The Chicken Sisters(61)
“Well, we want to win, too,” Frankie said.
Sabrina chuckled. “She told them to be sure to ask you, too, Amanda. Said you couldn’t tell a lie to save your life.”
“I don’t need to lie about that,” Amanda said hotly, even though she’d been partially wishing she had all night. “Making biscuits the way we do is absolutely the right call for us right now. Mae’s just being a—a jerk.” She could have lied if she had wanted to. Or thought of it fast enough. She listened as Gus went on and on to Sabrina about the costs that went into the kitchen, and why frozen food made good sense. He knew more about it than Amanda did, surprisingly, and Frankie, too, was passionate in her defense of everything Frannie’s did. Was this how Amanda was supposed to feel? Because what she felt, mostly, was exhausted beyond caring, and like maybe Frannie’s was better off without her.
“I get it, Gus, but what can I do? The chefs are the judges,” Sabrina said. “Right now, Mae’s looking good to them. She’s the queen of all things honest and homemade, even if it’s not really any better. And you should have seen her kids. It was like they were made for the camera. She set herself up really well for tomorrow. She’s the golden girl.”
In her mind, Amanda snarled.
“Well, that will change when they compare our chicken,” said Gus, as Nancy appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, looked out at them, then shut the door again, probably at the sight of Sabrina. They were on the same page there at least. Amanda was sick of the host at this point too. “I’m going to see if Grandma needs a hand getting ready tomorrow. Even if I can’t come in to the taping.” He paused and looked questioningly at Sabrina, who shook her head.
“Just your mom and Nancy for this one. You can be in on the win reveal.”
“Okay.” He lifted up a last chair and nodded to himself. “It’s going to be great.”
Sabrina slid off the table and picked up Amanda’s phone from where it sat up on the frame between the booths. “Don’t forget this,” she called to Gus, as she flipped it over, screen up. “Oops—not yours. Your mom’s. And you have a message.” She raised her eyebrows suggestively and tossed the phone to Amanda, but Gus shot his arm in. “Pogociello for the interception,” he said, and glanced down at the screen before quickly looking up and extending it to Amanda. “Oh—sorry,” he muttered.
Amanda barely stopped herself from snatching the phone away. Nancy, still scolding her, or ready to make up? No—Andy.
Sorry about last night. Hope things went ok tonight. We were busy. Maybe I can buy you a drink?
Amanda looked at her son, walking toward the kitchen. Had he read the message? He had to have seen it was there, probably whom it was from, but if he hadn’t really read it, just glanced at it—from the shape of his shoulders and the speed of his walk, she had a bad feeling. There had been no one after Frank—could be no one, really. She and Frank—that was her love story, and if things had been a little rough at what had turned out to be the end, Gus never needed to know it. Where would they be, if Frank hadn’t died? She wanted to think she would have come to her senses, realized what she had the way she did now, but she had been so frustrated, felt so trapped.
A little like she felt now, but she wasn’t screwing this up again. Food Wars was her shot, and nothing—certainly not some guy who thought he could help destroy a part of her history and still have her jump when he called—was going to get in her way. She wanted to run after Gus, grab him, promise that she never had loved anyone but his dad and never would. But if he hadn’t read the text after all, she’d just be making things worse.
She looked down at her phone and imagined typing No, you can’t buy me a DRINK. Not now, not ever, not for a whole lot of reasons.
“Yeah, I don’t need to answer that,” she said loudly, making sure Gus could hear, just in case. Suddenly she was intensely aware of Sabrina’s and Frankie’s interested faces. The Food Wars host wasn’t just a friendly girlfriend, and she didn’t care about kids. She might prefer that Amanda do or say something just because it would make better TV, but nothing kept Amanda more sober, in every sense of the word, than Gus and Frankie. She might have slipped a little last night, but not again—and especially not with somebody who thought she was desperate enough not to care that he was helping Mae ruin her work with one hand and texting her with the other. “I’ll deal with it later,” she said, and shoved the phone into her pocket untouched. Or never. Never sounded good.
Gus walked into the kitchen, and Amanda wanted to follow him, but she couldn’t leave Frankie with Sabrina and didn’t want Sabrina in there, anyway. Silently, she finished the floor, then redid the parts Frankie had missed when her daughter went to put their things in the car.
Followed by Sabrina, she stuck her head into the kitchen, holding the swinging door with one hand. Gus and Nancy were huddled over something on the counter, Nancy’s arm around Gus’s shoulders, and they turned quickly as the door opened.
“You ready, Gus?”
Gus looked at his grandmother, who nodded. She was smiling and looking lighter than Amanda would have imagined possible after the night they had had, and Amanda, conscious of Sabrina, who was looking in over her shoulder, ventured the fewest words she thought might cover it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About tonight.”