The Restaurateur

by Aubrey Parker

  Still, I find my hand flinching toward my phone. I imagine — and I’m sure this is more fantasy than truth — Elizabeth’s hand, somewhere, doing the same. It would be a terrible idea to indulge what we did. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

  Something about her face.

  Her body.

  Her way.

  That was the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Maybe it takes hatred to brew lust.

  Although, it is harder to hate Elizabeth these days. Maybe it’s the vulnerability — in her old photos, but also in person when her shell finally broke — or maybe it’s the way she so competently led her event. I’m a believer in big ideas. I’m a believer in mining humanity to find its gems. There was a lot of hot air in that room, but there was also Alvin. And she knew as well as I did that he was the one worth watching.

  What are Elizabeth’s mysterious plans for the land, and why is she so desperate to hold it? I poke around online. Check her LiveLyfe account. I’m not sure why I never did this before and refuse to believe it’s because I’d already decided who she was before we met.

  I’m fascinated by some of her interests, her groups, and her friends. I don’t know these LiveLyfe groups, but I recognize what they’re about: entrepreneurship, masterminding, expanding human potential. And although I don’t know her friends, I do recognize many of their names. People that my friends have mentioned. Up and coming folks who we all know to watch for.

  I look through her photos and am struck anew by her beauty. There’s nothing racy in her albums like those beach shots, but there are plenty that tell her story. Here’s Elizabeth with Damon, as a kid, sitting on his lap, the Easter Bunny in the background. A few old shots from high school, when she had braces. I don’t know why the oldest photos intrigue me, except that they paint her as normal. She had the same trials as anyone. She grew up privileged, yes. But we all had to grow up.

  I go back to her groups list, feeling an itch. I stop on one I noticed earlier, called “Expanding Human Potential.”

  It’s weird because that’s pretty much what I told Damon I wanted to use his mountain for — to create a challenge and a place where people would visit, then leave with a deeper understanding of who they are. Knowing that their previous limits were only lies.

  I pick up the phone and dial. She answers by the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Mateo Saint.”

  Silence. Then, “Oh. Hi.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe we should talk.”

  Sigh. “I don’t know. I’d rather not …”

  “About the mountain,” I add, not wanting her to finish that sentence.

  A long pause. “Did my father put you up to this?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Because you got it. You won. You don’t need to try and get my favor.”

  “I know.” And it’s true. The sale is final. Damon signed off on his final contingency. I think Elizabeth must have talked to him, and I know I did. Maybe she’s letting go, or maybe Damon decided on his own. But regardless, he can’t kill the sale. The mountain is mine — and this time, both of us know it.

  She doesn’t reply. This is impossibly hard. I don’t know why I called or what I even want to discuss. I just felt compelled. I can’t shake her from my mind, and before I picked up the phone, I was convinced that she hadn’t shaken me from hers. Apparently, she had. She seems surprised. Bothered, even.

  Why did I call? With nothing left to prove and nobody to satisfy, what’s the point?

  I should end it. Hang up, and consider the whole affair a near miss. Because let’s face it: Elizabeth Frasier is unstable. She’s an ice queen with an angry streak. She was slapping me one minute and kissing me the next. She’s looked for most of our acquaintance as if she wants to plant a butcher knife between my eyes. But for some reason, the expression I see when I close my eyes is the hungry one she gave me in the parking lot that night. The disarmed look she gave me in the back seat when it was over.

  I think of those last moments often: us together in that back seat, awkwardness slowly growing. We barely spoke. But I watched her eyes, and I saw that the Elizabeth she shows the world isn’t remotely who she is inside.

  Maybe that’s why I’m calling. Because against all the odds, I feel a responsibility to the vulnerability I saw that night. But how the hell am I supposed to express it?

  I still don’t like you.

  Then a while later she added, I guess I don’t like myself much, either.

  At the moment, I thought she regretted what we’d done. Hated herself for caving. For giving in to carnality. But more and more, as time’s worn on, I think she meant something different. Something that made me pick up the phone.

  She was weak that night. She was tired, and you’d just finished fucking her silly.

  But it was more than that. I know it was.

  I didn’t like how we parted. I shouldn’t have cared, but I did. I’ve had my share of one-night stands, and someone always tiptoes away in the aftermath. It isn’t tragic. It’s how these things work. That night, we both tiptoed away. We got out, got dressed, and hailed separate Ubers — readily available now that the convention had ended. We left the rentals. Whatever the companies decided to charge us to make it go away, we mutually decided we’d pay.

  But she was silent.

  So unlike her proud, arrogant, bitch queen self.

  “Look,” I said. “Maybe I did win. But that’s bugging me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t like to win like this.”

  “Like what?”

  Like I fucked you not just once, but twice. And both times, you seemed defeated.

  People say I’m loud and brash, and I can be. They say I’m entitled, and sometimes I am. But I’ve always had honor. I took something from Elizabeth when I bought that mountain, and to this day I’m not sure what it was. I didn’t care before the hackathon. But for some reason, I do now.

  I can almost hear Hampton Brooks and Evan Cohen laughing at me: Big bad Mateo Saint, softened by pussy.

  But those guys shouldn’t be talking. And it’s more than that; I know it is.

  I wonder: What happened to Elizabeth? I picture her as the college girl she was, carefree on the beach. I picture her that night, as I left her. Neither is who she outwardly seems.

  “I never heard your side of the story. I feel like I owe it to you.”

  I hear her bristle. “Why? Because you—”

  “Look. Nothing’s changed. The mountain was your father’s property, and he chose to sell.”

  “Because —”

  “But either way, I’ve been thinking. And I want to know.”

  “Why he sold?”

  “Why you didn’t want him to.”

  “It’s my family property.”

  It was her family’s property all right, but that’s not why she didn’t want me to have it. That’s not the reason she’d hoped her father would defy logic and decide to keep it. The phrase is something she tells people, maybe herself. I know because I hear the old Elizabeth return as she says the words.

  “That’s not the whole reason.”

  “What business is it of yours?” Angrier still. If I keep this up, she’ll be shouting again.

  “Tell me about your dream, Elizabeth.”

  That stops her, purely from surprise.

  The silence goes on so long, I think I’ve lost her.

  “Are you there?”

  “All right; I’ll tell you.”

  I’m shocked. I figured she’d tell me to go to hell.

  “But not like this. Not over the phone.”

  “Okay. How?”

  “On the mountain,” she says.

  I hear the phone re-settle.

  “On your mountain,” she amends.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ELIZABETH

&
nbsp; I THINK IT’S STUPID WHEN Mateo calls me.

  I think it’s stupid when he asks me to tell him about my dream.

  I think it’s stupid when I agree, and we make arrangements.

  Then the whole way up, I tell myself how stupid it is. To combat the feeling, I tell myself lies. I pretend that I’m heading up to see my father, who is running the day to day until the deal officially closes. I pretend that I’m doing double-duty: going to the mountain to ensure that everything is in order for the transition and that the Frasier family moves everything of value out, while also making time for Mateo. I tell myself that our conversation went differently than it did. I didn’t volunteer to meet him. He begged for some of my time, and I told him, “I’ll be up on the mountain on Saturday. Come by then, if you must.”

  But the lies don’t help. I know the truth. That ever since that night in the parking lot, I haven’t stopped thinking about him. I hate that he’s on my mind, though it’s gotten harder to hate Mateo himself.

  We connected that day. It wasn’t the sex; that was just the culmination. The connection came earlier. When he watched me across the room. When I saw him giving Alvin good, actionable advice away from every admiring eye. When our cars collided and we realized that against our better judgment, our story was still going.

  I think my father suggested that Mateo try and make me happy, which is why he attended my event. But I think his desire compelled him to pick up the phone.

  I know my father wanted me to make nice with him, too. Something to assuage his guilt, I suppose, for selling out from under me. But I dropped that almost immediately. I don’t want Mateo’s money, and it’s okay if I’m mad at my father for a while. When Mom died, Dad tried hard to please me, as if he might lose me, too. But he can’t lose me. We’re all each other has.

  The business between Mateo and me should have been over. But like an idiot, he called. And like an idiot, I agreed to meet him.

  Elizabeth, tell me about your dream.

  Not the dreams I have when I sleep, but my innermost hopes. My aspirations. What I want most. It’s not what he thinks, whatever that might be. I’ve only told the full vision to my inner circle. Even Daddy only knows the broad strokes, because he won’t understand anything more.

  But Mateo will.

  And I don’t want him to.

  It feels too close.

  Too much like intimacy, as if the two of us have a reason to share, a reason to connect further.

  I drive up the mountain, feeling stupid.

  This place is no longer home. It can no longer support my aspirations. It’s my mother’s final resting place, and the substance of so many frivolous dreams.

  Now it’s gone. It hurts, to see it this one last time.

  But here I go.

  To the top, to meet the man who took it from us. The man who betrayed me without a lick of dishonesty. The man with the strange connection that I’d do anything to lose.

  Here I go.

  Toward the mountain’s summit.

  Anyway.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ELIZABETH

  IT’S STRANGE WHEN WE MEET again. The vibe is almost a tangible thing — a static electricity that neither of us can see, but that we both seem to feel. How are we supposed to react at this moment? I’ve never, ever slept with a guy once then walked away, or had him walk away. I can count my relationships on one hand. None were like this. It’s new ground, and I’m not sure where to step.

  We’re in the main lodge. Mateo is up at the desk inspecting something. Soon he’ll move into this place, and other than vague missives from my father, it dawns on me that I have no real clue what Mateo will build. A camp, or an outdoor challenge? Dad made it sound grueling, like a resort for masochists.

  Will he keep the lodge where it is, or bulldoze the place? Will he build more luxurious homes like the few my family’s tended, or build shelters meant for hard men and women who like things rough?

  He doesn’t hear me when I enter. There’s commotion in the lobby: a quartet of construction workers, taking photos and measurements. Only when they glance over and smile lecherously do I realize I’ve been standing by the door like a maiden waiting for a train to take her away. My purse is over my shoulder. I’m wearing a green dress that people say matches my eyes. I spent more time on my hair today than I usually do, or would for a meeting. And I’m wearing heels. On the mountain.

  I watch Mateo. He’s in jeans and a tee. It’s far more casual than I’ve ever seen him, but in subtle ways, I see the care he’s taken with his appearance, too. The shirt fits him perfectly, flattering his broad shoulders and back. From here, he looks freshly shaven.

  His head twitches in the now-still room. It’s as if I’ve uttered a cough to grab his attention, but I haven’t moved. He senses me, like a wolf finding one of its fellows on the wind.

  He turns. I’m standing in the center of the room, fingers lightly clasped in front of my waist, watching him. At the last minute, my wits return. I take a step, glancing around, to hide my recent trance.

  “You made it.”

  My radar is at its most sensitive. I scan every nuance, looking for information I don’t have. Information about what this is, why he invited me, and why I came. What he’s thinking. What he believes about me, and whether it’s good or bad.

  I settle for a neutral reply. One that, despite my intentions, comes out defensive. “Of course I made it. Why wouldn’t I make it?”

  Something inside me says, Settle down. But I notice the feverish pounding of my heart and my fingers shaking with the force of every beat.

  Relax, Elizabeth. This was his idea.

  “You look nice.” His eyes scan me. Is he merely observing? Appreciating? Lusting? Or judging?

  “I just grabbed the first thing in my closet.”

  “Green is good on you. It matches your eyes.”

  My eyes flick away. When I look back, he’s suddenly awkward, looking away himself.

  “Is everything, you know, in order?” I ask after the odd beat. I’ve never wanted more for someone else to be present. I would even welcome the ogling workers.

  “With the lodge?”

  “With the mountain,” I say. “But sure — with the lodge.”

  “It’s what I expected.”

  “When will you start moving stuff in?”

  “We’ve already started.”

  “Don’t you have to wait until the closing to take possession?”

  “Damon said it was okay. There’s a lot to bring.”

  Nobody enters the room. We haven’t moved any closer, and are speaking across twenty feet of hardwood floor.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Mateo suggests.

  “I was just curious. I don’t even know what you’re going to do with the place.”

  It seems to take less than thirty seconds for him to tell me, and we haven’t moved. It sounds about how I thought, with no new information. I can tell he’s holding back. There’s more to what he’ll create, but he doesn’t want to say. I’m not the only one with my armor on.

  “Want to go somewhere and sit down?”

  I look around the lobby. The chairs have all been removed. Same for the couches and stools that once flanked the bar on the southern wall.

  “There are some benches outside.”

  I know those benches. It’s where all the bugs end up when it rains. They’re kind of gross. When I was little, I brought friends up here, and we’d dare each other to sit on them. The idea of sitting on them now with Mateo is funnier than it should be. I laugh a little, and Mateo’s head ticks, wondering what’s amused me. But then I see the ghost of a smile — tentative, but there — as he echoes my change in mood.

  “What?”

  “Maybe we could take a walk,” I suggest.

  “Wa— Okay.”

  I leap on the hesitation. “What, you don’t want to take a walk?”

  “It’s just not what I expected.”

  “From me, you me
an?”

  “Well …”

  “I grew up here, buddy. I can skip hopscotch across Whore’s Ruin.”

  “Whore’s Ruin?”

  “I don’t blame you for not knowing. It’s an unofficial name.”

  He’s smiling now. I can tell he’s trying to hold it in, but I’ve surprised him.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “I just didn’t figure you for …” He stops, stuck, but then he sweeps his hands in vague circles to indicate the whole of this weird discussion. “This.”

  It’s only weird for him. Being here, if I ignore the fact that it might be my last time, makes me comfortable. Something inside me is changing. Opening up. I figured Mateo would have to bridge the strangeness between us, but the mere mention of Whore’s Ruin has me feeling fifteen again.

  “Because I’m a stuck-up city girl? What, I’m not granola enough for you?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “That’s it. Lace up. I guess someone is going to have to give you the real tour, so you don’t hurt yourself when you start shipping in climbers and adrenaline jockeys.”

  Mateo shrugs. He takes a step forward, then looks down at my feet. At my heels.

  “What?” I say, reaching down to slip the right one away. “They come off.”

  “You’re going to walk barefoot?”

  Please. Before Mom died, I used to come up here just to run the trails.

  I look up at Mateo from my half-bent position, feeling one side of my lips move upward into that lopsided smile that I can’t seem to lose.

  Then I look down at his feet, clad in boots that smell like a workshop.

  “A real man would,” I say.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ELIZABETH

  BUT MATEO KEEPS HIS BOOTS on while I walk as nature intended, and I give him copious amounts of shit for doing so the second we’re outside, and the last of the awkwardness fades.

  He says there might be snakes. And it’s true; there might be. But there are also falls that come from gripping the rock wrong, caused by inflexible boot soles. There is the sense of connection to the terrain that can’t penetrate rubber — something I have the second we enter the familiar high trail, and he doesn’t.