It's like an amped-up circus in here. Two people are on salads and prep, someone's checking something in the oven, and Ethan is stirring, flipping, banging. The dishwasher's up to his elbows in suds, the cousin's husband's brother is pulling something out of the freezer, and there are about ten things cooking on the stove at once. Servers buzz in and out, calling out orders, barely noticing me, just milling around me like I'm a sack of potatoes. Not the best time, in other words.
But.
I can't exactly stop now.
“Ethan?” I say. He doesn't hear me.
“Get me two crème brûlées and two tiramisus,” barks Kelly, the waitress who went to school with me. She does a double-take when she sees me. “Hi, Lucy.”
“Table four wants to know if you can do a chicken marsala without the wine,” Louie says.
“Sure. It won't be marsala, but sure,” Ethan says, tossing some chicken into a frying pan.
“Ethan?” I say again.
He hears me this time, and his head snaps around. “Lucy. What's up?”
“Do you have a minute?”
An eyebrow raises. “Not really.”
“Chef, table five says their meat's not cooked enough,” a waiter says, shoving a plate across the warming area.
Ethan looks at it. “It's medium rare,” he says to the server.
“Tell me about it. He wants it darker,” the waiter grunts in disgust. Ethan nods and shoves the plate back under the broiler.
“Ethan, I really need to talk to you,” I say loudly. Micki gives me a look and continues chopping parsley.
“Lucy, there are fifty people out there who want to eat, and my dad's chef didn't show,” he says, sliding some vegetables from a frying pan onto two plates. He adds a veal chop onto one, chicken onto another, then grabs a bowl and fills it with ravioli, covering the pasta with sauce.
Micki grabs the plates, sprinkles them with parsley, adds the garnish and puts the plates on the warmer. “Service for table eight!” she yells.
Ethan's back at the stove, and more flames flare briefly. “Carlo, can you get some more filet from the
cooler?” he calls.
“You betcha, Chef,” Carlo calls.
I sigh. Okay, it's a bad time. Whatever momentum carried me here is gone, I guess. I turn to leave, shoving my hands in my pockets.There's the dime.I look back at Ethan. Since he's working at the twelve-burner stove, he's standing right in front of Jimmy's shrine. As ever, the candles are lit, Jimmy's bandana neatly folded, his picture smiling out at me. It's time. I don't care how busy the restaurant is. It's time, damn it. “Ethan?” I say again. He doesn't answer. “Eth?” Nothing. “Ethan, I need to talk to you now!” I yell.
Ethan gives me a quick glare, then says, “Micki, can you take over for one minute? The steak and eggplant are together, and the chicken parm and ravioli go to six.”
“Got it, Chef,” she says, grabbing a pan.
Ethan maneuvers past the young man ladling soup into bowls and the girl who's on salads. “What, Lucy?” he demands.
“Can we go outside for a second?” I ask.
“No!” he barks, running a hand through his hair. He takes a breath, then folds his arms in front of him. “Tell what's so important it can't wait.”
I swallow—still no pebble, just nerves this time, and it occurs to me I haven't planned what to say. “I—um, I went to the cemetery today. Tonight. To see Jimmy's grave.” I bite my lip.
“That's great, Lucy,” Ethan says, glancing over to the soup boy.
“Chef, we got a shellfish allergy on that eggplant parm, so be extra careful,” Kelly calls, grabbing a plate from the warmer. her that pasta with the—”
“Excuse me, I'm talking here!” I say sharply, looking at my mother-in-law. My breath is coming fast and hard, and suddenly, Ethan's attention is laser sharp.
“So talk,” Marie says, clearly wounded. “Pretend I'm not here. I'm just the mother.”
I look back at Ethan, who's grown very still. “Ethan...on the wedding video...when you gave your speech. Um...I saw it, Ethan.”
He blinks. “Saw what?” His voice is very low.
Another waiter bursts into the kitchen. “Chef, we need two more filets and one tilapia special,” he says.
Ethan doesn't answer. Doesn't even turn. “Saw what, Lucy?”
It's beginning to dawn on the kitchen staff that Something's Happening. Though the food still cooks and the knives still cut, it's suddenly much quieter in here.
“I saw that...” My voice drops to a whisper. “Jimmy knew.” Something flickers in Ethan's eyes. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Ethan, I'm so sorry for everything I put you through. Tonight when I was watching the toast—”
Gianni bursts through kitchen door. “Where the hell's the veal, Ethan?” he barks. “Table four's been waiting for fifteen—”
“Quiet!” Marie orders. “She's talking here.”
“Was that Lucy I saw?” My own mother's head pops in, and when she sees that yes, it is indeed her offspring, she comes in, still holding Emma. “I thought you had a date. Honey, you're a mess! Your shoes don't even match.”
“I need to say something to Ethan,” I say loudly. “If I could have a minute.” The staff stops pretending to work. All activity ceases, and all eyes are on Ethan and me. Ethan is watching. And waiting. I decide he doesn't have to wait anymore. “I checked the toast, Ethan,” I say, and my breath catches in a half sob.
“The toast?” he asks. Clearly it wasn't what he was looking for.
“Forget the toast,” I babble, my mouth wobbling. “Ethan, I love you. And I'm so sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but I've loved you for a long, long time, and I'm sorry about Jimmy and Jimmy Lite and when you were in the hospital and I said I couldn't...” I force myself to stop the projectile words that are flying out of me and just look at him. His mouth is open the slightest bit. Other than that, he hasn't moved a muscle. “You're my best friend, Ethan,” I say in a wobbling voice. “I love you, and I'm sorry. Please give me another chance. Please say you will.”
He doesn't say a word. Emma coos. The party noises are a dull roar in the background, but Ethan doesn't say anything. I'm too late. I put him through too much for too long, and he's done with me, and honestly, I can't blame him, but my heart closes in on itself like a hard fist. Then Ethan opens his arms, and before I realize I've moved, I'm in them, my face against his neck, my arms around him, holding on as hard as I can.
“Jesus,” Gianni grumbles.
“Shush, idiot,” Marie says, but I barely hear. Ethan's heart thuds against mine, and his arms are shaking, his head bent, his beard scratchy against my neck, and this is it, the place I belong.
“Well, if we were running behind an hour ago, we're totally fucked now,” someone says, and everyone laughs. But Ethan's breath isn't quite steady, and it takes me a second to realize why. He's crying.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” I whisper, and he nods.
“Chef, this is a beautiful moment and all,” Micki says, “but I have no idea what to do with this salmon.”
“Shut up, you,” Gianni tells her. “Here. I'll fix it. Can't you see he's busy?”
Ethan kisses my neck, then lifts his head to kiss me on the mouth, and God, it feels so right and so perfect that my heart nearly bursts with joy. And then the kitchen staff starts clapping, and Ethan smiles against my lips, pulls back and wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I love you so much,” I say, my own tears slipping down my cheeks.
“Took you long enough to figure out,” he says with a little laugh. He kisses me again, then hugs me against him, and I've missed him so much, love him so much that I think I might levitate from happiness.
I see that my mother is crying, beautifully of course. “Good for you, Lucy,” she says, patting Emma's back. “Good for you, honey.” Marie sobs a bit more emphatically, and at the stove, Gianni smiles as he cooks.
Then I look back at Ethan. “You will marry me, won't you?” I whisper.
His eyes fill again. “I will,” he says, grinning that curling smile that always got to me. The smile that lit up those lonely, sad times, that reminded me there was still something left to laugh about, that brought me happiness when I thought happiness was gone.
"you just have to be practical, figure out what it is you want in a man, and then find one who has those things. Make a plan. Stick to it." Her eyes went to Cal. "Don't get distracted."
