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“Oh, hi.” Her head tilts back a bit as if she didn’t expect me to answer the door.
An awkward beat passes before a gust of wind jogs my memory, and I motion her inside.
“I didn’t realize you were coming, or I would have offered to drive you.” I hesitate, wanting to touch the small of her back or take the sweater she’s just removed.
But we’re just friends. She drew the line, and I’m not crossing it. No matter the intense chemistry and tension floating between us whenever we’re in the same space; she made it clear that she isn’t looking for anything. Not a relationship, and I have a feeling that August isn’t the casual fling type of woman. Especially not with her roommate.
So, I keep my hands at my sides.
“Oh, it was kind of last minute. Your mom basically threatened to drive over to my house and deliver my food herself if I didn’t come to family dinner. So I felt bad that she’d be missing out on time with her own family. Thus, I’m here.” Her smile makes my heart thump.
Fuck, she’s so pretty. I notice it more and more as we spend time together. Just a flash of her in the house as she goes around the corner, and I want to follow her. It’s been a week since our near kiss, and I’m like a moth trying to stay the hell away from the flame.
“Mom will do that to you. Come on in. I was wondering why there was an extra quesadilla in the mix when I unloaded the takeout containers. No sour cream, huh?” I noted the preferences of everyone’s orders just because that’s how my brain processes food.
August sticks out her tongue. “No. It’s one of the only foods I won’t eat. The taste is so gross to me. I mean, think about the name, it literally means sour cream.”
I burst out a laugh. “Never thought about it that way, but you’re right. It doesn’t bother me, but I can see you wouldn’t like it.”
“It smells so good in here,” August remarks as she walks into the dining room in front of me.
“Ah, my girl!” Mom jumps up, pulling her in for a huge hug.
“Auggy!” Rebecca, my niece, claps her hands at the arrival of our guest.
I wasn’t aware that my niece even knew her or would be this excited to see her. She’s certainly never looked so pleased to have me in the room. That little pang of jealousy hits me, and I push it away.
“Perfect, a chair right next to Evan.” Cass smiles at August, and I swear I see something else in her expression.
August’s lips smash together, but she quickly makes her way to the chair next to me, and then the table erupts with conversation. Little hands flinging food, mothers scolding, words flying across the scarred and scratched tabletop that has seen one too many meals.
I eat in silence, savoring my food as I enjoy August’s company next to me. A lot of people would call me the family jester, the class clown, etc. But sometimes, I like just soaking in the chaotic scene when I’m with the people I love most.
“Ev, what have you been dreaming up at the restaurant?” Gabby asks from across the table.
Excitement stirs within me. There is nothing I love more than talking about recipes I’m working on.
“I’ve been developing this new spaghetti and meatball recipe I want to try. It’ll be gluten-free and cater to our vegetarian clientele, because we have more and more people coming in?—”
“Don’t mess with the meatball dish. It’s an original, one of your grandfather’s, and it’s tradition. Who the hell wants vegetarian meatballs? They’re not even meat!” Dad throws his hands up, his face pinched and annoyed.
“Thomas,” Mom scolds, giving me a sympathetic look.
She doesn’t have to pity me, though. I’ve been the punching bag for Dad’s disappointment far too many times in my life. If my siblings think he’s hard on them, he’s a thousand times worse to me. Because I’m the son who decided to take up his career, to follow in his footsteps. But I never did it the way he did, and he’s always resented me for that. The first five-star restaurant gig I scored, he told me I was cooking frou-frou food for spoiled rich people who couldn’t appreciate a good meal.
I didn’t care so much back then because I was half a world away, training or cooking in kitchens with so much pressure and discipline over my head that my father couldn’t even imagine it.
Now, though? I’m fucking exhausted by his anti-change attitude. He wants the restaurant run in the exact same way every generation before him ran it, and that’s just not going to cut it these days.
“Just because you didn’t change a single thing on the menu in your decades of being head chef doesn’t mean I can’t. You handed over the restaurant. To me. I’m in charge now. Which means I can make any damn change I like, especially if it benefits a large portion of our clientele who have been requesting more dietary and food allergy friendly options on the menu. You act like business hasn’t increased since I started running service!”
I’m so frustrated with his attitude these days that I can hardly sit in the same room as him.
“Evan, calm down. Dad is just—” Liam starts, but I throw him a glare. He shrugs me off and then stands to take his infant in the next room for a bottle.
On my right, I feel August’s hand against my leg. “What I think Evan means is that this is his time, and he’s doing a hell of a job, even if I only worked one shift. Customers were raving about the food, especially his new additions.”
“Auggy does make a good point. The new entrees are doing better than even some of our pies have been doing,” Patrick agrees.
