Page 17 of This Is How It Started
“No, I’m sure you don’t,” she says, her voice catching.
Josh steps between us. “Look, this is difficult for everyone. Rachel didn’t mean what she said. The hat clearly holds sentimental value to her, but if it does to you, too, you should have it, Brooke.”
He gives her a small hug, and I want to kill him. How can he take her side over mine? She’s probably going to sell the hat along with the house and everything in it.
Brooke’s face softens. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
From watching her, you’d think Josh had just granted her a stay of execution. She quickly excuses herself, taking the hat with her.
We wait until we hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway before Adam throws himself down on the bed.
“What the hell do you think that was about?” he asks.
“Community property state,” Hannah says in her lawyerly voice. “Technically, everything in the house is hers. She just wants to make sure we know that she knows that.”
“Or maybe the hat is a talisman for the husband she lost ten days ago.” Josh shoves his hands in his pockets and walks over to the window and peers outside.
“There’s that.” Adam hops off the bed. “Then there’s the possibility that she’s just being a vindictive bitch.”
Chapter 7
Dinner at the Restaurant
“Did you really mean what you said about Brooke and the hat?” I ask Josh as we pull away from the house on Vallejo.
We finished what we came to do and are on our way to Tino’s Pizza Napoletana for takeout. I’m not in the mood to eat in a restaurant, but we’re both hungry.
“Don’t be mad at me, Rach. Brooke looked as if she was going to break down any second. I know you wanted the cap, but you got the picture and the painting for your mom.”
“It’s not the same.” I know I’m pouting like a six-year-old but don’t care.
“Can we please table this until we get home?”
It’s been a long day, and Josh is battling traffic, so I accede. But I want him to take my side in this.
What’s normally a four-minute drive takes fifteen. After circling four or five times, Josh finally finds parking on Stockton Street, close to the restaurant.
Together, we walk to Tino’s hand in hand, taking in the sights and scents of North Beach. It’s dinnertime, and the streets are starting to fill with people. The smell of Italian food wafts onto the street, and my stomach growls. The last time I ate was a container of yogurt for breakfast.
To my surprise, Tino’s isn’t that crowded. There are times when there’s a line around the block to get in, and Tino, the owner and pizzaiolo, has a no-reservation policy. He won the best pizza margherita at the World Pizza Cup in Naples, Italy, years ago, and the restaurant has gotten write-ups in every food and travel magazine imaginable. This is to say, he doesn’t hurt for business, even without taking reservations.
“Wanna just eat here?” I say.
Josh holds my gaze, surprised by my sudden change of heart. “You sure?”
“The pizza will at least be hot when we eat it.” Unlike Josh, I hate cold pizza. “I also wouldn’t mind a glass of wine.” Ten if I’m honest with myself. And all we have at home is a couple of bottles of Chardonnay. Not great with pizza.
He asks the hostess if we can eat our to-go pizza in, and she finds us a booth near the front window. It’s a small place, so there’s not a lot of privacy. But in a way, the hum of the cooks and servers moving around the restaurant is a welcome distraction.
Josh gets us each a glass of Cesanese, our favorite wine when we eat here. The days are getting longer, and it’s still light outside. The bars are starting to fill up with the after-work crowd. Even on a Wednesday night, it feels like a party.
Original Joe’s is less than a block away, and I think of my father and the last lunch we had there together.
“You okay?” Josh reaches for my hand across the table.
I blow out a breath. “It was harder than I thought. And I thought it would be pretty hard.”
“I know. But it’s done now.”
