Page 18 of Monsters, Vows, and Growls
Ella cough-snickered, "Oh my God."
I petted her back with a grin on my face. This wasus. We used to always have so much fun together. We would laugh at the silliest things. Why hadn't I rememberedthatin the hospital bed? God, I could have used her laughter then.
"Remember when I tried to make my own version of that sandwich junior year, and I nearly set my mom’s toaster oven on fire?” She grinned. “The whole kitchen smelled like burnt sriracha for two days.”
I chuckled, "How could I forget that? You blamed it on me."
"I did, didn't I?" she replied, laughing as she chewed. “I maintain the instructions were unclear. Also, that toaster was already on death’s door.”
“You put the aioli in the oven,” I said, chuckling. “In a paper bowl.”
“I was experimenting!” she said through another bite, eyes sparkling now. “That’s how great recipes are born.”
“That’s also how kitchen fires start.”
She nudged my arm with her elbow, like she had done a hundred times before. A jolt moved through me, part nostalgia, part electric shock from the contact with her. She was still grinning; it was a good grin. A real one. The kind I hadn’t seen in too long. But then her eyes clouded over, and I watched reality sink back in. I didn't want to ruin the moment completely, so I asked, "Ready?"
I placed my hand on the small of her back and led her toward the large entryway. She walked a bit stiffly, and silence enveloped us once again while we wandered the aisles together. Soon, however, her excitement took back over, and she started pointing at things that caught her eye. I made bad jokes about stove brands and groaned when she spent twenty solid minutes comparing two mixers that looked exactly the same to me.
I liked the way she lit up when she talked about prep flow and walk-in coolers. And when she nearly crawled into an industrial-sized oven. God, I could’ve stood there all day, just watching her. Wondering what the hell was wrong with me to have given her up.
Two days passedduring which neither one of us could come up with an excuse to meet up at the restaurant. Tiles were picked, as well as paint, countertops, and so on. Patrick's workers were at the restaurant, painting, tiling, and whatever else needed to be done. There was no reason for Patrick and me to be there. Well, he might have to because he was the boss, but as much as I wracked my brain, I had nothing. I busied myself at my restaurants or sat behind the computer working on a menu for the new place.
I caught myself smiling more often, so much so that my staff was getting suspicious. Besides Evan, nobody knew about the coming restaurant in Cedar Hollow. And when he asked me about my good mood lately, I told him it was because of that. It wasn't really fibbing. Iwasexcited about it. I only left the part out where I was falling—again—for the man who was building it.
I was. Hard.
And all it took was a fucking egg sandwich!
Way to go, Ella.
It wasn't just the sandwich, though. It was the coffee he brought, the way he looked at me, the way he picked things up when he thought they were too heavy for me. The way he let me have free rein in picking colors, tablecloths, accessories, everything. Not to mention the memories. The memories were a big part of it. Poor Henry. I didn't even want to think about all the lunches Patrick's dad had lost because of me. Every time I thought about the damn sandwiches, I laughed. Even more so when I remembered another incident, where Patrick discovered an entire case of whiskey in his parents' basement. It was the summer of our junior year, and boy, did we ever have a summer! At that time, there were eleven in our group. Eleven seventeen-year-olds and a case of whiskey.
One night, about a month and a half after summer break, we were at Patrick's parents' place. His parents were big on throwing parties. Any occasion they could think of to invite their friends and the neighbors. This one was for their wedding anniversary. Henry went down into the basement. It took him a long time before he returned, all fired up. "Gabriel!" he yelled through the house.
Gabe had just graduated from college as the number one draft pick, starting his football career with a bang. He’d come home for the anniversary party, much to Carol's dismay. The two never got along. Thankfully, we didn't get together with Gabe very often. The five-year age gap between the brothers kept them relatively apart, aside from their shared football love. Anyway,Henry came out of the basement, yelling. He accused Gabe of stealing his whiskey.
I smiled, remembering how I buried my face in Patrick's chest with a small cry. I was the worst liar in the world, and I knew that the guilt of what Patrick and the rest of us had done with the whiskey had to be written all over my face.
Gabe didn’t flinch. He just raised an eyebrow, like the idea ofhimsneaking booze was too stupid to dignify. “You really think I’d hide whiskey in the wheel well of my car instead of just drinking it in your recliner while watching the Packers game?”
Henry huffed and muttered something aboutentitled football brats with no respect.
Then he stormed back down into the basement, probably to make sure the shelves hadn’t grown legs. When he returned, Gabe added dryly, “Maybe the dog stole it. Like your sandwiches?”
From the kitchen, Patrick’s mom chimed in without missing a beat, “Or maybe you’re just getting senile, Henry. You probably drank it and forgot.”
None of us ever confessed. Though every time Patrick’s dad had a drink after that, he would narrow his eyes at Gabe like he was waiting for a confession. Did I feel guilty? Definitely not. Not after the way Gabe treated Carol. Plus, damn, it was worth every shot.
I giggled to myself. We did have a lot of fun times.
Funny, over the last ten years, I hadn’t really thought about those. When I thought about Patrick, it centered around the accident, the hospital, and the hurt of his breaking up with me.
We were eighteen… I reminded myself. Eighteen!
So young. So idealistic. And so in love.
For the first time, I tried to see the events, not through the eyes of a young, hurt girl, but with those of a mature woman. Patrick had been eighteen. His entire life had come to a complete standstill, changed in the blink of an eye. From an aspiring pro football player to a man facing life in a wheelchair. As I thought about it now, my heart went out to that boy. Years of pain and hurt had clouded not only my memories, but my judgment. Patrick did what he thought was right at the time. In retrospect, it was quite a mature decision. Sure, at eighteen, I wouldn't have blinked twice at the prospect of living with a man in a wheelchair, but ten-year-older me realized it wouldn’t have been that simple. How would I have handled a man in a wheelchair? Had children? What if Patrick had been unable to work? Could I have worked, raised a family, and cared for Patrick? I don’t know. I know I loved him enough that I would have given it my best shot, but realistically speaking? The chances of us still being together after ten hard years like that would have been slim.
