The last thing I feel like doing is talking about it, or explaining to my family why I’m heartbroken once again. “Mami, I—”
“I’ll see you when you get here.”
The line goes dead.
I could text her and tell her I’m simply not up for dinner at the restaurant, but she would leave work and come to my place to check on me, and I don’t want her doing that, either. “Ugh.” I start the car, back out of the parking space and head toward the restaurant, feeling dead inside. The elation of the last week has been overshadowed by devastation.
I wouldn’t have missed spending the time I did with Jason for anything. He made me feel alive again and showed me that I can still have strong feelings for a man. That’s all good news. But the thought of never seeing him again . . .
My eyes flood with more tears that make it hard for me to see where I’m going. I fumble around in the console and find a pack of tissues. At a red light, I mop up the tears and give myself a stern talking-to about getting it together so I won’t have to explain red, puffy eyes to my family.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, hold it and then release it slowly, repeating the process several times until I feel calmer. The light changes, and I accelerate through the intersection, intent on keeping my focus on the traffic while trying to ignore the ache in my chest.
The last place I feel like being is at the restaurant where I’ll be the center of attention, but if I don’t go to them, they’ll come to me. They’re too busy at this hour to leave work, so I go to them. This reminds me of being summoned to appear every night at dinnertime as a teenager so we could pretend to be a normal family that ate dinner together.
I used to hate that I had to go there every night at six o’clock or run the risk of being tracked down by one or both of my parents. Rather than face their wrath, I did what I was told and showed up on time, especially after they got me a car and told me I was to use it to get to dinner on time or lose the privilege of having my own car.
Now that I’m older, I realize the value of what they did by making sure I wasn’t home alone every night while they were at work. I did most of my high school homework while sitting at the bar at Giordino’s, which was as much my home as our house was. The habit of stopping in for dinner continued after Tony and I were married. We both enjoyed spending time with my family—and not having to cook on our rare nights off.
I did a lot of my college and grad school homework there, too, more out of habit than anything. I discovered I wasn’t as efficient at home alone, so I found myself right back there long after the choice was mine to make. Not to mention my parents kept me in food and drink while I worked, so there was that. That’s why they joke that they got me through college and grad school, which isn’t far from the truth.
They’ve gotten me through everything, and as I pull into the parking lot behind the restaurant, I’m comforted to know they’ll get me through this new heartache, too.
I pull down the visor to view the damage in the mirror. My eyes are a little red and watery, but overall, it’s not as bad as I expected. Although, my appearance doesn’t matter much, because the people closest to me will take one look and know that something has happened.
Resigned to my fate, I grab my purse and head inside through the back door, which takes me past the bustling kitchen. The smells coming from there make my mouth water, reminding me that even in the worst of times, my appetite is always robust. That became a joke of sorts after Tony died, and I ate as if nothing had happened. Food has always been my friend that way.
My stomach rumbles in anticipation of dinner as I make my way to the bar. My dad is holding court, as usual, and leans across the bar to kiss my cheek. “What’s wrong?”