That Secret Crush Page 16

“We did not fucking practice.”

  “Uh, I asked you what you were going to say, and you said you didn’t know.”

  “That’s not practicing,” I reply, exasperated.

  “It is in my book—don’t take that away from me.” Pushing me in the shoulder, he says, “I helped you practice and prepare. I listened to you cry and wiped your tears.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “And you’re not going to let me—”

  “Reid?”

  At the sound of Eric’s voice, we both swivel around to find him stepping outside of the restaurant’s back entrance, wearing his chef’s coat and a confused look on his face.

  Tall, maybe an inch taller than me, with broad shoulders and the same eyes as Eve, Eric stands there like he’s frozen in place, disbelief etched in his features as he takes in two blasts from the past.

  I stuff my hands in my pockets, feeling awkward and wishing Brig wasn’t here to soak up every moment of this “reunion.” “Hey, Eric. How’ve you been?”

  He takes a step forward, expression still dazed. “Uh, good.” He looks around. “Are you hanging out back here for a reason? Are you looking for someone?”

  I’m about to answer when Brig pipes up. “Yes, you. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  I pull on Brig’s shoulder, trying to tamp down the excitement that’s basically pouring out of his mouth like a rainbow, and step in front of him. “Do you have a moment to chat?”

  “Yeah, I’m on my break.” Eric’s brow crinkles. “Is everything okay?”

  I nod and swallow hard. “How much time do you have?”

  “Half an hour.” He looks between us. “Want to go to the pub?” He tilts his head to the side.

  “That works.” Turning to Brig, I say, “Give me half an hour.”

  He leans in and whispers, “Promise to tell me everything?”

  “Yes, now beat it.”

  Like the good brother he is, Brig reaches out to Eric, takes his hand, and gives it a good shake. “Good seeing you again, man. Have fun.”

  Once he takes off, heading back around the building, probably hoping that he’ll run into bike-tour girl, Eric and I head on over to the pub next door. We slide into a booth in the far back, where we both order waters and a plate of nachos to share. I’m glad we’re in a secluded spot, just in case things get heated.

  Hopefully they won’t.

  In no time, the nachos are placed in front of us, and after we each grab a chip and take a bite, Eric asks, “What brings you to Boston?”

  “You, actually. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You still have my phone number, unless you deleted it. You could have called.”

  “This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation.” For a brief moment, I consider starting the conversation with So, I’ve been banging your twin sister out of sheer nerves . . . nerves and guilt. Despite our falling-out, I still have a sense of loyalty when it comes to Eric, and I’ve been breaking that loyalty, being with his sister. Then again, I’ve been there for her when he hasn’t, so maybe I’ve earned the right to call her my girlfriend, to call her mine. There’s a war of right and wrong raging in my head over what to do, but thankfully I hold my tongue and cut right to the chase. “My dad is starting a restaurant in Port Snow.”

  Halfway through chewing a chip, Eric pauses and stares back at me, blinking a few times.

  Damn, I should have started out a little softer. Maybe given us time for a little catch-up. Then again, I don’t have much time, and we have to flush out a bunch of bullshit between us.

  “He’s starting a restaurant?”

  I nod. “Yeah, the old warehouse next to the Lobster Landing where Dad used to make the T-shirts.”

  “When he ‘hired’ us to help?” Eric asks, using air quotes.

  I laugh, thinking back to when my dad thought paying us under the table to do random tasks was a good idea. It definitely wasn’t, because all Eric and I would do was fuck around. “Yeah. I guess it’s been a dream of his to have a restaurant by the Landing. People can get something to eat and then go and shop.”

  “Like Cracker Barrel,” Eric suggests, eyebrows raised.

  “I guess so. Didn’t think about it like that, but yeah, similar vibe.”

  “Okay, so what does this have to do with me?” Eric doesn’t beat around the bush either.

  I grip my glass of water, the condensation running over my fingers as my nerves eat me alive inside. I just need to fucking say it and get it over with. “He wants me to partner up with him, develop the restaurant, the menu, everything . . . and he wants me to do it with you.”

  “With me? Why?”

  “He can’t think of a better duo.”

  “Does he have amnesia? Does he not remember what happened to our last restaurant?”

  “Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “I mentioned that, and he said something about how failure is a stepping stone to success. Either way, he wants us, and it’s not a pity ask. He really thinks we’re the best guys for the job. He’s always loved our food, our style. He wants what we can offer—our classic New England cuisine with a twist.” I smile nervously. “He has an architect already working on the building and is planning for indoor and outdoor seating, as well as a short menu and take-out window. He’s moving forward, with or without us—he just offered the job to us first.”

  “So why don’t you just take it?”

  This is where it gets awkward for me. I turn my glass, my hands refusing to stay still. “It’s either both of us or neither of us.”

  “Wow,” Eric says, looking to the side. “That’s pretty ballsy of your dad.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “Tell me about it. But I agree with him. It’s taken me a bit to come to the realization, but I was good because you were always there, pushing me to be my best.”

  “Bullshit.” He pops a chip in his mouth. “You’re a good chef—”

  “Was a good chef. Was is the key word there. I don’t cook anymore.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t cook anymore?” Even through the tense air between us, there’s definite concern in Eric’s eyes. “Cooking was your life. Are you telling me you gave all that up?”

  “Yup.” I lean back in the booth and drum my fingers against the table. “I snag lobsters now and pick up shifts at the Landing. I don’t even cook myself meals anymore. Ever since we lost the restaurant, I haven’t been able to do much more than make ends meet.”

  “Shit.” Perplexed, Eric unbuttons the top of his chef coat. “How come you didn’t say anything to me?”

  “Uh, in case you haven’t noticed, our relationship hasn’t exactly been great. When I got back from New Orleans, and we realized we lost the restaurant, too much shit went down between us. I wasn’t about to dump all my woes out on you, especially since you’d just lost your dad a few months earlier.”

  “But you’re my best friend. Even with everything that happened, you could have turned to me.”

  I shake my head. “No. Too fucking ashamed. Still am. The only reason I’m here is because I felt a tiny bit of excitement at the idea of starting over again.” I drag my hand over my face, hating that I have to admit all of this, but I might as well—what do I have to lose? “I’ve been lost, man. I’ve felt like the loser brother, the one that can’t seem to accomplish anything, and I hate that. I hate that I’ve let myself get to this point.” As the confession leaves me, the meaning behind it builds with each second.

  The loser Knightly.

  The one who failed.

  The brother who couldn’t amount to anything.

  “Yeah, I’m not quite where I want to be either. A line cook at a three-star restaurant who lives with three other guys in a two-bedroom apartment . . . that doesn’t scream wild success either. But this gig pays the bills, and after everything we lost, I can’t be a risk-taker anymore.” He glances up at me, his meaning clear in his hazel eyes.

  “I get it.” He doesn’t have to say it out loud; the writing is on the wall: starting another restaurant is too
big of a risk—and one I don’t think he’s ready or willing to take.

  “It’s nothing personal.” He says that, but it feels incredibly personal. “I’m barely surviving as it is, and I can’t afford to not have a job, to lose everything again.”

  “Who’s to say we would?”

  “We couldn’t get it together the first time,” he says. “What makes you think we can get it together this time?”

  His words sting, but they also ring true. What was I thinking, coming here?

  “Forget I even asked.” I know that it’s over, that our dream isn’t going to happen.

  “I’m glad you did,” he says, looking just as dejected as I’m sure I do. “But hey, you need to get behind the burners again, man.”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. Fishing makes a living, especially during tourist season.” I check my watch. “You should get going. I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

  “Okay, yeah.” The plate of nachos hardly touched, we both stand, and Eric holds out his hand. I give it a good shake as he says, “Don’t be afraid to reach out again.”

  “It goes both ways.” I give him a sad smile.

  After we say our goodbyes, I go out to the truck and text Brig, letting him know I’m ready to get the hell out of here. I should have known this was going to be a waste of my time. Yeah, it may have been nice to see Eric again, but there’s still so much shit between us. Too much shit. And even though he said he didn’t want to take the risk, I think that what he really meant was that he didn’t want to take the risk with me.

  I pull into the harbor, the salty sea air doing nothing for my goddamn mood. We got back to Port Snow last night, but instead of calling Eve to see if she wanted to hang, I went straight to bed and woke up early this morning to hit the waves. I made a good catch, but the solitude I normally crave has only put me in a worse mood.

  I know why—it doesn’t take a psychologist to break it down. There was a glimmer of hope at the end of this monotonous tunnel I’ve been trudging through ever since we lost the restaurant. And with one sentence, Eric squashed it all.

  He didn’t want to take the risk . . . with me. That simple, sickening truth circles through my head.

  Brig did a number on me in the truck, trying to get me to tell him what happened, what was said, but I kept silent until he gave up, leaving me to focus on the road. But it didn’t stop him from texting the whole family—including Dad—that I was in a shit mood, so they probably all know what happened.

  This morning, Brig said that Dad would maybe want to work with just me but wanted to see if I could patch things up with Eric first. Even if that were the case, I don’t want the job. I wasn’t lying when I said Eric was the one who made me great. He pushed me, helped me think outside the box. And after three years of staying far away from the food industry, I really don’t think I could do it without him, and really, I don’t want to.

  Which leaves me here, fishing for fucking lobsters.

  The prospect of working with Willy popped into my head last night, but I tamped that down immediately. I don’t want to fish forever. Which means I need to figure out what else I want to do with my life.

  I started a list last night.

  Accountant. That’s safe but requires school.

  Permanent Lobster Landing employee. I fucking hate tourists, so that’s out of the question.

  I have a knack for candle sniffing. Maybe Sticks and Wicks is hiring.

  I also know how to be a jackass to people. I wrote that down as an option. Professional jackass. People pay me to be an asshole to friends and family so they don’t have to. I could create an app for it . . . because I know how to do that—insert eye roll.

  Christ. It all feels hopeless.

  This morning Jen said I could start giving cooking lessons at the community college up in Pottsmouth. No fucking thank you.

  Griff told me to become a firefighter since they’re always looking for more help. I mean, I’m not a wuss by any means, but walking into burning buildings and dealing with terrified people doesn’t really speak to me.

  Rogan said I could help him renovate houses. I turned that job down just as quickly as I did the first time he offered. I appreciate it, but home improvement gives me zero stirrings in my groin.

  And of course there’s Brig, with his grand idea of going into business together. He uses the backyard of his garage for events, and business has been booming. He wants an in-house caterer, which is a good idea but not something I’m remotely interested in doing. Going from a five-star chef to caterer . . . I’d rather be out on the sea.

  So I’m back at square one.

  I dock the boat, lower the anchor, and tie up before turning toward the lobster cages. Instead of taking these to the Inn today, I told Harold over at the Lighthouse Restaurant to come pick up what he wants, and then I’ll sell the rest to Jake, since he’s started making lobster rolls on the weekends.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I turn to find Eve standing before me on the dock, arms crossed over her chest, a very unhappy look on her face.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask, blocking the rising sun with my hand as the boat sways in the harbor.

  “Well, I hadn’t heard back from you, but I heard from everyone else that you were back, so I figured I should come see for myself.” She shifts her stance, anger dripping from every word. “Why didn’t you come over last night?”

  “It was late.” I turn toward the cages and start making short work of them.

  “When has that ever stopped you?”

  “It did last night,” I answer in a short, clipped tone, one that she notices right away.

  “So I haven’t seen you in days, and now you’re going to be an ass?”

  See, that paid-asshole job would make me a shit ton of money.

  “I have to get these lobsters to Harold, Eve. I don’t have time to discuss whether or not I came over last night to fuck you.”

  She’s silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on my shoulders. That was a shitty thing to say, but my mouth has a mind of its own right now. My back is still to her, and I wonder if she’s left—until I look over my shoulder and find her staring at me in shock, mouth agape.

  “Is that what you think this is? You just fucking me? Because I was under the impression that we were much more than just fuck buddies.” I meet her gaze, and her eyes—so similar to Eric’s eyes—are like ice.

  Fuck.

  Sighing, I take a seat on an empty lobster cage pushed up against my boat and rest my head against the old, worn-out Plexiglas side. “We are more than fuck buddies, Eve. I’m just going through some shit right now, and I don’t need you harping on me. Okay?”

  “I’m not harping on you, Reid. I’m trying to find out if my boyfriend, who I care a great deal about, is okay or not. You’re being so hot and cold with me. Warm and loving one minute and then distant and frigid the next. All I want to do is help, but every time I talk to you, it’s like a different Reid shows up to the conversation. Two nights ago you were telling me how much you miss me, how much you wish I was in your arms, and right now you can barely even look at me. What’s going on?”

  “It’s because I can barely look at myself in the mirror!” I shout, my hand flying out to the side. “I despise everything about myself, so why would I want to be near someone who thinks I’m worth their time?” I take a deep breath and stare at my feet, trying desperately to calm down. “You need to leave before I say something really stupid. Please, just fucking leave.”

  I brace for her comeback, ready for fiery, feisty Eve to make an appearance. But when I look up, I’m greeted with nothing but her retreating back, and an astronomical amount of guilt hits me in the chest.

  Good job, Reid, keep pushing away every single person who cares about you. See how that works out for you.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EVE

  “You’re quiet today,” Ruth says, sitting down next to me at Snow Roast, a rare lul
l in the crowd giving her some time to take a break.

  “Yeah, not having the best day.” I shut my textbook and stare out the window toward the harbor.

  “I’m sorry.” Ruth reaches out and presses her hand against mine. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t know—do you have a secret decoder in the storage room that tells you exactly what the Knightly boys are thinking?”

  She chuckles and leans back in her chair, folding her hands over her stomach. “If I did, I’m pretty sure life would be much easier . . . for all of us.”

  “Still crushing on Brig?”

  Ruth’s eyes pop open as she glances around the empty shop. Rylee, the romance novelist, is the only one left besides us, but she’s tucked into her usual corner, headphones on. She can’t hear anything.

  “What did I tell you about that?” Ruth whispers. “That was a drunk slipup, and you are not to repeat it to anyone.”

  “Oh, Ruth, I’m pretty sure Brig is the only one in town who doesn’t see it.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Pretty sure heart beams shine from your eyes whenever he walks in here to get coffee. It’s quite obvious.”

  “Great,” she says, her cheeks reddening. “That’s so embarrassing.”

  “It’s sweet.”

  “It really isn’t. I’m sure I’m the laughingstock of this entire town.”

  I wave my hand through the air. “No, I think that would be me. Thanks to Reid’s lovely public displays of affection, the entire town knows about us, and they must think I’m absolutely delusional. Besides the curse that everyone’s obsessed with for some godforsaken reason, Reid is the most temperamental, unpredictable, and surly Knightly. No one in their right mind would even attempt dating him, even with all the rumors about his unspeakables. I’m the laughingstock—not you.”

  Ruth blushes even deeper. She knows exactly what I’m talking about. “So I’m going to take it things are rocky with you two?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. And he won’t talk to me. We were doing so well, like really, really well, and then he goes and has a talk with his dad—”

  “About the restaurant.”