Sweetbitter(99)

“You’re delightful, Tess,” Howard said, sitting on the desk.

“You think so?” I tucked my hair behind my ears. I leaned back on my arms and regarded the empty space between the desk and us. “I think you’re strange, Howard. I always have.”

“Do you think maybe you’re strange also?”

I nodded. My vision blurred around a stain on the carpet under the desk.

I thought that once I got to this city nothing could ever catch up with me because I could remake my life daily. Once that had made me feel infinite. Now I was certain I would never learn. Being remade was the same thing as being constantly undone.

We heard footsteps and Howard shrugged on his jacket. I sat in the chair and folded my hands on my lap as he opened the door to the hallway.

Nicky yelled out in shock, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Howard, you almost gave me a fucking—”

Then he saw me. We met eyes before I looked away. I saw his mouth harden. I saw his lack of any confusion or faith in extenuating circumstances. Nicky was nothing if not a realist. I saw his disappointment. I covered my face with my hands.

“A bit late isn’t it, Nick?”

“Yeah,” he said. He held up a stack of bar mops. “Finishing up.”

“Tess, we can conclude our discussion tomorrow. You can go out the back.”

I nodded. The adults were taking care of it, dispatching me into the night. I wondered what kind of look passed between them, masculine, implicit. I envied them their effortless understanding of the world.

“Sorry, Nick,” I said right before I shut the door.

—

THE NEXT MORNING the blossoms on the trees blew down like paint chips off desiccated buildings. I stood in the Sixteenth Street window and stared at the park. It was a violently windy day, the trees bent, clouds skipping through a blue sky.

“It’s like it’s snowing again,” I said, but no one heard me. Small flags plastered to the windows, an onslaught of petals.

—

I WAS IN the wine cellar organizing, a job that had become mine gradually then definitively. No one cleaned up after themselves because they knew I would do it. Simone knocked on the door, holding a boat of potato chips and a dewy bottle of Billecart, and I knew I was being fired.

“Do you have a minute?”

I put down the box cutter and arranged three stacks of boxes in the shape of two stools and a table. The boxes had been so heavy. Now I could lift two at a time. I could toss them.

“It looks great down here.”

“I try.”

“I thought we could have a treat,” she said, shining the label of the bottle at me.

“A treat indeed. It’s been a minute for me and the Billecart.”

“That’s a sin.” Simone opened the bottle with the barest whisper. She conditioned two glasses with small pours and then filled them gently, looking at me the entire time.

“I’m into rosé right now,” I said. “That Tempier…oh man, it’s divine.”

“The Peyrauds are wonderful people. We’re staying with them in Bandol.” Her eyes darted to me but she kept going. That woman had no fear. “If people can have terroir, they have it. Salt of the sea, joy of the sun. They come in when they visit the city, next time I—”

“Ah.” I stopped her lie. No Bandol for me. And there would be no next time.

“I spoke with Howard.”

“I imagined you would.”

“You’re getting a promotion. Much deserved.”

“Am I.” I meant to say, Am I? but couldn’t.

She sat across from me and I knew her face better than my own. I had studied her so intently. I was sure that nothing—not the passage of time, not distance—would disrupt this intimacy. Thirty years could pass and when I walked into this restaurant I would know its rhythms, its secrets, in my bones. I would know her anywhere.

“You’re going to the Smokehouse.”

It took me a minute to absorb it. I sipped the Champagne and stopped.

“Sorry, cheers.” I touched her glass and then drained my own.

“Of course I’m not going to the Smokehouse.”

“Tess, at least consider—”

“Oh Simone!”

I had yelled, it bounced back to me from the bottles. “Barbecue, burgers, and beers? Giant TVs? Why are you going through this charade?”

“The servers make excellent money.”

I put my hand up. “Shut up. Let’s make this easier. I’m not going to the Smokehouse. I quit. I will stay for two weeks but prefer to go as soon as possible. Now can we have a real conversation?”

“As you wish.”

Champagne and silence—the only resting places in the world. I sighed. I wavered audibly in the end but kept it together. I took another full inhale and exhale.

“Those are good breaths,” she said.

“Shut up.”

She nodded and I spent some more time breathing.

“I got in over my head, I will admit.”

“It’s perfectly normal.”

“It’s going to be boring after this.” I looked at her, her red lips and unforgiving eyes. I thought, I will miss you.

“Boredom can be incredibly productive. It’s the fear of boredom that’s so destructive.”