Page 120 of The Quiet Tenant

“The restaurant,” he says. “Any idea what’s going to happen with that?”

I’ve thought about it for three days. But before I make a decision, I need to give it one last shot.

It was my father’s restaurant. It was home, sort of. It was imperfect, and I resented it often, and still it was home.

On the fourth night, I put on a fresh button-down and my crimson apron and drive myself downtown.

I pretend not to notice the lingering looks as I step behind the bar. Eric and Yuwanda hover around me like bodyguards. Gestures I remember: peeling a twist off a lemon, stuffing olives with blue cheese and stabbing them with a cocktail pick. What I want: To disappear into my work. Become so focused that I forget to hear the whispers, fail to notice the abnormal number of customers requesting to dine at the bar tonight. Trying to get a better look at me. Searching for clues, anything in the way I carry myself that would explain why he pickedme.

The air is thick. My button-down sticks to my back, slick with sweat. I meet Cora’s gaze as I hand her two old-fashioneds—regular, not virgin. No one orders those anymore. Cora thanks me. She walks away from the bar faster, I think, than necessary.

Everything a question. Every detail weighed down by suspicion.

I carry on. Trudge through dinner service. I have a right to be here. This part of the world was mine long, long before it was his.

But then. I run out of lemons. I run out of oranges. I run out of Maraschino cherries. That means two things: For citrus, the walk-in. For the jarred cherries, the pantry.

I tell myself it’s nothing. My back straightens. One of my front teeth sinks into my bottom lip. I force myself to relax. Step inside the pantry like it’s just another room. I must do it. I must do it all, as if nothing ever happened.

The jar is on the top shelf. I lift my arm and the button-down spills out of the waistband of my slacks.

I am him. I am his silhouette that day, the day of the 5K, the day of the hot cocoa. When he grabbed the sugar from this very shelf, flannel shirt slipping up to reveal his abdomen.

When I became his, and he became a little bit mine.

The words I read in the newspapers come back to me. Victims. Body count. Stalking. Murder. Serial.

The ground shifts. I haven’t slept in days. Maybe I’ll never sleep again.

I’m going to be sick.

—

I’M NOT SICK.

I get out of the pantry and finish my service. The next morning, my choice is made.

That was my last shift.

I don’t know the first thing about selling a restaurant. My parents never taught me that part. Only how to run one.

The internet tells me selling a restaurant requires strategy, cautious thinking, and detailed planning.

A restaurateur from the city tells me he wants to buy the place. His price doesn’t sound like a complete insult.

I take his offer.

—

I STILL NEEDto work. To pay my bills while the money moves around. And even after it arrives, a restaurant sale isn’t a trust fund.

I need to work.

Yuwanda calls a friend who calls a cousin whose brother needs abartender. The job is in the city, the restaurant on a cross street off Union Square. Shitty pay, shittier hours. I take it on the spot.

I’ve never dreamed of the city, but now it’s a thing that is happening to me. I find a sublet in Harlem, tour it on Skype. The room is small, with just one tiny window. Rent will eat up more than half my paycheck. I sign a virtual contract and wire my new landlord the deposit.

This will be me. This job, this room. I will take the subway to work, wander around the buildings while I wait for my shift to start. If I’m lucky, the city won’t care about me. I will disappear.

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