“I know. But we have to communicate. Dr. Douglas said that we—”
“Can we not talk about it anymore? Please, I just . . . it physically hurts in my chest to think about, and—”
“Okay. Okay.” She pulls me into a hug, though I keep my arms across my chest, cradling myself even as she cradles me, too. I rest my head on her shoulder, and we stay this way for a little while, under Richard’s light fixtures, which probably cost more than my life.
When my mom pulls away, she keeps her hands on my arms. “I was thinking of ordering sushi for dinner. What do you think? Philly roll and a spider roll? Some sashimi?”
I love sushi more than any other food on the planet. This is her olive branch, and I’d normally take it in a hot second. “Sounds perfect, but can I get a rain check? I forgot to tell you I’m going over to a friend’s house for dinner.”
“Oh, that’s fun!” My mom claps her hands together. Just like that, she is my best friend again, not my nagging mom. She slides onto a nearby stool, and I resume my position leaning against the door. “At Whitney’s?”
“No, this is a brand-new friend. Two, actually. This little girl came into the store this morning—seemed shy but warmed up to me, and she invited me over for dinner, since we just moved here. She said the best place to eat in town is her house.”
My mom laughs. “That’s precious. So you’re dining with a kindergartner?”
“Yes . . . plus her much older brother, who has no idea how severely cute he is.”
“Aha.” She grins. “Well, that sounds great. Much better than sushi with your old mom.”
“Mom . . .” I roll my eyes because she knows I love hanging out with her, which is why I do almost all the time.
“I’m just teasing you,” she says. Then she reaches over to hold my hand in hers, looking a little sad again. “We’re okay, right? You’d tell me if we weren’t okay?”
She means: you’d tell me if you weren’t okay. I nod, squeezing her hand. “Yeah, we’re okay.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jonah
The restaurant is called Tony’s because that’s what it is—my dad’s. It feels as much like home as my own house does. I know every scar in the wood floors and baseboards. I know every ingredient in the kitchen. I know that you have to pull the freezer handle up and over at the same time if you ever want it to open. When my dad bought the building, it was a pizza kitchen. He and Felix redid most of it years ago, but the old brick oven remains. Both before and after my dad.
The menu consists of things my dad liked best when he opened the restaurant two decades ago. Most entrées are inspired by the Italian cuisine my dad learned at home or the French cuisine he learned in culinary school. Chicken piccata, steak au poivre, pesto tortellini, that kind of thing. He made the simple classics so well that they tasted brand-new again.
When working lunch prep, I have the same routine: wash and tear lettuce, dice tomatoes and onions, grate cheese. I like the ritual of it. But today I can’t focus. Bad news for someone wielding several types of knives. All I can think about is dinner. I scrubbed my hands in the industrial sink but didn’t touch the blue-paint phone number on my arm.
My shift is almost over by the time Felix busts in through the back door, carrying two cardboard boxes. I can’t see his face, just his tanned arms on either side. “Hola, amigos!”
Everyone grunts their hellos. In a kitchen, you call the chef “Chef.” It’s protocol. I mean, football players don’t call their coach “John” or “Eric.” They call him “Coach.” But my dad was Chef for almost twenty years. I thought it was his first name until I was four. Like, I thought he became a chef because he already had the name. There couldn’t be another Chef at Tony’s. Felix insists that we still call him Felix, even though he’s the head chef now.
Felix is my dad’s best friend. Was. No—is. I never know which tense is right. When someone dies, that person no longer is your best friend. He was your best friend. But when you’re the person left here, like Felix is, you’re still in the present tense. Like I am. Tony Daniels was my dad. But I am his son.
“Got yourself a tattoo, Maní?” Felix glances at my arm as he places the boxes on the counter near my work space. My dad called me Peanut when I was in elementary school. It embarrassed the hell out of me until I made him stop. Never thought I’d miss it—never in a hundred years. So I like that Felix still calls me that, but in Spanish.
“That a phone number?” Felix leans closer to see the marking. “A girl’s phone number?”
I try to sound all casual. “Oh. Yeah.”
“No way.” He waits for me to surrender, to admit that I’m lying. When I don’t, he punches my arm. “It is? You asked a girl for her number?”
Gabe, one of the prep cooks, overhears this. “Oooh, Daniels. Got yourself a lady?”