Authors: Sarah Dessen

What Happens to Goodbye (31 page)

BOOK: What Happens to Goodbye

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“Harvard?” I glanced back at Jason, who was pulling a pan out of the walk-in. “It’s a long way from there to prep cook. What happened?”

He shrugged, walking out the door and pulling his hood up. “Don’t know. I thought he was still there until I saw him upstairs the other day.”

Strange,
I thought as we passed by the half-open door to my dad’s office. I could see him inside, leaning back in his chair, one foot on the desk.

“. . . been pretty busy, with the new menu and some corporate meetings,” he was saying. I heard his chair creak. “No, no. I’m not, Lindsay. I promise. And lunch . . . would be good. Let’s do it.”

I looked out at the snow. Dave had his head tipped back, looking up, the outside light hitting the flakes as they fell down on him.

“Your office, city hall, eleven thirty,” my dad continued. “No, you pick. I’m sure you know the best places . . . yeah. All right. I’ll see you then.”

The door at the other end of the hallway, which led to the restaurant, suddenly opened. Opal was standing there, her wineglass in one hand. “Hey,” she said, “is your dad still on the phone?” she asked.

I nodded. “Think so.”

“Well, when he’s done, remind him we’re waing for him to join us. Tell him Chuckles is insisting on it.” She smiled. “And, um, so am I.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Thanks!” She lifted her glass to me, then disappeared back through the doorway, letting it swing shut behind her.

For a moment, I just stood there, right in the middle of the hallway, alone. In the kitchen, some bouncy dance music was playing, and over it I could hear the clanging of utensils, the squeaking of shoes on the damp floor, and the grill sizzling, the soundtrack to the beginning of a rush. All things I knew well. Almost as well as the tone in my dad’s voice just now, finally accepting the councilwoman’s offer. It was as familiar as the set of his jaw as he sat next to Opal earlier, even as she celebrated unknowingly beside him. Something had shifted, changed. Or, actually, not changed at all.

“Hey, Mclean,” Dave called out through the screen door. I looked over to see him surrounded by white: on the ground at his feet, blown onto the wall behind him, and flakes still falling. “You ready to go?”

I looked back at my dad’s door, now all quiet behind it.
No,
I thought
. I’m not.

Ten

“Do you hear that?”

I looked up from the fire station I was trying to get straight on the model base. “What?”

Dave, who was across the room, cocked his head to the side. “That,” he said, holding up a finger as the sound of voices, loud, in the restaurant below rose up the stairs behind him. “It’s been going on for a while now.”

“It’s probably just everyone setting up,” I said, moving the station again. It was just a small square that needed to go neatly into another small square, but for some reason, it would not cooperate. “Isn’t it close to five?”

“Four forty-six,” he said, still listening. “But that’s not setting up. It’s someone yelling.”

I put down the building, then walked over to where he was standing, peering down the stairs. I couldn’t see anything but the deserted side dining room, but now, I could hear the sound loud and clear.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s just my dad.”

Dave raised his eyebrows. “Your dad?”

I nodded, listening again. This time, I was reasonably sure I made out a
bullshit
, the word
inept
, and a mention of a road, and a suggestion that whoever he was speaking to consider hitting it. “Sounds like he’s firing someone.”

“Yeah?” Dave squinted as if this would help him decipher better. “How can you tell?”

“The volume,” I replied. “He never really gets that loud unless he knows the person isn’t going to be around much longer.” Just then, equally loud, there was a stream of expletives.

Dave raised his eyebrows.

“That’s whoever just got the hook.”

“And you know that becaus . . .”

“My dad doesn’t use those words. Even when he’s firing someone.” There was a crash. “I would wager that’s whoever it is throwing something. Sounds like a bus bin.” A bang. “And that’s the back door. It was probably a dishwasher.”

“Why?”

“Girls usually don’t bang out or throw stuff. And kitchen guys yell more.”

Dave was just looking at me as if I was insane. “What
are
you? The restaurant whisperer?”

I shook my head. It was quiet downstairs now, that heavy silence that falls after someone gets axed and everyone else is tiptoeing around, extra careful to keep their distance from the boss in case unemployment is catching. “I grew up in a place like this. After a while, you start to recognize things.”

I walked back over to my sector, picking up the fire station. As I knelt back down, focusing on the square again, Dave said, “Must have been pretty cool, your parents having their own place. Did you, like, have the run of the joint?”

“I guess.” I centered the piece, then realized it was crooked again. Damn. “It was either be there or never see them. Or my dad anyway.”

“Busy job, huh?”

“Full-time and more.” I sat back again. “My mom was around in the evenings, at least, and she was always on him to come home for dinner or take a weekend off to hang out with us. ‘That’s what we pay managers for,’ she’d tell him. But my dad always said even the best-paid employee is still that: an employee. They’ll never be as willing to Clorox the walk-in, mop the bathrooms, or empty the fryer when it’s all clogged.”

Dave didn’t say anything. When I looked up, he was again studying me as if I was speaking another language.

“They’ll never be dedicated the way you are when it’s your restaurant,” I explained. “As the owner, every job, from chef to bar back, is your job. That’s why it’s so hard.”

“And it was hard on you,” he said.

“I didn’t know any different. I think my mom had trouble with it at times. I mean, she loved our place. But she did call herself a ‘restaurant widow.’ ”

“You think that’s why she ended up with Peter?”

I blinked. I was still looking at the fire station, but suddenly everything seemed askew, not just that. “I . . .”

“Sorry,” Dave said quickly. I swallowed. “I just . . . That was stupid. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just talking.”

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

We were both quiet for a while, the only sound the voices of the waits, now talking downstairs. I’d learned, over the last few weeks of putting in time on the model, that the rhythm was different depending on who was working alongside me. When it was Deb, or Deb and Dave even, we kept up a pretty constant chatter, talking about music and school and whatever else. But when it was just me and him, there was a different ebb and flow: some conversation, some silence, always something to think about. It was like another language I was learning, how to be with someone and remain there, eve Wh the conversation—and I—got uncomfortable.

From the restaurant below, there was the final touch before opening as the music came on. As a rule, my dad believed in keeping whatever played similar to the food: simple and good. He also wanted a low volume (so as not to blast out the early birds), instrumentals only (so words didn’t compete with conversation), and up-tempo (to keep the staff from moving too slowly). “Fast beat, fast service,” he’d say, something he claimed to have learned during a disastrous stint at a folkie organic place where he worked in college.

In a good restaurant, you’d never notice these things, which was exactly how it should be. Eating out is about just that: eating. The meal is what matters. As a customer, you shouldn’t have to think about details like this. And if someone like my dad is doing their job right, you don’t.

Dave and I had been working in silence for a while before he finally said, “What is that they’re playing down there?”

“Cuban jazz,” I told him. “My dad swears it makes people enjoy the food more.”

“That is so weird,” he replied. “Because I hate jazz. But I’m suddenly starving.”

I smiled, adjusting the fire station one last time before pulling off the sticky backing. Then I pressed it down and felt it click into place. Done.

“You want to grab something to eat?” I asked Dave as he wiped some dust off the main road with the tail of his shirt.

“Only if you tell me what’s the best thing to order right after opening,” he replied. Then he looked up at me. “Because I
know
you know.”

I smiled. “Maybe.”

“Cool. Let’s go.” He got to his feet, starting over to the stairs, and I followed him. “I’m thinking fish.”

“ No.”

“Ravioli?”

“Getting warmer.”

He glanced back at me, grinning, as I reached over to turn off the overhead light. From this distance, in the dimness, the model looked surreal, made up of parts filled with buildings, bordered by long stretches of empty space. It reminded me of the way cities and towns look when you are flying at night. You can’t make out much. But the places where people have come together, and stayed, are collections of tiny lights, breaking up the darkness.

The next day, I came home from school and my dad was at home. Which was strange enough: with an hour or so until opening, he was always needed to oversee prep in the kitchen. Then, though, I realized he wasn’t just there, but sitting at the kitchen table—not on his phone, in constant motion, or on his way out the door—just waiting for me.

“Hey,” he said as I stepped inside, the side door easing shut with a click behind me. “Got a minute?”

Only one thing came to mind: AHBL. I was in big trouble or someone was dead. Maybe both.

“Sure,” I said, my mouth going dry as I pulled out the opposite chair and slid into it. “What’s going on?”

He cleared his throat, smoothing one palm across the tabletop as if checking for stray crumbs. Finally, after what felt an excruciatingly long time, he said, “So . . . I need you to fill me in on what’s going on right now between you and your mom.”

Hearing this, I felt two things simultaneously. Relief that everyone was still breathing, replaced immediately by a flare of anger so familiar it was like an old friend. “Why? What happened ? ”

“Did you have an argument recently?” he said. “Some sort of incident?”

“We always have arguments and incidents,” I replied. “That’s nothing new.”

“I thought you were seeing her the other weekend.”

“I did.” Now my voice was rising, unsteady. “What’s happening ? Did she call you or something?”

“No.” Another throat clearing. “But I did hear from her lawyer today.”

Oh, no,
I thought. “Her lawyer? ” I repeated, although I already knew where this was going. “Why?”

“Well,” he said, running his palm over the table again, “apparently, she would like to revisit the custody agreement.”

“Again,” I added. He didn’t say anything. “Why? Because I finally told her the truth?”

“Ah.” He sat back, leveling his gaze at me. “So there was an incident.”

BOOK: What Happens to Goodbye

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