Page 78 of Love You, Mean It

I was wearing an ivory blouse I’d made during a “play with volume” period from the end of my time in New York. The shape was classic, with curve-hugging seams and a tie-necked Peter Pan collar. The most noticeably “different” element was the sleeves, exaggerated balloons of ethereal sheer silk. Of course the scalloped black edging along the placket, collar, and cuffs had been incredibly fussy,and figuring out how to attach the sleeves so they’d hangjustright had taken me half a dozen not-quite-there attempts, but the overall design was hardly revolutionary; the glamour was in the details.

“I did, actually.” Cheryl’s expression of polite interest sharpened.

“No. May I?” She leaned across the table, and I let her take the sleeve between her outstretched fingers. “The workmanship is incredible.”

“You made thistoo?” Marta blinked, mouth o’ing. “Cheryl, you should have seen the dress she wore to the engagement party. It was perfection.”

“I’m betting she made the pants, too,” Theo said, a proud look on his face that I couldn’t remember seeing before. “Ellie’s incredibly talented. Who knows, maybe by our first anniversary she’ll be running two businesses. Then I can be a househusband.” He slipped an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me against him and pressing his lips gently to my temple.

“I mean…yes, I made the pants, but the design’sverysimple.” I rolled my eyes, simultaneously uncomfortable with the attention and pulsing with a sweet, all-enveloping ache that made it impossible not to lean into Theo’s warmth. He squeezed me a little tighter, kissing the top of my head, and my eyes closed of their own accord, a contented-cat feeling overtaking me.

“Maybe bringing Mangia in would be doing you a favor, Ellie,” Paul said, his lazy, half-amused tone tugging me back to earth. I straightened, but Theo’s arm stayed around me, tightening as though he was ready to come to my defense.

“How do you mean?” I said, working hard to keep my tone polite.

“Clearly you have a calling.” Paul gestured up and down my body with his wine glass. “Adelisounds like a waste of your talents.” He took a sip, sneering sideways at his brother. “Hell, if she sells now, all our problems would be solved.”

The basic sentiment—that I was wasting my life, my skills, mytimeat the deli—I’d bemoaned to Bella countless times since my return. It was my pet complaint when Mimi couldn’t keep herself from commenting (negatively) on changes I’d made to the inventory, layout, or marketing, and my go-to gripe whenever a particularly difficult regular salted my mood. Once, in a moment that still made me cringe with shame whenever I peered at its reflection in my memory pool, I’d even lost it with Ma. It had been a particularly grueling holiday shift, but even though she’d already put in a full day at the hospital, she was wiping down counters after nine o’clock beside me, my obviously foul mood throwing her peacemaker instincts into hyperdrive. She’d made some offhand remark, the sort of silver-lining comment she always defaulted to when someone she loved was in pain—the helplessness she felt in those moments made her pathologically focused on finding bright sides, her small attempt at righting the world for the people whose hearts were threaded all through her own. I, of course, was having none of it, and I’d laid into her:Whogivesa fuck that it was a good sales day, I’m wasting my entire life slicing meat for townies. How is that asuccess,Ma?How is that anything butsad?

The hurt in her eyes was immediate, and worse…there was real disappointment there, a sorrow that went deeper than the sting of my acid tone. I could see that in that moment, she thought less of me. But all she’d said wasI’m sorry you feel that way. For the record, I don’t see that as a wasted life.

She hadn’t had to voice the subtext: Dad. I wasn’t just writing off a quiet, small-town life for myself, I was saying his life, his path, hadn’t mattered. Of course I’d felt terrible, but I’d just mumbled an apology for my mood, unable to deny my underlying frustration. Sure, it had been good enough for Dad, but that didn’t mean it was whatIwas supposed to be doing.

But somehow, hearing this smarmy middle-aged trust fund kid voice the same thought I’d muttered to myself in a hundred moments of frustration set my teeth on edge. What the hell did he know aboutcallings? Judging from the makeup of the board, hisgreat achievement in life had been his last name. How could he possibly understand what the deli—the embodiment not only of my family’s history, our love for one another, but of a version of community thatmattered—meant to people? How could he understand that there could be something deeply fulfilling in weaving yourself into a larger story, creating something not just for yourself, like all my cleverly constructed blouses, but for the people and places that were your whole heart?

A quiet internal voice noted that I’d been avoiding that precise understanding foryears,but the fury alarm going off in my brain drowned it out.

“I don’t see it that way atall.” I dug my fingertips into my knees, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. “I’m extremely proud of what my family has built. And I feel lucky that I get to carry on their legacy. Design is important to me, and it’s fulfilling in a very different way, but if it were themostimportant thing, I wouldn’t be here now.”

Paul threw up his hands, even his expression of shock indolent.

“No need to get worked up. It’s sweet that you care about the place.”

Pressure started building behind my eyes. The need to lay into this rich schmuck was creating a physical pain in my chest. Then Theo’s hand moved onto my thigh, and he squeezed once. When I glanced over, there was a warning in his lowered brow, but also something else: fierce protectiveness. I could almost hear him:Don’t say something you’ll regret, Ellie.

Sucking in a deep breath, I turned back to Paul.

“Of course. If you’ll excuse me, I need the restroom.” With a grimace I hoped approximated politeness, I strode out without a backward glance.

I was leaning heavily on the sink, breathing deeply in an effort to recenter myself, when Sam walked in. She made no pretense of going to the bathroom, instead catching my eye through our reflections.

“Are you okay? Paul’s a congenital asshole, but no one takes him seriously. Which probably just makes him act like a bigger dick, to be honest.”

I exhaled a thin laugh.

“I’m fine. Sorry, that just…struck a nerve, clearly.”

“No need to apologize.” Sam flipped on the sink to wash her hands, turning back and forth to examine her makeup in the mirror. “Before we go back out there, I have to ask…Are yousurethere’s nothing between you and Theo?”

A mix of fear and guilt geysered up my throat. Sam had just proven she was my best ally—if she told the Taylor clan that selling to Mangia was a bad move, they’d probably listen. And if she didn’t…

And Jesus, the first thing she’d done when she came in was to check how I was doing. She wasn’t just my ally, she was the first person I actuallywantedto be my friend in longer than I could remember. What in god’s name was wrong with me lately?

“Obviously I can’t speak for Theo, but I think it’s a combination of us both wanting to sell the engagement and just…getting along. As friends, I mean.”

“Things seem a little more than friendly…”

“That’s how we want them to seem, right? People have to believe we’re real. And from what I’ve heard, Theo’s into PDAs.”

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