Page 71 of Love You, Mean It

I’d noticed the high ratings and how close it was to 93 when I pulled it up, and I’d quickly responded with an enthusiastic yes. Whathadn’tbeen immediately apparent was the fact that the restaurant was located inside Mangia.

Gritting my teeth, I turned in to the attached parking lot. I hadn’t taken Sam for the passive-aggressive type—she seemed to fall into the “no bullshit” bin I personally occupied—but maybe in her mind she was fighting fire with fire. Being felt up by the very man I’d promised to help her repair things with probably wasn’t raising me in her estimation any.

At least they validated parking.

I made my way through the rococo entryway, all Easter-egg-colored scrollwork and splashes of gilt. Inside, things changed.

The first floor was expansive, divided into half a dozen hyperspecific markets. The Negozio di Aceto, stocked with hundreds ofvarieties of vinegar for every taste and price point, shouldered up next to the Uliveti, the outpost for all things olive, from oils separated by purpose—this one for cooking, that one for salads, this other for finishing a soup or pasta—to squat jars packed with the glistening fruits, their detailed placards explaining the varietal’s characteristics, specific terroir, and the unique techniques the producer used to distinguish it from the next ridiculously expensive jar. Then there was the dried fruits and nuts store, the tinned fish store, the dried pastas store, a helpful sign near its entrance noting thatfreshpastas were on floor 3. Each subsection had a specific flavor—rustic woods and terra-cotta tones for the olives; geometric shapes in bright reds, oranges, and greens for the pastas; an earthy-bordering-boho vibe for the dried fruits and nuts—but the space as awholewas blindingly modern, with industrial-loft ductwork snaking around the ceilings, bright white walls, and blond woods turning all the communal spaces that vaguely Scandinavian flavor of antiseptic that somehow reassured people buying food.

As I glanced around the hangar-sized space, it was immediately apparent that Sam was right. The old Taylor’s building was large, but the upper floors were divided into approximations of smaller rooms, intimate enclaves designed so the experience of buying perfume, or hosiery, or linens, could feel thrillingly specific and important, a holdover from when the entire concept of the department store was new and luxurious. On top of that, it was simply too small. I wasn’t great with guessing square footage, but the entire footprint couldn’t be half the size of this building’s.

Plus, the sheernumberof floors was daunting. At the escalator I found a helpful building plan: The second floor was for dolci, with subsections for pastries, gelato, confectionery, and home baking; the third was for fresh meats, fish, cheeses, and pastas; the fourth was wines, spirits, aperitifs and digestifs, limoncello (apparently that merited its own section), and soft drinks; the fifth held everything you’d need to outfit an extremely high-end kitchen, from pasta makers to stand mixers to fussy little olive pitters no one actuallyused.

It wasn’t until the sixth and seventh floors that you hit the restaurants. In addition to Amicizia, a “true Italian bistro,” there was Napoli (for pizza), Salamoia (seafood, apparently), Affogatto (a café), and Carne (their white tablecloth steakhouse).

When I reached the bistro, Sam was already nestled in a booth at the back; she waved me over and I picked my way between low tables topped with cheery red-checked cloths. Her smile looked genuine…Still, my stomach clenched preemptively as I slid in across from her.

“Thanks for coming into town on such short notice,” she said, glancing at the cocktails menu briefly before handing it to me. “I’m still wrapping up a lot of stuff at my old job, there was no way I could get out early enough to make it back to Milborough at a reasonable hour.”

“No problem,” I said, using the menu as an excuse to find the precise words I wanted. “I could beat around the bush, but I don’t think either of us are fans of bullshit.” Sam frowned slightly, then nodded, urging me on. “Was this some kind of fuck you?” I gestured around the space. “I know this morning didn’t go how we’d hoped, but—”

“A fuck…?No.” Sam shook her head, emphatic. “Didn’t you get my text?” She pulled her phone out, scrolling rapidly to find our message history. “Dammit. I was going into the tunnel. It said I still had bars…” She turned it to face me. The little red exclamation point next to the last message in the chain showed it hadn’t gone through:Full disclosure the restaurant is inside Mangia. Know your enemy, right?

“So you’re not pissed at me?”

“Pissed atyou? I figured you’d be pissed atme.” Sam’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Why?”

“For wasting your time. And ruining a pretty solid plan. Theo getting all protective was predictable, honestly. I’m guessing it was in response to how badlyIfucked things up this morning.”

“Clearly we have very different takes on this morning.” Theserver came by and we ordered cocktails and apps. When she was gone, I bit the end off a spindly breadstick, then pointed it at Sam. “What do you even think you fucked up?”

“Not sure if you noticed, but I really likewinning.” Sam scrunched her nose and reached for her own breadstick, cracking it in half thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’m a particularly bad loser, but I get pretty competitive. Everett’s the same, which definitely didn’t help.”

I thought back to Theo’s aside that morning, his barely repressed annoyance as he’d noted the trait in Sam. It wasn’t until that moment that he’d turned “protective,” as Sam put it…which of course had turned things in a different direction entirely. Heat rose to my cheeks as I remembered the feeling of him growing stiff with desire against my back…

“Isn’t Theo competitive?” I said, trying to divert my thoughts from the gutter they’d sloshed into.

“Sort of…” Sam drew circles in a dish of oil with her breadstick. “He likes to be the besthecan be at things. But he’s got a soft spot for an underdog, like…pretty much always?” She shrugged. The cocktails arrived and she took a long, thoughtful sip of her negroni. “I suppose it isn’t abadtrait. I’d just forgotten how much less passionate he was about the little things. And the big things, sometimes…” She swirled the glass, watching the vivid pink shimmer on the surface of the alcohol.

Relief flooded me. Sam might be wrong—I was atleastas much to blame as she was—but that wasn’t the point. So far, I hadn’t royally fucked everything up, either with the Mangia plan or the less-well-formed “Maybe Sam becomes your actual friend” plan that had recently sprouted up between its roots.

“So next double date we try something I don’t absolutely suck at. I’ll tell you right now, I canschoolyou in bowling.”

She grinned.

“Worth a shot. Though…maybe we just avoid games entirely. I’m not sure I can turn that part of meoff. Or that Theo can turn it on.” She grimaced.

“Then we eat, or drink.” I shrugged. “Everyone’s friendlier when they drink.”

“As long as we’re not drinking and playing Cards Against Humanity.” Sam grimaced. “I think I might be worse with that game than I am with tennis.”

“Honestly…this morning wasn’t a total disaster,” I said slowly, thinking through it. Knowing Sam wasn’t holding it against me seemed to have cleared away some fog. “Theo was definitelyveryaware of you and Everett hitting it off.”

“Anyone can hit it off with Everett, he’s just a genuinely good guy,” Sam said, face softening into fondness. “We always called him the litmus test back in the day. If Everett can’t find anything nice to say about you, there reallymustbe something wrong.”

“I’m surprised he’s still single.”

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