Willow shifts uncomfortably, her eyes unable to meet mine, probably trying to give me space because I’m opening up.
“So we get the money, get the location, and before long we’re in business. Or, I should say, I was in business. I was doing all the work, developing the menu, running the kitchen, managing a full staff, but I hardly saw Jason. He was too busy partying, getting into drugs, faking his way into every Hollywood party he could find. He took his share of the profits, of course—and then some. I found out later that he’d been skimming off our supplies and selling them to other restaurants. The real kicker came when someone told me he hadn’t been paying the loan sharks back like he said he had. These weren’t mom and pop investors, you know? They took their money whether you gave it willingly or not.”
Her brows knit together in concern. “What happened?”
I pour out some more whiskey, and lift it as I consider the memory, sipping slowly.
“Jason comes in soon after I heard the news, gives me this long speech about how he knew he’d been fucking things up, and that he’d finally realized he needed to get his shit together. Full confession, heartfelt apology, the works. He told me I’d been working too hard, and to take the weekend off. After that, we’d figure out what to do and make it work.” I take another slow sip. “And I trusted him.”
Willow looks at me, a sympathetic expression on her face. “I’m guessing that didn’t turn out well.”
“I came back on Tuesday, drove straight to the restaurant first thing, and the place…it’d been burned to the fucking ground.” I gesture with my hands at the scene, as vivid as the sea in front of me. “Just fucking blackened rubble and ash and dirt. Jason had put his name on the insurance policy, of course, and my name on the loans. He took the insurance money, and I never saw him again. I went to bed and woke up on Wednesday morning, twenty-four years old, with nothing but a pile of burnt bricks to my name, and nearly a million dollars in debt.”
Willow shakes her head, her delicate features gone pale. “Holy shit…that’s awful.”
“Not really, in the end,” I say, taking a sip. “For the lessons I learned that day, it was worth it.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, sitting upright now and leaning toward me intently. “How could anything be worth that?”
“You think I trusted anyone but myself after that day? You think I ever let a contractor quote me for something I didn’t already know the price of? That I’d ever let my accountant put a tax bill or receipt through that I didn’t spend as much time going over myself? I cleared that pile of bricks with my own two hands; laid half of them myself until I found a builder I trusted enough to help. Then I named what went in its place Knife, so I’d never forget the one Jason put in my back. I’ll never have another business partner again.”
Willow stares at me, her expression carefully blank, but her eyes wide with thought.
“Sheesh,” she says eventually. “The lemon thyme thing makes a lot more sense now.”
I let out a genuine laugh for the first time since I started telling the story.
“You know, you’re something. You’re the first person I let Martin hire for me. Usually I run candidates through all the hoops myself. But I’ve never in my life heard him rave about a new chef the way he raved about you. His instincts are excellent.” I take a breath, watching Willow take a long drink from her glass, enjoying the way the muscles in her throat move. “It’s not like it was the last time somebody stabbed me in the back. I’ve turned no-hopers into brilliant chefs, only to have them disappear without notice and pop up days later at some fancy place that promises them the world and ends up failing. I’ve had accountants that embezzled cash, waiters that stole food—and I’ve lost count of how many people have stolen recipes and suppliers once they’ve left. It’s best to treat everybody like they’ll eventually betray you in this business, because in my experience, they probably will.”
Willow squirms a little, rubbing the side of her neck as if she can’t get comfortable. I guess no one has ever given it to her this straight before. No wonder her restaurant collapsed. She’s brilliant, talented, ambitious—but in some ways, still a little na?ve about the world.
“I don’t know,” she says with a contemplative sigh. “That sounds like an unhealthy way to live. Doing everything yourself. Not trusting anybody. Always looking over your shoulder, still holding on to all of that no matter how many years go by.”
I smile at her once more before lifting my legs back up on the lounger and lying back.
“It got me here, didn’t it?”
I draw some more of the whiskey and close my eyes, listening to the waves and feeling almost as if they could carry me away. Maybe this is what therapy feels like. As if some knot deep inside of you that you didn’t even know you were carrying is loosened. Then Willow’s words break the trance.
“Does it ever get lonely at the top?” she says.
I open my eyes and turn to see her sitting on the edge of her lounger, looking at me anxiously now as if worried.
I let out an easy chuckle. “How could I be lonely? I own a restaurant.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
I look at her, not quite understanding the question.
“How could I be lonely when I spend all my time around people, hundreds of people who turn up at the restaurant every week. And my staff. All the cooks I’ve worked with over the years. The parties, the events…I’m never alone. If anything I wish I had more time to myself—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Willow says, her tone more serious now. “That whole ‘not trusting anyone but yourself’ thing, it sounds kinda…sad. I don’t know how you can live like that. I can’t imagine living without any close friends, without someone you can open up to.”
“Why does that sound like an offer?”
“Maybe it is.” She laughs a little, almost nervously, then stands up.
Looking up at her, I say, “You need a break from my dark, painful past, I take it?”
She smiles. “I can handle it. But right now, it’s just too gorgeous out. Let’s swim.”
Willow holds out her hand, and I take it.
12
Willow
It took a month of very tactful cajoling, but I eventually give in and attend one of Asha’s gym-plus-boxing classes. As if my shifts at Knife weren’t exhausting enough. Still, Asha’s been right about pretty much everything she suggested up to this point, and the physical strains are the only thing keeping my mind off the emotional ones, so I give it my all.