Page 89 of The Seven Year Slip

“Please.”

“Lemon—”

“Please.”

He breathed out through his nose, but then he closed his eyes. “I hear utensils on plates. I hear conversations. The AC squeaking—I need to fix that. There, are you happy?”

“Just keep listening,” I told him, and to my surprise, he did. After a moment, I asked, “Do you hear anyone laughing?”

“I hope they aren’t.”

“I don’t mean atyou, I mean with each other.” I glanced out again at the restaurant, strangers on uncomfortable chairs, shifting awkwardly as they took photos of their food and sipped wine or champagne as they scrolled through their socials.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and looked out toward the dining area, too, a strange look on his face, searching across the tables as if he could prove me wrong. And when he couldn’t, he said, “I’m doing something new here. Somethinginventive. Something people want to see—something they will talk about.” He pursed his lips and darted his gaze back to me. “I’m giving people a perfect meal—you know this is my dream. This is what I’ve worked for.”

“I know,” I tried to explain, but I was quickly losing him. “I’m just asking you not to lose who you are—”

“Who Iwas,” he volleyed back, and I winced. “What do youwantfrom me, Clementine?”

To be the man who smiled at me with that crooked mouth over frozen cardboard pizza. The kind of guy who told jokes across cold noodles. The person who told me about his grandfather’s lemon pies, how they were never the same twice. “You’re so out of touch with everything you were,” I said. “I meandry iceforpasta?”

His nose scrunched. “Cold noodles.”

Like he made for me the other week. I tried again, “A deconstructedlemon pie?”

“Every bite tastes a little different.”

Like the kind of pie his grandfather made. “But they’re not the same—they’re things that made you who you are,” I tried to reason. “Theymadeyou—”

“And if I was still that dishwasher, would you be here?Competingfor my cookbook? No. No one out there would be here.”

The realization was like a bucket of ice water. My throat felt tight. I looked away.

“I’m still me, Clementine,” he said. “I’m still trying to make my granddad proud, to make the perfect meal—and I know how to now. I studied under the man who made it. I knowexactlywhat made it perfect—”

“It was your grandpa, Iwan,” I interrupted, and the sharp look froze, and then slowly slipped off his face, until he looked like he’d lost his grandfather all over again. I reached up to try and take his face in my hands, but he moved away.

My throat stung as tears came to my eyes.

“I’m sorry—”

“Change isn’t always bad, Clementine,” he said, his voice solid but stoic. His jaw worked as he tried to find the right words.“Perhaps instead of wanting me to stay the exact same person you met in that apartment, you should let yourself change a little, too.”

I drew my hand back quickly. “I...”

Behind him, the silver doors to the kitchen swung open, but instead of a server coming out with another round of intricately styled plates, it was—Miguel? His hair slicked back, in a maroon suit, a glass of champagne in one hand.

He was here, after all?

Miguel said, smiling, “I was wondering where you’d gone off to! Isa’s about to get into that 2002 Salon Blanc back there—Lemon! Hey! Iwan, you didn’t tell me she’d be here.”

James pursed his lips together, and I looked away, trying to find some excuse to leave, because I had misjudged him, apparently. More than I thought.

Suddenly, shouts came from the dining area. We glanced back toward the mounting chaos, and I paled when I realized that it was coming from my table. Drew was helping Fiona to her feet. Juliette was in a sheer panic, as she searched the restaurant for me, her phone in her hand, calling an Uber. She found me and held up her phone.

“IT’S COMING!” Juliette cried.

It...?

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