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“It’s Jeff. Listen, this property is getting a lot of attention, and the buyers are tired of waiting. Are you ready to move forward?”
I rub my temple with my free hand. “Still thinking about it.”
“Brandon.” Switching to first-name familiarity? Never a good sign. “It’s been five almost six months. The market is hot right now. If you don’t move quickly, you could miss out.”
Miss out? As if I’m raring to cash in. “I said I’d think about it. I don’t need you calling every five minutes.”
There’s a pause, and I can practically feel Jeff’s frustration radiating through the line. “The market isn’t waiting for you.”
“Really? And here I thought the real estate market was like a good risotto. Better if you ignore it and let it sit.”
Silence.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
“I understand. But you need to think about what’s best for you. Holding onto the property out of sentimentality isn’t?—”
“I’m not sentimental,” I snap, maybe a little too quickly. “It’s just complicated.”
“Do you want to sell or not?”
“Yes.”
“So, we move forward. Great. I’ll?—”
“No.”
Silence, then, “Well, there’s a new interested party who’d like to take a look. Can we at least schedule a viewing?”
Around me, every table is filled. A suited guy gets on his knees in front of his girlfriend while she’s crying and nodding, the whole shebang.
Fantastic. Nothing like watching someone else’s happiness while I’m getting stood up. I should offer to cater their wedding. Oh wait, I can’t. My kitchen’s collecting more dust than my father’s grave.
An elderly couple shares what looks like Elliot’s signature tiramisu, the layering sloppy, the mascarpone too thick, and the most delicious dessert. A business dinner unfolds at the corner table. Did someone order suits, ties, and fake laughs? A family on the other side celebrates something, a birthday maybe, the kids’ laughter filling this place.
Two tables over, a woman in red picks at her salad, reminding me of how Naomi does the same thing. Her date chatters away, oblivious to her disinterest. Amateur.
And the seat opposite of me. Still empty.
“Brandon?” Jeff asks.
My fingers clench around the phone. “Set it up.”
“I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up.
Marcus still hovers near my table, probably gauging whether he should ask what I want to order, if I need someone to cut my food into tiny pieces, offer another pitying smile or clear my table.
They would need the space, I’m sure.
Elliot’s restaurant pulses with life, while mine gathers dust across town. Empty tables, the kitchen cold and silent, no cooks or customers. It was supposed to be my roman empire, the place where I’d make a name for myself outside the family.
It’s everything I’ve struggled to hold onto. My dream, my father’s approval, the life I thought I’d have. Letting it go feels like admitting defeat, like waving the white flag on everything I’ve bled for.
I’ve already lost.
A vivid and gut-wrenching memory flashes through my mind. Me and the realtor standing in the empty restaurant space.
“This is the kind of place where people remember you.” He gestured around, a salesman’s grin on his face.