Living Backwards

by Tracy Sweeney

  I would hold his hand at the edge of the world, hoping that the month we spent together in high school meant as much to him as it meant to me. Hoping that the ten years we spent apart didn’t spoil that. Hoping the three weeks we spent dancing around these feelings would lead us to something bigger and better and permanent.

  I hoped that, like me, he was ready to close his eyes and jump because I’d do it in a second if he asked. When I was with him, I was never afraid.

  CHAPTER 26

  Luke

  I never believed in fate. I believed in timing—good timing and bad timing. Everything boiled down to being at the right place at the right time…or not. Jillian walked into my life a month before school ended, six weeks before she was scheduled to move across the country. Even if things between us hadn’t gotten so screwed up, the timing was bad. Maybe we’d have made it work. But maybe not.

  When we met again, more than ten years later, everything just fell into place. We fell into place—living in the same city, at the same time, surrounded by the same group of friends. Timing was everything.

  But suddenly, bad timing was keeping me up at night.

  Megan was about to marry Nate and officially move out of the apartment she shared with Jillian. In less than two weeks, Jillian would have no one to split the rent with and no one occupying the other rooms. Keeping the apartment obviously didn’t make any sense unless she looked for a roommate, but who really wanted to go through that hassle? She needed a new place to live.

  I wanted that place to be with me.

  While we had only been back together for two months, it had been a pretty amazing two months. We spent Thanksgiving in Reynolds with Carter and Grace. Although Jillian was a little hesitant, I insisted she stay with us. She could have easily stayed with her parents, but I convinced her that it would be easier to help Grace prepare if she was staying with us instead. I couldn’t tell her I had ulterior motives. Every time I thought about going back to Reynolds, I would think about her, in my room, teasing me. I would think about how I never got to see her in my bed, and would ultimately get myself pretty damn worked up. So even though Grace wasn’t exactly thrilled—despite my reminder that we were adults—I got my wish. And it was worth finally seeing Dream Jillian asleep in my bed.

  By Thanksgiving morning, Grace was on such a food high, nothing fazed her. She informed me, in no uncertain terms, that the cranberry sauce Jillian made needed to be added to the restaurant menu immediately. She was coming up with new dishes every day, continually adding to our already lengthy menu. It made her happy and it was her namesake, but I knew if she didn’t settle down, I’d need to intervene, and I really didn’t want to intervene.

  We spent Christmas again in Reynolds, but with Jillian’s parents. Her dad made it very clear that I’d be staying with my own family in their house and not in a bed with his daughter. Apparently, the argument about being adults wasn’t convincing enough for Henry. So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I jogged down the stairs at midnight, passing Carter who was drinking his milk and reading the newspaper at the kitchen table, just like when I was a kid. I grabbed my coat as he gave me the side-eye and left before he could dispense any advice.

  I drove to her parent’s house and parked down the street, walking past the yard that once had the yippy dog which was now, fortunately, gone. Unlike years ago, this time I wasn’t filled with uncertainty. I found some small pebbles and began launching them at her window. I learned two things that night. One: I was a much better shot when I was eighteen—the pebbles careened off the roof, the siding, one even landed on her dad’s car. Two: Cellphones are more effective than rocks.

  After I called her and told her I was outside, she came out—all bedhead and beautiful. And I hadn’t planned it. I hadn’t even been thinking it consciously. But as I held her in my arms underneath the window I had pelted with rocks, both as a kid and now as an adult, it just hit me. So it wasn’t over a candlelit dinner or some romantically-orchestrated date. I told Jillian I loved her as we froze in the driveway of her parent’s house two days before Christmas. She told me she loved me too while wearing flannel pajamas and fuzzy slippers.

  New Year’s was spent with our friends in Seattle. There was dinner and dancing, a swing band and some champagne, but no countdown. Not for us. We slipped out before midnight to ring in the year together—alone—and it was the best New Year’s celebration of my life.

  Now, we were approaching Megan and Nate’s wedding extravaganza, and her exodus from the apartment she shared with Jillian. Unfortunately, this coincided with the opening of my restaurant. Not the best timing.

  So, while I wanted to plead my case and ask Jillian to move in with me, it felt all wrong. I was distracted. There was still so much to do before the opening. Grace and the kitchen staff were at odds because of her menu changes, and the final menu had yet to be…finalized. Overall, it was a hectic time.

  I was impatient, though. I wanted this. It made sense. Maybe I was rushing things, but hell, she spent almost every night in my bed already. And I liked her there. I wanted her there. Her pans were in my kitchen because apparently mine sucked. Her Pop-Tarts were in my cabinet, and her disgusting vegetable juice was in my fridge. She belonged with me.

  Despite my certainty, I decided it was best to wait until after the opening. I figured that once we settled in, I could sit down with her, and I’d do whatever it took to convince her to see things my way. Turning me down wasn’t an option. It seemed like a good plan…until Jillian mentioned calling a realtor the day before the restaurant opened.

  I managed to stall—just for a day, but I had run out of time. I couldn’t wait until after the opening. I couldn’t let her call a realtor. I had to ask her now. So instead of getting a good night’s sleep the night before the restaurant opened, I was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it would crash and I would burn. It wasn’t an optimal situation. The timing…wasn’t so good, but I was going to do it. I was going to open a restaurant, try to keep Grace from giving my staff a nervous breakdown, and ask Jillian to move in with me.

  I wasn’t going to get any sleep.

  I remembered watching the numbers on the clock change from one to two and then from three to four. Somewhere between four and five, I drifted off. So when my alarm went off at six, I felt beat-up and hungover without ever having experienced the fun that usually preceded it. Definitely not the way to start this day.

  “Luke, turn off the alarm. Don’t get up,” Jillian sighed, rolling over and throwing her arm across my chest. “It’s so early.”

  I wanted to. God, I wanted to, but not today.

  “I wish I could, but we have deliveries this morning. Grace has probably changed the menu ten times already, and both the fire department and the health inspector are coming by. It’s going to be brutal.”

  “Tell them you had some inspecting to do at home,” she added, running her fingers through the hairs on my chest.

  “Baby, you’re killing me,” I groaned, lifting her hand and placing it back onto the bed.

  “Fine,” she pouted, rolling over and pulling the covers up over her shoulder. “I’m going back to sleep if you’re not going to entertain me.”

  One thing was for sure, Jillian still knew how to goad me. I leaned over onto my side, pulling her against me, and she rolled her hips, pushing back.

  “I can guarantee you’ll be thoroughly entertained once I’m through with you this evening. So much so, you won’t be complaining about the lack of entertainment again for quite some time.”

  “Promise?” she asked, stretching and arching her back. Unfortunately, my attempts to rattle her had done nothing but make me frustrated instead. She always seemed to gain the upper hand in our constant power-struggle. It might have had something to do with the fact that she was topless, but overall, she had me—topless or not.

  “You can count on it,” I replied, kissing her neck before rolling out of bed.

  I fumbled around the r
oom in the dark, blindly heading into the bathroom. Thanks to my bright idea and Jillian’s subsequent grinding, I was already regretting my decision to get out of bed. Jerking off in the shower while my girlfriend was in the next room seemed to be a waste of a precious resource. If I wasn’t sure that I was about to walk into a restaurant full of panicking new employees, I would have taken the time to “entertain” her before leaving for the day. But instead, I was faced with an unsatisfying, lonely shower.

  When I stepped back into the bedroom with a towel slung around my waist, I expected to see Jillian sound asleep with her head hidden under a pile of pillows. She wasn’t though. She was lying on her side watching me as I crossed the room.

  “Are you just going to stare at me while I change, Cross?”

  “That’s the plan. Unless you need my help.”

  “You insist upon testing my willpower. Was I not good to you last night?”

  “Too good. Maybe that’s why,” she replied, stretching again. I already felt my resistance weakening. “Maybe I want you again. Now drop the towel.”

  “On second thought,” I shot back, trying to hide the grin on my face. “I may need your help after all.”

  Jillian rolled out of bed wearing one of my t-shirts. Everything about her looked good. She walked over to me slowly, a predatory look in her eyes.

  “I think you have something I want, Chambers,” she said, wrapping one hand around the back of my neck and dropping the other to the edge of the towel.

  Maybe I could be a little late.

  “And what’s that?” I asked, officially waving a white flag.

  “This.” She pulled the towel roughly from my body and with a quick kiss on the lips, turned with it in her hand and waltzed into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. “Serves you right for turning me down.”

  “Come on,” I whined, crossing the room toward the closed door. “Are you serious?” I tried the knob, but was only met with resistance. “You really locked the door?”

  “I don’t want you to be late, Luke,” she sang from inside. I heard the unmistakable sound of my shower turning on. While it was my idea to get a head start without any distractions, I had changed my mind, or at least her boobs had changed my mind. At any rate, her punishment didn’t fit the crime.

  Groaning, I got dressed…uncomfortably, and made my way to the kitchen. I grabbed one of her Pop-Tarts, which were actually pretty decent, and was looking for my messenger bag when she came out of the bedroom, freshly showered, with her hair piled on top of her head.

  “You don’t fight fair, Cross,” I said, glaring at her. Maybe I was glaring and checking out her legs.

  “Poor Luke,” she replied, with a pout. “Don’t you have more important things to brood over today?

  “I’m not brooding,” I shot back. “You’re a tease.”

  “Just a little,” she countered, lifting herself up on her toes and brushing her lips across mine. “But you love me.”

  “I do,” I replied, wrapping my arms around her waist.

  I very nearly asked her right then, but I knew it was a bad idea—bad timing. If she said no—even if she wanted some time to think it over—I’d spend the rest of the day obsessing over her answer. I needed to be focused. I’d worked too hard to screw up the opening.

  “You’ll come at four?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I’ll probably be there early. In case you need help with anything,” she said, gazing up at me. I should have been thinking about the restaurant. I should have been thinking about all of the things that needed to be accomplished, but all I could think about was how I wanted to see that smile every morning.

  When I arrived at the restaurant, as I had suspected, it was mayhem. Deena, the hostess I had just hired, was pacing in the lobby and chewing her nails.

  “Mr. Chambers, Louis would like to see you in the kitchen,” she said, nervously. “He’s…upset.”

  Louis Bruneux had applied for the master chef position having only arrived in the US a few weeks prior. Our views on the bill of fare differed, but he brought a lot of experience and ideas to the table. I found that even when we disagreed, things turned out significantly better when we compromised. We worked well together, and I felt secure turning the kitchen over to him so that I could focus on managing the day-to-day tasks. If he was upset, I was upset.

  Just as I was about to push through the swinging doors to the kitchen, I heard the clatter of pans as Louis marched into the dining room.

  “Luke, you’re here. Mon dieu! We have a situation,” he said in a tone that made me feel like he wanted to pat me on the back and kick my ass at the same time. “Your aunt. She is…lovely. But I cannot prepare for the opening with these changes. Five today already. The menu, Luke. It must be final.”

  “I’m so sorry, Louis. Grace is just…excited. I’ll speak with her as soon as she arrives.”

  “Arrives? Luke. She has been in my kitchen since daylight.”

  Letting out a slow breath, I pushed through the doors into the kitchen to find Grace bent over a large pot, surrounded by the entire kitchen staff.

  “Next, you’ll add in the garlic, ginger, sugar, and pineapple juice. Stir it up and let it simmer over medium heat. You have to keep a close eye, though. No walking away,” she instructed, stirring the contents.

  “Grace, hey. What’s…going on?”

  “Oh, Luke!” She started toward me but stopped, handing the spoon to my sous chef. “Continue stirring, dear,” she said before making her way over and pulling me into an embarrassingly parental hug.

  “I’m making the most amazing pineapple curry sauce to drizzle over the pistachio encrusted tuna.”

  “Grace,” I began, leading her away from the crowd and back into the dining room. “There isn’t any pistachio encrusted tuna on the menu.”

  “Oh, there is now. I spoke to Louis this morning. We already have the tuna steaks and I think it would fill that gap we have in the seafood offerings.”

  “There is no gap in the seafood menu. We have plenty of seafood to offer. I have a distributor arriving with a car full of fresh fish to prove it.”

  “I know, but wait until you try the sauce.”

  “Grace. The menu is final.”

  “But—”

  “Grace, please,” I pleaded. “If one of the menu items we’re offering isn’t a hit, we’ll re-evaluate and make some substitutions. But for now, let Louis focus on the dishes we’ve already discussed.”

  “I’m sorry, Luke,” she replied, shaking her head. “I just want everything to be perfect. You’ve worked so hard—”

  “I know you’re just trying to help, and believe me, I appreciate it. I just need to keep complications to a minimum tonight. I need everything to go smoothly.”

  And that included my talk with Jillian—whenever that took place. Added conflict was not welcome.

  “All right, then. What can I do to help?”

  “You can make sure that Deena understands the layout of the floor while I check the delivery schedule,” I suggested.

  Content with an actual task to accomplish, she smiled widely, patting me on the shoulder before heading to the hostess station to find Deena.

  With Louis free to prepare the kitchen and Grace occupied with the front of the house, I was able to focus on the food deliveries and last minute prep. While the fire department and the health inspector did their final walk-throughs, I headed to the office in the back to finish up some paperwork.

  Everything was running pretty smoothly…until it wasn’t. And when it went to hell, it happened all at once. It started when the seafood distributor shorted us on our crab shipment, leaving not nearly enough for a dinner service. While I argued with him about rectifying the issue, time was ticking away and I finally had to pull it from the menu before it was too late. Then new menus needed to be printed and swapped out with the old. The whole process sucked up a huge amount of time.

  Just as I was about to head back to the office, the fir
e alarm sounded. I assumed it was part of the fire department’s test, but when it didn’t stop, I rushed to see what was going on.

  “You got some old wiring here, son,” the officer yelled, pointing at the ceiling.

  “What does this mean?” I asked, attempting to focus despite the deafening sound.

  “Well, this switch here,” he replied, pointing to a button on the control panel, “should turn off the alarm after a test. It doesn’t.”

  Clearly.

  “You’re going to need to get your alarm company out here,” he said.

  I rushed out to the front of the restaurant, far away from the shrill sound, to make the call. I barely acknowledged Jillian, who was sitting at one of the tables helping Grace with the menus. I hated that I didn’t have time to talk to her.

  Once I got our alarm service company on the phone, I needed to speak to two associates and a manager before I was told a technician would be dispatched right away. So much for customer service.

  When I walked back inside, Jillian rushed over to me with her hands covering her ears.

  “What’d they say?”

  “They’re sending someone out now,” I replied, feeling my chest constrict. The day was not going well, and definitely not as planned.

  “It’ll be fine, you know,” she said. And it would be fine if she gave up her apartment and turned my place into our place. I could have easily forgotten everything—Louis, the menu, the blaring siren—and lost myself in her. She made everything better. I couldn’t, however, forget that Grace was in the room, and we had subjected her to enough PDA during our menu-testing non-date.

  A half-hour later, the alarm was off, but they were still working on the wiring. Instead of the constant siren, we were subjected to the occasional shrill spinning of a power drill. Neither were particularly conducive to a relaxing meal.

  But the alarm technician finally finished, and soft music filtered into the dining room instead of a blaring siren. The doors opened, and patrons arrived. Mistakes happened. The valet I hired didn’t show up, and one of the waiters tripped. But overall, once the night began, the service went off without a hitch. The place was packed, and I was sure that Jillian’s article had a lot to do with that. There were also rumblings that a food critic was in the dining room, and I prayed that the waitress who dropped the risotto wasn’t assigned to that section.