once I let go of the blog, she'd let go of me. I was afraid of that moment when she walked away.
And it happened. What I feared would happen, happened.
Some day, Jenna will meet a guy who is worth leaping for. He’ll make her want to open up and be brave and uncover that mask of hers.
I hope she finds him. Because he’s clearly not me. That’s what she told me when she walked away from Torch that night.
I’m not the one.
19
Jenna
At the end of the day, I step out of my office and breathe in pollution and sweat and street food, but it feels like the freshest air in the world.
My office was stifling today, absolutely stifling. I called maintenance three times to come and make sure nothing was wrong with the air conditioning or the ventilation system or the window or whatever else was making it so God damn stifling.
“Ma’am, nothing is wrong with your office,” Alex had said for the fifth time.
Bless his heart for being patient with me. He ended up saying it eight more times during the afternoon.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Alex had nodded. Like he nodded the other five times before that. I stood there, stripped down to just a lace spaghetti-strap top, my slacks rolled up to my knees, no shoes on. My feet probably stank, but I couldn’t stand stuffing them into my closed toe, courtroom appropriate black kitten heels.
All day, the air was heavy and unmoving. Shit, I could have sworn the fucking walls were closing in on me. The ceiling, too. But I didn’t tell anyone, because I didn’t want Human Resources to send over the wagon with the men in all white uniforms.
“Maybe you’re coming down with something, ma’am?” Alex asks now, with a hint of worry in his voice. “A bug of some kind maybe?”
“It feels all right in here to you?” I fidget with the pens, the pencils, the paperclips. “It really doesn’t feel like it’s ninety degrees?”
> “If anything, it’s cooler in here than anywhere else in the building. I can bring up a fan though, if you’re uncomfortable?”
I thank him and promise to take him out for a whole lotta beer for all the hassle I put him through. And it was a lot of hassle.
He pauses at the door to my office. “You sure you don’t want the fan?”
“I’m good, Alex. I don’t think what’s wrong with me can be solved with a fan.”
“Guy problems, ma’am?” he asks with a wink.
“Me problems, I think.”
“Even worse.”
“Tell me about it.”
The rest of the day, I suffered through. Shifting around uncomfortably in my chair, trying to focus on the view out my window, and escaping to the bathroom every fifteen minutes to splash cold water against my neck.
Outside on the street, I check my watch. Hmmm, I’m probably going to be late for my date with William over in midtown. I should hurry to catch the next subway train, but I just can’t get my feet to start that hurrying. Ambivalence is too strong a word for my feelings about this date tonight. I’m hoping it will at least serve as a distraction for a couple hours. I mean, there will be alcohol. Alcohol should help, right?
My purse vibrates against my side and I drag it out expecting a client’s text and instead see my brother’s name on the screen. I haven’t talked to him since he left for Japan even though I left him a couple of messages.
“Bryce!” I hold the phone against my shoulder as I struggle with my purse. “Bryce, hey, can you hear me?”
“How’s my favorite sister?” his voice comes in a little staticky, but clear.
I duck into a doorway that at least provides a little bit of privacy from the busy streets of New York City.
“I’d be flattered if I wasn’t your only sister.”
“Busted.”
I roll my eyes despite knowing he can’t see it. “You must be enjoying Japan,” I say, laying on just a little sisterly guilt. “Because you haven’t called back, Bryce.”
“I’m here on business, remember? Plus I thought you’d have your hands full anyway.”
He must mean with work. “Right. That’s me. All work. All the time.” I sigh. Or at least I thought it was going to be a sigh, but it sounded closer to a sob.
“Jenna, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just that… well…”
“Please tell me what’s going on so I can stop freaking out.”
I bite my lip. Hesitate. Then say, “I know you’re going to be super mad and all, but I might as well say it while you’re thousands of miles away, right?”
“Jenna.”
“Fine. Lee and I, well, we may have… we…”
“You two are dating?”
“Look I know you’re upset, but—”
“Why would I be upset?”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you booking a ticket right now so you can come beat on Lee’s ass?”
Bryce laughs.
“You’re not plotting how to drag him out of his apartment and relieve him of his manhood?”
“Not particularly.”
I hesitate. “You’re not secretly dialing his number to call him a ‘motherfucker’ and permanently end your life long friendship with him?”
“Nope. I love Lee. And obviously, so do you given the blog you wrote.”
I close my eyes. Right. I’d completely forgotten that he knew about that. And suddenly, the fact that he hadn’t called me seems really significant. “Is that why you haven’t called me? Because you figured out I was in love with Lee and wanted to give us time to work things out?”
“Yeah. But given how miserable you just sounded, I’m assuming you haven’t? Worked things out?”
“We crashed and burned in royal fashion. I have a date with William tonight.”
“You hate William,” Bryce says immediately.
“I don’t—”
“Look, Jenna, I don’t know what happened with Lee and you’re obviously an adult that can make her own choices.”
“I—”
“But don’t run from your feelings again. Don’t make up a fake internship. Be honest. Whether that means you and Lee end up together, who knows, but he cares about you. He always has.”
I close my eyes and lean my head against the exterior of the building.
“Did you hear me, Jenna?”
“Yes,” I manage.
“I love you too, Jenna, girl.”
“I know. Love you.”
“I’ve got to go but I’ll call you soon.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “Bye.”
I hang up. It takes me a while to get going after that, but thirty minutes later I’m walking toward the restaurant where I’m meeting William. I think about the life Lee was trying to offer me. For months, I’ve imagined walking into my boss’s office at the firm and throwing my own published book right down on his desk. Then I’d turn right around and walk out without a single word. I can even picture my idiot, horrible boss opening the cover in confusion and on the first page I would have written: I quit.
Lee did for me what I was always far too afraid to do for myself. He reached out to publishers to turn my blog into what could be a full-time job. By doing so, he offered a path of passion for me to follow.
I could focus on food. I could write about food. I could travel the world and write about food. I could travel the world and write about food with someone.
With Lee.
While he certainly offered me an opportunity for a major career path change, he also offered me something far greater: a new path for who I am and who I want to be. One where I don’t have to hide behind the blog or hide behind anything. With Lee, I could be brave and bold.
Brave and bold.
I sigh as I wait at an intersection for the light to change. I turned him down, though. I said no. It’s hilarious really. I wrote a terrible, potentially damaging blog, and when Lee finds out it’s me, he doesn’t get mad and yell and slam doors and leave.
No, he used it as a way to reach out and help me. He took advantage of really the only way I would have let someone into my inner life like that. And what does he get for his forgiveness and kindness?
A stinging rejection, a screaming woman, and a broken wine glass.
Oh great, I can see the restaurant. My steps grow slower and slower to the point where the guy who hurriedly passes by me sends a nasty glare over his shoulder. Fuck him.
No, fuck me.
William gives me a chaste kiss that contrasts so painfully with the passionate ones I shared with Lee. He holds out my chair like a gentleman and orders a lovely bottle of wine like a gentleman and tells me I look beautiful like a gentleman. And it’s all so gentlemanly, and all I keep thinking is he isn’t Lee.
“I’m surprised you asked me out for another date, Jenna.”
Lost in thought, I look up from the wine I’m swirling in my glass, and try to manage a smile for William. He’s right. I did ask him for this … I guess it’s a date. I shouldn’t act like a moody brat.
“Why are you surprised?” I ask him, forcing myself to rub his hand across the table.
I can do this. I can move on and move forward, and William is a gentleman. A gentleman who is not Lee. Stop fucking thinking about him, for starters.
“Um, well, maybe it isn’t my place to say this,” William begins, giving my hand a squeeze that doesn’t send jolts of excitement down my arm the way Lee did, “but you seemed to be more into your brother’s friend than me the night of your birthday.”
Well, great. It’s hard to not think about Lee when my fucking date wants to talk about him. I laugh what I hope is a casual laugh.
“Lee just knows how to push my buttons,” I say. “That’s all.”
“Knows you a little too well, huh?”
I laugh again, a genuine one this time. “Yes. He knows me far too well for his own good.”
William refills my glass. “He didn’t stri
ke me as your type, anyway.”
I raise an eyebrow at his comment. “No? How so?”
He shrugs and skims the menu as I wait for his answer.
“You and I, Jenna. We’re more alike. We’re in control of ourselves, you know? We’re not impulsive. We like to know where we’re headed, not just follow whatever whim strikes us. We play it safe.” He looks up. “So, I think I’m going with the special. What do you want?”
I mumble some random dish I’m not really sure is even from this restaurant. Is that how he sees me? Is that how my office sees me? Is that how everyone sees me?
No. It’s not.
Not everyone.
William walks me to my apartment building. In the glow from the lobby, he lingers by the door. My doorman peers out at us like he’s got a bag of popcorn and a large Coke, ready for the show of his life. I shuffle over a little so we’re out of his sightline.
“Thanks for a nice evening, William.”
He’s expecting to get asked if he wants any ‘coffee’. But I don’t want ‘coffee’. Not with William. He slips his hand against my waist, and I might as well have been sitting in a fridge all day, based on how numb I am to his touch.
“Jenna,” he starts, “I think we can get along together.”
Get along together? I roll his words over in my mind. I can get along with my mailman or the barista at Starbucks or my grandmother. I can get along with the doorman ogling us from five feet away. Get along together? Is that it?
“We can be good companions for each other,” William continues.
Like a dog is a good companion, right? Are we just going to be fluffy, comforting things for each other to pet and stare at? ‘Good companion’ doesn’t exactly scream passion and intensity and thrill. Rather, it whispers floral print sofas and cups of tea with honey. That’s what ‘good companion’ means to me.
“A nice match.”
Of course, he means match like a pair, a team. But I’m thinking of a different kind of match. The one that strikes and burns. It needs friction to light. Without it, a match is useless. It needs that rough, uneven surface. Strike a match against something smooth and flat and it won’t light. But give it friction, give it something to work against, something different and the result is a hot flame. Scorching fire.