The Restaurateur

by Aubrey Parker

  Across the room, I look back. And there’s Mateo, checking out my ass.

  I consider storming back and demanding that he keep his eyes to himself, but I dismiss the idea immediately. That’s letting him win. He wants to ogle me? Fine. Let him. I’ve got the upper hand as long as I don’t give in — pretend I don’t see it, or that it doesn’t bother me at all.

  But all along, I’ve seen it.

  Just now, when we were toe to toe, his eyes kept ticking down as if curious about what’s under my shirt. Just like at lunch, when I was wearing a dress. I’m a restless sitter; I have to keep shifting positions. He looked down every time I crossed my legs. Like a pervert on the playground.

  I’m suddenly very aware of my body. I feel his eyes on me. But what’s worse, his attention is evoking a response. A completely unintended, unwanted reaction. I’m antsy. My skin, everywhere, is warmer than it should be. My jeans are too tight — like I’m trying to show him my ass, like they’re riding too high so the crotch rubs me down the middle.

  I need a bathroom. To splash water on my face or something.

  I hit the restroom but resist the urge to splash. My makeup will run, and I hate that frizzy thing that happens along my hairline when I accidentally get some of my hair wet.

  I stare my reflection in the eyes. Then I walk out, less furious and flustered than I was.

  Fuck you, Mateo Saint.

  The hackathon rolls through its gears. I check in on a few groups, but whatever they’re doing is over my head. But in one I recognize some of the terms, so I text Blake to see if she knows what they mean — if this group is working on something as cool and game-changing as I think it is.

  Blake texts back: DUNNO BITCH, LEAVE ME ALONE.

  I guess it’s nap time.

  At two, the panel takes to the front table. Mateo, I’m surprised to see, is one of the first to take his seat. There’s a little paper tent with each panelist’s name, and I was 50/50 on whether the one we’d printed for Mateo would go to waste. He’s playing with it now, looking sullen. I’m in the corner. He can’t see me. I’m sure if he knew I was watching, he’d look even worse. Probably like the Hulk.

  My ire rises. I force myself to calm. He’s sitting there, fiddling with a name tag, looking like he’d rather be in hell than here. He’s doing as I asked, and right on time. Fuck him. But, for some reason, he’s trying. I should, too. My father was right: Mateo strikes both of us as a man with strong emotions, but someone who’s ultimately sensible. He’s intelligent and forward-thinking. Maybe if I decide to share my ambitions, he will see the smarts inside them.

  I spy Mateo from my hidden vantage point, watch him as he places the pen between two fingers and twirls it. The barrel ducks between his index and middle finger, then between middle and ring. When it hits the pinky’s edge, he peaks his fingers so it can swing all the way around, back between index and middle again.

  Around. And around.

  It’s several spins before I realize I’m in a trance, and just a little calmer by the time I snap out. He has excellent hands. Strong hands. It’s a curious skill he’s built for himself — spinning a pen through his digits, like how my uncle Joe could roll a quarter across his knuckles.

  What caused the billionaire to slow down and learn a dexterity trick like that? Was he in college at the time? In a conference with executives — more a bored room than a boardroom?

  Mateo looks up. I see his eyes. He doesn’t know I’m here until we’re both looking at each other, so for a split second I see what must be his usual face. So far, I’ve seen only the same twisted, aggravated expression.

  This is something else.

  Mateo knows that he caught me staring, and I’m too surprised to compose a reaction. For a long moment, we face each other. I’ve been looking; he’s looking now. Just two people and nobody knows we’ve connected.

  I feel my flush return. That warmth.

  And then he looks away, but the sensation stays behind.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ELIZABETH

  BY THE TIME Q&A has ended, I’ve realized this was a terrible idea.

  Mateo behaved, more or less, but he’s the only person on the panel who was dressed up, loud before he opened his mouth. Once the questions started, his mouth stayed shut. With only three other people up there, it became obvious. Jenna, Niles, and Freddy all chimed in on most questions, even if only to add a thumbs-up. Mateo did nothing. Said nothing. He only responded when directly addressed, and even then, only halfway. At one point, a kid asked why he developed such a complex system for PEZA instead of simplifying from the start or using an off-the-shelf solution. He left his answer at, “We needed extra features.”

  His energy sours the room. Soon even the people asking questions are pulling punches. Everyone starts to defer to the I-hate-you-all-and-don’t-want-to-be-here vibe from the man on the end. The volume drops. Enthusiasm — vital for an event like this — is sucked from the air. That one rotten apple infects even the brightest here with his blight.

  Mercifully, the final question draws to a close. I move up from the rear of the room, intending to intercept Mateo and relieve him of consulting duty. Selfishly, I want to punish him; the price we’re paying for his participation just isn’t worth it. I’ll send him home. Let him sulk there. He can be an asshole away from the hackathon. Even if I have to say goodbye to funding for The Pike and admit to my father that I didn’t try my best, I’m willing. The juju is awful.

  But the crowd stands as Davis calls for us to break, and I find my way blocked. I skirt around to the side, but before I can reach Mateo, Davis raises his voice into the mic and tells everyone where Jenna, Freddy, and Niles will be holding court after the break. And where our special guest will be, of course.

  And I think: Dammit.

  Even after the announcement, I consider interfering. It won’t be a big deal. I’ll just tell Mateo he can go, then I’ll take the mic as people settle and announce that Mr. Saint was called away on an urgent business matter.

  I stop at the stage. The line at Mateo’s table is already nuts. The people aren’t breaking or taking a moment to hit the restroom and grab a drink. They all know from earlier that each of the consultants only has twelve five-minute slots and that it’s first come, first serve. A chance to meet with Mateo, it seems, is worth getting in line early.

  I look for Mateo, hoping he’ll help me out by being a bastard. If he’s gathering his things to leave, I’ll conveniently forget to stop him. If he’s grabbing someone by the throat because he’s an asshole, I’ll just forget to point it out. Mateo can be the bad guy. I won’t have to make the call or tell his line to disperse.

  But Mateo is by the plant where I saw him earlier, sipping from a bottle of water. He’s checking his phone, casual and hanging out. Again, he looks up before I can look away, and once more we meet eyes from across the room. It lasts for too many beats. Then he raises a hand, looking almost weary, and tips me a miniature wave.

  I look away. I blink, rapidly, as if dust just flew into my eye. Then I turn without facing him and sit where he can’t see me. I take out my phone and check LiveLyfe for something to do. I say nothing.

  The break ends and the one-on-ones begin. I circulate, making small talk with the volunteers. Everyone is library quiet. Our hackers, sluggish from lack of sleep, wait for their turn at one of the four occupied tables. I eye Mateo, awaiting detonation, but he doesn’t explode or look up. He seems put-out. Still bored. But staying at the table, like a good dog.

  The energy in the room hasn’t improved.

  I do laps. I listen in on the tiny hot-seat discussions with our four experts. Davis stops me, asks if Mr. Saint is all right. I ask why, and Davis tells me the first person to complete their five minutes walked away looking sad. And when Davis caught up with her, she said, “He’s weird.”

  Careful to skirt Mateo’s line of sight, I circle until I can hear his discussion with a bald programmer in a Pokémon shirt. I see what’s wrong imme
diately. He’s holding back. The crap he was pulling onstage, he’s pulling it now. Saying the minimum. Letting the bald man do all the talking, then giving only the thinnest of answers.

  Inevitably, Mateo sees me. Rolls his eyes up to me while the bald man continues speaking, then outright ignores his company. He looks irretrievably bored. And I get it. I know the guy talking to Mateo. His name is Marty. He has the dullest, most impractical ideas, and the one he’s chosen to tell Mateo about is no exception.

  I let it go. What am I supposed to do?

  It’s a long hour. I walk around, then around again. Each lap, I hear the same thing: he’s not paying attention, or caring at all. It makes me furious — with him, yes, but also with myself. I caused this. I insisted that he be here. I even raised the crowd’s hopes this morning, by announcing a special guest. Then the energy-sucking Q&A panel. And my failure to stop it, to let Mateo leave.

  This is the result.

  Each lap, Mateo stares my way. Bored. Annoyed.

  The hour ends, and I exhale. Davis calls for another break. I won’t make the same mistake as last time, so I shove my way through the hackers as they stand and confront Mateo as he raises his phone.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What?” But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the phone.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “What was what?”

  “I heard you during the one-on-ones.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Would it have killed you to be polite? To act interested in what they had to say?”

  He meets my eyes. “See, that’s the problem right there, Liz. I’m not interested.”

  “Because you know it all? Because there’s nobody in the world other than you who has an idea worth hearing?”

  “Not at all. I’ve paid more to attend mastermind groups than you’ve earned in your life. I love finding people who are smarter than me and taking their advice. But the ideas I heard today …?” Mateo laughs.

  Mastermind groups? Sounds like Mateo and I have something in common after all. Sounds like, if I can make my pitch, he might not think my Pike idea is stupid.

  “Mr. Saint?”

  It’s a kid behind me. Barely 17, if that. He’s pushing past me, to get an audience with Mateo.

  “What?” he says.

  “I was wondering if I could get your advice on something.”

  Great. I need to stop this.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Our one-on-one time is over and —”

  “Hi. Excuse me?” says a new voice.

  It’s someone behind the first kid. And then I see it: a new line is forming, awaiting abuse.

  “All of you. We need to —”

  A hand grasps my arm. It’s Davis. He reels me away, then prattles on for five minutes about something with the schedule. I don’t know what he’s saying because I’m glancing past Davis to the group around Mateo.

  Davis goes on. And on. And on.

  By the time I get free, Mateo and his horde of admirers are gone. I look around, see no sign of him. Everyone starts to settle because Davis is tapping the mic for order. I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve been up as long as the people here, but thinking about Mateo and his damage has me drained.

  I hit the restroom again. Emerge again. Scan again.

  Still no Mateo. He must have gone.

  With his duty complete, he must have hightailed it out of here.

  I step outside. Onto the stoop, at the top of a flight of stone steps. The building is half a story above ground level, so you have to march up from the sidewalk to enter. The arrangement leaves little alcoves to the sides. I hear something coming from one of them: two of our hackers, having ducked out to have a smoke.

  The first finishes. He flicks the butt into the grass. Then he heads up, leaving the lone smoker, who I can see from above. The first one, an obese man, sees me as he ascends the steps. From where I’m perched above the alcoves, it must look like I was spying. He gives me a look, then goes inside.

  “Hey,” someone says.

  But not to me. I look down. Into the alcove. The guy smoking there is the 17ish kid from earlier — the first ambitious soul to ask Mateo for advice after the clock had run out.

  The speaker — the one who just said “hey,” is Mateo.

  “Me?” says the kid. But obviously. There’s no one else around.

  Mateo nods. “You got a second?”

  I’m interested. The way they’re tucked away down there, it’s like they’re trying to hide. Like a drug deal in a shadowy corner.

  I sit. Even if they look up, they can’t see me. I can only hear them myself.

  I hear Mateo explain that he didn’t want to speak his mind earlier, in that crowded room. Then he tells the kid that his idea is “a hell of a good one.”

  And then, for the next few minutes, I hear the first real consulting Mateo has given all day. He seems to hold nothing back. PEZA trade secrets. Nothing huge, but nothing his lawyers would want him blabbing about, either.

  I hear the kid light up, though. His response sounds go from wary to pleased to excited.

  In the end, Mateo says, “… if you need anything.”

  I hear the flick of paper, like card stock.

  The kid says, “Is this your personal number?”

  Then nothing. I assume Mateo nodded. He’s just given the kid his business card.

  Apparently, there was an idea at this event worth listening to, after all.

  I rise, slowly. And I find myself wondering: Is he a bastard for being rude to all those people with what he saw as dull, redundant, uninteresting ideas? Or is he generous for seeking out the one person with a worthy idea?

  There’s a shuffle below. The sound of someone grinding a cigarette butt with their shoe. Hands clap, and I know the little rendezvous below is about to break up and that I’m about to get caught eavesdropping.

  “Good luck,” Mateo says, as I rise and scramble inside.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MATEO

  I WALK UP THE STEPS and into the room as it’s finally starting to settle.

  I don’t know how these things work, but based on the rhythms I’ve seen so far, the people attending mostly work on their problems in groups, then take breaks for stuff like the panel and mini hot-seats.

  I hope my round was the last of them. And I hope I’m done for the day because these people are mind-numbing. There are a few brighter sparks, but the ideas they presented for my opinion were pointless. A perfect example of why I don’t do consulting, and never will.

  There was one bright spot among them. Alvin. Like the chipmunk. But his idea? It’s brilliant. Nothing I’m remotely attached to, but worth pursuing. He needs a few connections and a lot of ambition. And that’s the thing everyone forgets — it’s not enough to have the goods; you have to act before anything can happen. Most people are lazy. If Alvin’s not, he could make a difference in the world, like he wants to. And he could end up a very rich man.

  Outside just now, I told him what I thought he should do. Who to talk to. Whether he follows through, who knows. But at least I’ve given a worthy competitor all the advantage I can.

  Back inside, I scan the room. I don’t realize it until I see her, but I’m looking for Elizabeth. I suppose I want approval to leave, even though I don’t need it from her or anyone else. I guess I’m trying to play my part and make Damon happy.

  Elizabeth looks out of sorts. Discombobulated, a bit frazzled. Her hair is tousled as if she was out in the wind.

  She meets my eye. For the third time, we look at each other from across the room. It’s strange. I’ve seen a progression in her through our three visual encounters. The first stare was filled with hate. Then frustration. Finally, in this one, I see only confusion.

  Or maybe embarrassment? Like I’ve caught her in something?

  I shrug: Do you need anything else from me?

  Blinking away that strange emotion, she shakes her head: No. It’s fine. You c
an go.

  I walk into a quiet hallway and call the limo company that brought me here. Before I can order my ride back to the airstrip, I hear recognition in the receptionist’s voice. She asks me to hold, then transfers me to a man who introduces himself as Charles Ricks.

  Charles apologizes, profusely. Only after all the apologies does he tell me that the driver who brought me tripped at the dispatch center and sprained his ankle. Thanks to a convention in Dallas, every one of their other drivers is already out with a client.

  I’m annoyed, but he’s so apologetic that I can’t bring myself to berate him. I just give him my assistant’s number so he can forward a credit for my next visit, then hang up.

  I try two more limo services. Also full.

  I consider getting an Uber, but when I glance at the app’s screen, I see what my gut suggested — this place is too far out of the city, and most of the locals must have gone up into Dallas anyway. It’ll be nearly an hour before I can get a ride.

  Fuck it. I’ll call Enterprise. They’ll pick me up.

  I call my assistant, Jean, and ask her to make the call for my rental. I tell her to make sure all the paperwork bullshit is handled by the time they arrive.

  She texts me five minutes later letting me know that everything is set. All they’ll need is my signature. She doesn’t tell me what kind of car they had for me. Probably a Hyundai.

  I slip the phone back into my pocket. I guess I’m here for a while.

  I kill the next two hours in an unlocked back room off the hallway, wondering why I didn’t look for this cozy little escape earlier. I check my email, my accounts, the custom app we use at PEZA to monitor our locations’ flow, inventory, and uptime. Then I browse the net with no particular destination in mind. I end up looking Elizabeth up on Forage again, and I find the same photos that Taylor did, of her and the other girls on the beach.