Page 73 of The Witness

“Aren’t they going to pay?” The reporter tried to wrinkle her botoxed forehead.

“Of course, eventually. After I cover my deductible, and that’s a significant amount of money. Especially since I’d scaled back my catering business in anticipation of opening my new restaurant.”

“How can we all help one of our favorite hometown chefs?”

“I’m not one to ask for donations, but I’ve set up a crowdfunding campaign for supporters that would like to help Viande stay on track for a February opening. There are fun perks for different donation levels that make great holiday gifts for last minute shoppers with a foodie on their list.” Her self-deprecating delivery of the pitch made me want to reach for my phone and send her all the money in my 401K. I was sure I wouldn’t be the only one moved to donate.

“Would you be willing to show us some of the damage your beautiful place sustained?”

On screen, they toured some of the worst of the damage. The cameraman panned between Sabrina’s stressed face and the shattered glass and ruined drywall. Her pained expression triggered an answering pang under my ribs.

“The hardest things to replace are going to be all the custom designer details. You know, having a restaurant in Miami is more than good food. In this city, your space must be as beautiful as the plates your kitchen turns out.”

“I can see this place was on its way to being gorgeous, and we know you make great food. I dream about the lionfish tacos you made in studio for us back in June. Fun fact: your recipe is our station’s most downloaded ever.”

“Oh, wow, that’s incredible.” Despite all the shit that was literally falling down around her, Sabrina’s genuine joy at the popularity of her recipe lit up her face. She pressed a hand over her chest and basked in the moment.

My heart stuttered; the next few beats thrummed so loud I felt the abused organ slam into my ribs. It was cliché, but so was a midlife crisis. A glimmer of understanding took root. Sabrina shared herself completely and openly with everyone. I kept the private emotional parts of me on lockdown. My relationships were transactional and shallow as a result. I was Superman hiding behind a cape.

The reporter wrapped up the segment, quickly thanking Sabrina and repeating the call for donations before flashing the website address for the crowdfunding campaign on the screen.

I leaned down to pet Onyx, my head swimming with scenes from dozens of failed relationships over my lifetime. Different women each asking in their way for me to show them my inner Clark Kent, but I had been hiding behind the cape. I’d been too scared to see that there was more to a relationship than saving the day.

I put the TV back on mute and picked up my cell phone to text Sabrina.

How’s it going? You look great on TV.

A minute or two passed, and I thought she wouldn’t reply.

It’s great and awful. But we’re managing.

I started typing a message asking how to help and delete it. Instead, I clicked the call button.

“I thought you were working?” Sabrina was breathless. In the background, there were the banging and scraping noises of a construction site.

“I’m watching a guy most of the city hates shop for jewelry. Right now, he’s getting upsold on a diamond bezel on his wife’s new watch while I’m petting the store’s guard dog. How about you?”

“We are demoing what can’t be saved. It’s so depressing to see how much beautiful stuff was ruined. The only work getting done in the few days before Christmas Eve is drywall patching and some electrical repairs. I kind of want to scream at George, but it’s not his fault.” She sighed in resignation; I wished I could hug her.

“Want me to talk to him?” I wanted to call back the question the moment it left my lips. Shit. I had to stop trying to fix everything.

“No.” Her delivery brooked no argument. It wasn’t like the times when woman would say no but mean yes. I took Sabrina at her word and buried my desire to help in the bottom of a dark pit.

“I want to apologize. That was a stupid thing to ask, and yesterday, taking over your meeting with George was a massive overreach. It’s hard to admit, but you’re right. I love to swoop in and fix things for the women in my life.” Sabrina had no idea how many times I tried to fix things for my sister, Marney, but not one of my interventions ever got her sober for long.

“Apology accepted.” She breathed a sigh of relief so loud her phone picked it up. “I’ve been fighting sexiest assholes in the kitchen for all my career, so it’s a sensitive spot.”

“How about from now on I’ll offer hugs and back rubs. That’s it. You want more, you have to ask. I mean, I’m not even offering to get the stuck lid off the pickle jar.”

“Pickle jars are no problem. A couple of whacks with the back of my chef’s knife that baby will pop right off. But the painful knot in my right shoulder and many other body parts miss your attention.”

If anyone in Oleander bothered to take their eyes off the glittering jewels and look at me, they would have seen me smiling from ear to ear. This was going better than expected. It was novel to have a woman interested in me and not what I could do to make her life easier. Maybe Clark Kent was on to something.

“How’s the crowdfunding?” I asked.

“Better than I’d hoped. Made me nervous to ask my followers for money. And the TV reporter pushed way harder than I would have. I can send you the link to share on socials, if you want?” I imagined her shrugging her shoulders as if to say we’ll see what happens.

For the first time in my life, I longed for a Facebook account so I could tell heryes, send me that info. Do my part without being overbearing. Act like a normal guy helping but not taking over.

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