It Ends with Us
Page 53
Fair enough. I would have done the same thing.
“It was pretty pathetic,” I say with a laugh.
Somehow, we get through dinner without a hitch. No sign of Atlas, no thoughts of last night, and Ryle and I both avoid the wine. After we’re finished with our food, our waiter approaches the table. “Care for dessert?” he asks.
I shake my head, but Allysa perks up. “What do you have?”
Marshall looks just as interested. “We’re eating for two, so we’ll take anything chocolate,” he says.
The waiter nods, and when he walks away, Allysa looks at Marshall. “This baby is the size of a bedbug right now. You better not encourage bad habits for the next several months.”
The waiter returns with a dessert cart. “The chef gives all expectant mothers dessert on the house,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“He does?” Allysa says, perking up.
“Guess that’s why it’s called Bib’s,” Marshall says. “Chef likes the babies.”
We all look at the cart. “Oh, God,” I say, looking at the options.
“This is my new favorite restaurant,” Allysa says.
We pick out three desserts for the table. The four of us spend the time waiting for it to be served discussing baby names.
“No,” Allysa says to Marshall. “We’re not naming this baby after a state.”
“But I love Nebraska,” he whines. “Idaho?”
Allysa drops her head in her hands. “This is going to be the demise of our marriage.”
“Demise,” Marshall says. “That’s actually a good name.”
Marshall’s murder is thwarted by the arrival of dessert. Our waiter places a piece of chocolate cake in front of Allysa, and steps aside to make room for the waiter behind him who is holding the other two desserts. The waiter motions toward the guy placing our desserts down and says, “The chef would like to extend his congratulations.”
“How was the meal?” the chef asks, looking at Allysa and Marshall.
By the time his eyes make it to mine, my anxiety is seeping from me. Atlas locks eyes with me, and without thinking, I blurt out, “You’re the chef?”
The waiter leans around Atlas and says. “The chef. The owner. Sometimes waiter, sometimes dishwasher. He gives a new meaning to hands-on.”
The next five seconds go unnoticed by everyone at our table, but they play out in slow motion to me.
Atlas’s eyes fall to the cut on my eye.
The bandage wrapped around Ryle’s hand.
Back to my eye.
“We love your restaurant,” Allysa says. “You have an incredible place here.”
Atlas doesn’t look at her. I see the roll of his throat as he swallows. His jaw hardens and he says nothing as he walks away.
Shit.
The waiter tries to cover for Atlas’s hasty retreat by smiling and showing way too many teeth. “Enjoy your dessert,” he says, scuffling off to the kitchen.
“Bummer,” Allysa says. “We find a new favorite restaurant and the chef is an asshole.”
Ryle laughs. “Yeah, but the assholes are the best ones. Gordon Ramsay?”
“Good point,” Marshall says.
I put my hand on Ryle’s arm. “Bathroom,” I tell him.
He nods as I scoot out of the booth, and Marshall says, “What about Wolfgang Puck? You think he’s an asshole?”
I walk across the restaurant, head down, fast paced. As soon as I get into the familiar hallway, I keep going. I push open the door to the women’s restroom and then turn around and lock it.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
The look in his eye. The anger in his jaw.
I’m relieved he walked away, but I’m half-convinced he’s probably going to be waiting outside the restaurant when we leave, ready to kick Ryle’s ass.
I breathe in my nose, out my mouth, wash my hands, repeat the breathing. Once I’m more calm, I dry my hands on a towel.
I’ll just go back out there and tell Ryle I’m not feeling well. We’ll leave and we’ll never come back. They all think the chef is an asshole, so that can be my excuse.
I unlock the door, but I don’t pull it open. It starts pushing open from the other side, so I step back. Atlas steps inside the bathroom with me and locks the door. His back rests against the door as he stares at me, focused on the cut near my eye.
“What happened?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
His eyes are narrow, still ice blue but somehow burning with fire. “You’re lying, Lily.”
I muster enough of a smile to get me by. “It was an accident.”
Atlas laughs, but then his face falls flat. “Leave him.”
Leave him?
Jesus, he thinks this is something else entirely. I take a step forward and shake my head. “He’s not like that, Atlas. It wasn’t like that. Ryle is a good person.”
He tilts his head and leans it forward a little bit. “Funny. You sound just like your mother.”
His words sting. I immediately try to reach around him for the door, but he grabs my wrist. “Leave him, Lily.”
I yank my hand away. I turn my back to him and inhale a deep breath. I release it slowly as I face him again. “If it’s any comparison at all, I’m more scared of you right now than I’ve ever been of him.”
My words make Atlas pause for a moment. His nod starts out slowly, and then gets more prominent as he steps away from the door. “I certainly didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” He motions toward the door. “Just trying to repay the concern you’ve always shown me.”
“It was pretty pathetic,” I say with a laugh.
Somehow, we get through dinner without a hitch. No sign of Atlas, no thoughts of last night, and Ryle and I both avoid the wine. After we’re finished with our food, our waiter approaches the table. “Care for dessert?” he asks.
I shake my head, but Allysa perks up. “What do you have?”
Marshall looks just as interested. “We’re eating for two, so we’ll take anything chocolate,” he says.
The waiter nods, and when he walks away, Allysa looks at Marshall. “This baby is the size of a bedbug right now. You better not encourage bad habits for the next several months.”
The waiter returns with a dessert cart. “The chef gives all expectant mothers dessert on the house,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“He does?” Allysa says, perking up.
“Guess that’s why it’s called Bib’s,” Marshall says. “Chef likes the babies.”
We all look at the cart. “Oh, God,” I say, looking at the options.
“This is my new favorite restaurant,” Allysa says.
We pick out three desserts for the table. The four of us spend the time waiting for it to be served discussing baby names.
“No,” Allysa says to Marshall. “We’re not naming this baby after a state.”
“But I love Nebraska,” he whines. “Idaho?”
Allysa drops her head in her hands. “This is going to be the demise of our marriage.”
“Demise,” Marshall says. “That’s actually a good name.”
Marshall’s murder is thwarted by the arrival of dessert. Our waiter places a piece of chocolate cake in front of Allysa, and steps aside to make room for the waiter behind him who is holding the other two desserts. The waiter motions toward the guy placing our desserts down and says, “The chef would like to extend his congratulations.”
“How was the meal?” the chef asks, looking at Allysa and Marshall.
By the time his eyes make it to mine, my anxiety is seeping from me. Atlas locks eyes with me, and without thinking, I blurt out, “You’re the chef?”
The waiter leans around Atlas and says. “The chef. The owner. Sometimes waiter, sometimes dishwasher. He gives a new meaning to hands-on.”
The next five seconds go unnoticed by everyone at our table, but they play out in slow motion to me.
Atlas’s eyes fall to the cut on my eye.
The bandage wrapped around Ryle’s hand.
Back to my eye.
“We love your restaurant,” Allysa says. “You have an incredible place here.”
Atlas doesn’t look at her. I see the roll of his throat as he swallows. His jaw hardens and he says nothing as he walks away.
Shit.
The waiter tries to cover for Atlas’s hasty retreat by smiling and showing way too many teeth. “Enjoy your dessert,” he says, scuffling off to the kitchen.
“Bummer,” Allysa says. “We find a new favorite restaurant and the chef is an asshole.”
Ryle laughs. “Yeah, but the assholes are the best ones. Gordon Ramsay?”
“Good point,” Marshall says.
I put my hand on Ryle’s arm. “Bathroom,” I tell him.
He nods as I scoot out of the booth, and Marshall says, “What about Wolfgang Puck? You think he’s an asshole?”
I walk across the restaurant, head down, fast paced. As soon as I get into the familiar hallway, I keep going. I push open the door to the women’s restroom and then turn around and lock it.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
The look in his eye. The anger in his jaw.
I’m relieved he walked away, but I’m half-convinced he’s probably going to be waiting outside the restaurant when we leave, ready to kick Ryle’s ass.
I breathe in my nose, out my mouth, wash my hands, repeat the breathing. Once I’m more calm, I dry my hands on a towel.
I’ll just go back out there and tell Ryle I’m not feeling well. We’ll leave and we’ll never come back. They all think the chef is an asshole, so that can be my excuse.
I unlock the door, but I don’t pull it open. It starts pushing open from the other side, so I step back. Atlas steps inside the bathroom with me and locks the door. His back rests against the door as he stares at me, focused on the cut near my eye.
“What happened?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
His eyes are narrow, still ice blue but somehow burning with fire. “You’re lying, Lily.”
I muster enough of a smile to get me by. “It was an accident.”
Atlas laughs, but then his face falls flat. “Leave him.”
Leave him?
Jesus, he thinks this is something else entirely. I take a step forward and shake my head. “He’s not like that, Atlas. It wasn’t like that. Ryle is a good person.”
He tilts his head and leans it forward a little bit. “Funny. You sound just like your mother.”
His words sting. I immediately try to reach around him for the door, but he grabs my wrist. “Leave him, Lily.”
I yank my hand away. I turn my back to him and inhale a deep breath. I release it slowly as I face him again. “If it’s any comparison at all, I’m more scared of you right now than I’ve ever been of him.”
My words make Atlas pause for a moment. His nod starts out slowly, and then gets more prominent as he steps away from the door. “I certainly didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” He motions toward the door. “Just trying to repay the concern you’ve always shown me.”
