Page 158 of All We Need

OurPlacewas in a much better position than it was last year, andIwas serious whenItold the girls they didn’t need me anymore.Awell-established, wholesome, family-run restaurant needed help, andIdid that.

It gave meMartin,Harvey, and a manIwas so utterly in love with, it physically hurt.Butit wasn’t mine and neither wasBooth.Itbelonged to theSadlerandThomasfamilies, not me.Somy final parting gift was to hand over the keys.

It didn’t meanI’dnever step foot inSuttonBayagain—Martinwas there.ButnowIhad zero reason to seeBooth.Itwould have been too painful.

I’m staring vacantly out the window of my parents’Greystonewhen my mom floats into the living room.

“Enough,” she declares and claps her hands.

My brow quirks in surprise. “Enoughof what?”

She swats my feet off the sofa and tuts before squeezing in next to me. “Enoughwallowing.”Herface softens, and she brushes my hair off my shoulder. “I’mproud of you for taking a break from work, but there are better ways to get over this.”

I cringe.Askingmy dad for time off work and to delay theBerlintrip felt like an all-time low.

My dad’s response: “It’sabout time you did something for yourself.”

Even with my parents’ support and time to digest everything,Iwas crawling out of my skin.Ididn’t mope, it wasn’t in myDNA, yet my body had molded itself to the sofa andIwanted nothing more than to disappear beneath a sea of blankets.

“Mother.”Idismiss her studious gaze. “Pleaselet me rot on the sofa?”

She gasps, slapping a hand to her chest. “Dreadful,Alessandra.Wedo not rot.WeArgiroswomen, we thrive.Youwill start at dinner tomorrow.”She’sso confident despite my resounding groan.

“Mama, no.Idon’t want to leave the house,”Iplead and drag the fur throw up to my chin.

“Dinner is here, so no excuses.”Herexpression shifts, smiling down at me with such warmth it thaws the block of ice in my chest. “Oh, thisavré mou.Ipromise it will be okay.Thatboy loves you so?—”

Voice hoarse likeI’veswallowed razor blades,Istop her. “Pleasedon’t.Nottoday.I’llbe okay, and dinner sounds great, but please let me have one more day to be bitter, angry, tired, and heartbroken.”

She’s desperate to argue by the way her lips pinch together.Myexhausted brain sighs in relief when she holds her tongue, kisses me on the cheek, and leaves me to drown in self-pity.

“Wow.”Istare at my bowl with wide eyes. “Thislooks fancy.”

When my mom said we were having dinner at home,Iexpected something quick and easy.Instead, my soup starter looks like something right out of aMichelinstar restaurant.Itmight be blended-up vegetables, but as the creamy, aromatic flavors hit my tongue,I’min heaven.

It’s impossible to hold back my moan.

Veronica, my parents’ housekeeper, appears pleasedI’mingesting something other thanCheetos. “You’veoutdone yourself,V.Whatis it?”

The middle-aged woman chuckles and plucks a small menu from her pocket. “IwishIwere this talented.It’s‘smoky sweet potato soup.’”

The next spoonful is already being shoveled into my mouth, making her laugh and my mom totsk,muttering something about table manners under her breath.Dadjust looks happy to see me eating.

It’s only when our bowls are cleared thatIrecallVeronica’swords. “Wait, what did she mean?Whocooked this?”

Mom blots at her mouth regally. “Afriend of ours recommended a private chef to us.Ithought it would be a nice change.Areyou enjoying it?”

“It’s amazing.Youput in a lot of effort forTuesdaynight dinner…”Mycuriosity vanishes when the next course is presented.

I’m salivating at the sight of my favorite dish and beam over at my parents, who watch me in apt fascination. “YouknowI’llnever turn down tuna tartare.”

Without waiting for their response,Idig in, my noises of appreciation the only sound around the table.

Suddenly, my heart pangs with sadness asI’mreminded of the heated stareBoothwould pin me with wheneverImoaned over his incredible cooking.Heknew it, but most of the time,Iplayed into it just to torture him.

My knife and fork hover above the juicy, fresh cubes of tuna and ripe avocado.

I miss him so much.

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