When We Collided(74)

Ellie climbs onto the bed next to me, and I don’t stop her. This should feel awkward. I’m fairly certain Jonah Daniels will eventually love this girl in a way he doesn’t understand yet. But it feels like a strange kind of sisterhood—one that you find only when the masks are off and you realize that what’s behind yours doesn’t scare the other person. She offers one of the pillows to me. “Do it. Scream.”

Without hesitation, I press my face into the pillowcase and tear my own throat out.

I scream for every time it’s felt impossible to get out of bed, for every time it’s felt hopeless, for every time I’ve felt out of control and terrified, for the guilt and unfairness.

When I’m done, my ears are ringing—my face hot from the pillow, throat raw and pulsing. I sit back and try to slow my breathing.

Ellie unloads more supplies from the gift basket. She puts mascara on my lashes and coral gloss on my lips. Then she paints my nails with hot-pink glitter polish.

“Did Bekah pick out the color?” I ask, admiring the now-shimmery right hand.

“No, actually,” Ellie says. She doesn’t look up from her brushstrokes. “Naomi did.”

I didn’t see that one coming. Ellie twists the bottle shut and pronounces the manicure complete.

“I’m the brightest, sparkliest thing in the whole joint,” I say. My voice sounds flat. Even though I feel better inside, I can’t seem to summon the energy to sound it.

“You already were.” Ellie smiles. “Here, last thing. From Jonah.”

She sets a white box on my lap, the size and weight of a cake. God, of course he’d make me food after I screamed at him. Maybe it says Congratulations, Vivi! (You’re a Real Bitch) in icing.

I snap the box open, revealing golden cross-hatches and perfect red cherries. I know the careful hands that cut the dough, and I know that he’d rather cook than bake. I can see him in the kitchen, pressing the crust’s edges into perfect little crimps. In my mind, his brows are pulled down, still frustrated by me even as he works.

The note trembles in my hand. God help him, Jonah Daniels can stand his ground even when his knees quake. Cherry pie, with a side of devotion and forgiveness.

“What is it?” Ellie asks, peering in.

“Everything,” I whisper, lower lip quivering, and I press the note into my hand.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Jonah

There’s a happy buzz through the restaurant that I haven’t felt in months. We open the windows, and the cool breeze kicks up the smells of all the food. Ellie drew fancy letters on the sandwich board out front:

NEW MENU—OPEN HOUSE: 6–9. COME ON IN.

I’m in my kitchen gear, and I’ve actually kept my white shirt clean so far. I keep finding excuses to peer out the kitchen window. Normally I only want to be behind the scenes, in the kitchen. But tonight? Tonight I need to watch it all play out.

Some people are seated, but many are milling around. Our waitstaff is carrying the last of the passed appetizers, and soon we’ll start in on the entrées. Most of the crowd is made up of townies—the very ones who helped make the restaurant changes possible. Everyone looks so relaxed. I was worried about that. Like, hey, come to my dead dad’s restaurant, but try to have fun. They are having fun, though. Ethan, Naomi’s friend and fellow environmental engineer, is making Leah laugh about something. Silas is chatting with Carol Finney, who graduated from the same college he’s leaving for this month. Betty is standing next to her wife and regaling a group of people with some story that makes her light up.

“Go on,” Felix says, flicking the end of a dish towel at me. “Take a lap. We’re good here.”

It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed. As I walk through the restaurant, I’m bombarded. It’s a lot for me to handle. I’m not good at it, the small talk. I try to smile. I nod politely. I take the hearty slaps on the back. The praise makes me happy, but I don’t know how to react. I’d rather people scribble down their nice comments on a piece of scrap paper. I could read them later without anyone waiting for my awkward response.

I keep thinking I see my mom out of the corner of my eye, but I know she’s not coming. And that’s okay. I’ve shown her printouts of the new menus and everything. It’s the most excited I’ve seen her in months. But being in the restaurant with everyone—it would be too much to handle right now. She’s not there yet.

I’m not even disappointed. Because we talked about it. She told me that she couldn’t come and why. She told me that she spoke to her support group about it, and they encouraged her to go with her instincts. I didn’t have to assume she wasn’t coming because she was tucked into her room. She told me, like I’m an adult who she trusts with the truth. She knows I can take it.

On my way back to the kitchen, I sneak one of my favorite appetizers off a tray—grilled-cheese bites. I made them with Ellie’s homemade rosemary bread, melted gruyère, and fig compote.

“Mmmph.” I grunt this to myself in the helpless way you do when something is just so damn delicious. Yeah, I made it, but . . . what can I say? I’m good.

“Sneaking some of the product?” Ellie asks, nudging my arm. She’s in her waitress attire, hair in a ponytail. “I’m surprised they let you out of the kitchen.”