Authors: Michelle Wildgen
Leo shrugged. “He saw the space. He saw possibilities.”
“He learned a lot of that from working with you.”
Leo set the bread plate in the sink. “Did you know Harry used to hang out down there when he was a kid? It wasn’t so downtrodden then. He told the reviewer he’s had his eye on that crappy waterfront since he was a teenager, just wondering how to come home and revitalize it.”
A smile fluttered at the edges of Thea’s mouth. “You think it’s true?” she said. “Or an invention of Britt’s?”
“It might be true.” He relaxed a little, relieved to see her smiling. “Those stores my parents took us to weren’t far from there—that might be what they meant
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nd Harry’s more of a planner than he seems. My mom used to order a separate pizza for the three of us when we were kids, you know, when Britt and I were teenagers and Harry was maybe seven. It was always kind of a frenzy
. A
nd he got so pissed off if we got more pizza than he did that he would sit there with his finger jammed in the middle of the next piece he wanted while he ate his first one.” Thea laughed, but Leo just shook his head. He rubbed his hands over his scalp. His hair was thinning even more—soon he would just have to shave his head
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ou couldn’t fight this sort of thing.
“Are you going to call them?” Thea asked. She leaned one hip against the counter and faced him, hooking a finger in his belt loop.
Leo was embarrassed. Of course he should call them; he shouldn’t have to be asked. “I’ll call them now. They’re probably out celebrating.”
He was dialing when she said, “Leo, don’t you want to go out and join them? They’re probably all at Mack’s.”
He hesitated. “It’s pretty late.”
“Since when does that bother people who work at night?”
“I should, I guess. I hate to leave you.”
She made a gesture of futility. “You know I can’t go there with you. And I really think you ought to go.”
He knew she was right, but still he said, “I’ve been looking forward to being alone with you all day.”
This was a bit much for Thea. She flushed, looking equally embarrassed and annoyed, and said, “Oh, me too. You just wanted to make me say that.”
MACK’S WAS JAMMED WITH STRAY EMPLOYEES,
the cooks still smelling of hot oil and toasted bread, the servers in their off-duty attire, which included things like metal cuffs around their biceps and battered but closely fitted leather jackets in odd hues like olive and oyster. It was nearly eleven
. T
hey’d moved the whole staff over almost as soon as the last table left at ten. Harry and Britt gazed out from the center of the maelstrom, a head above everyone else.
“Our employees are such stylish pocket people,” Britt marveled. He felt terribly fond of their employees at the moment, even the servers who drove him to distraction most nights. Right now he liked the look of them all, their insouciant posture and neck tats offsetting their glee at the shitty free beer. He was pretty sure several had changed into fresh eyeglasses postshift
. W
ell, this was why you hired the young: not because they were reliable but because the right ones created an atmosphere that drew people in—they were doing that even now, milling about in a knot like a portable hipster zoo while the other bar patrons, faintly intrigued, observed from the perimeter. If only Britt could keep them from showing up to work smelling of cigarettes and unisex cologne, he’d almost love them.
He’d gotten to Stray just before staff meal. His eyes met Harry’s through the window, and for a second Britt had paused before waving the paper. He should have been elated. Finally Harry could stop waiting for the sky to fall
. T
his ought to have been a salve for his relationship with Harry, a sign that they were on the right track. But he was discomfited and morose, unable to put his finger on exactly why.
When Britt held up the review, Harry’s brows had shot up and disappeared into his hair, and one hand flew up in what seemed to be an involuntary wave of excitement
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fter a few weeks of a muted, careful peace between them, it was a relief to see his brother’s posture straighten that way and to watch his face take on an expression that made him look like a very tall, scruffy ten-year-old.
But Britt could not get past that panicky, cornered feeling, and it was only as he was walking into Stray’s front door that he understood why
. A
rave review said they were on the right track, it was true, but it seemed also to say that they had no choice but to stay on it together.
Britt wasn’t certain he wanted to. He didn’t know if his trepidation about the future with his brother was wise or just grudge-holding. But he knew he was here in his brand-new restaurant, filled with the staff he and his brother had hired, and the only correct thing to do was celebrate.
So they’d read the review aloud, pausing for cheers. Harry had seemed subdued but pleased, at least. The moment the last table departed, everyone raced through sidework on the promise of free drinks at Mack’s. Britt had noticed that the napkins were folded a little sloppily, and Harry had nudged a few crooked plates back into place, but it didn’t matter. The same people would fix their sidework tomorrow. Tonight they would celebrate their first acknowledgment from an actual professional critic, even if she had complained incorrectly about the cavatelli and correctly about the need for more cohesion in the menu. It truly was a good review—he was getting into the spirit of it.
“I was thinking,” Britt said. “We don’t have any good nonalcoholic drinks. I don’t think a good place can get away with that anymore, you know?”
“We have those expensive little sodas,” Harry said.
“Yeah, but we need a good cocktail. Something not sweet. Something sophisticated.”
Harry shrugged. “Sure. I got it.”
Britt decided to drop it. Harry sometimes drew an arbitrary line over certain back-of-the-house decisions
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ou never knew when he’d get protective, but it wasn’t always worth pushing it.
“Anyone would think we got a bad review, looking at you,” Britt said.
Harry made an effort to smile. “It was great. Hardly any criticism. Did everybody already read it over at Winesap?” he asked.
Britt didn’t have to clarify whom Harry meant by “everybody.” “I just told them it was good,” he said. “They’ve probably all seen it by now—I’m sure it’s online.”
Harry nodded, looking out over the group. Someone had put Marvin Gaye on the jukebox. Jenelle and Anna were dancing beside one another, heads tilted dreamily in opposite directions, beers slopping out of their plastic cups. Watching everyone’s celebration selves made Britt feel both hopeful and lonely.
After a pause, Harry said, “He excited?” and Britt turned to look at him. Harry’s glasses were smudged and slightly crooked; his hair had grown so far beyond shaggy that it was starting to look kind of good again. He seemed so vulnerable and little-brotherish that Britt felt protective whether he wanted to or not.
“I’m sure he is,” Britt said. Harry looked away. “You know Leo’s not the biggest talker.”
Harry finished off the last of his beer and looked over at the bar. “I keep thinking about the cavatelli. I thought it was great, but maybe it’s not. You and Leo had reservations about it. What do you think?”
“I had reservations,” Britt said. “I think Leo liked it.”
“If Leo said something to you, you can tell me.”
“I know that,” said Britt. “But he didn’t say anything.”
“I just know that sometimes people hold things back if they think you can’t take it all at once. I’d rather just hear it, you know? Otherwise I spend all my time trying to figure out what people aren’t telling me. I can take it.” Harry reached for a pitcher they’d bought for the staff and refilled his cup. He drank half of it and filled the cup once more.
“Slow down,” Britt said. He placed a hand in the path of Harry’s wrist as the cup traveled back up to Harry’s mouth. “No one’s holding anything back from you.”
But Harry kept shaking his head, and now he started talking and seemed reluctant, or not quite able, to pause. He wasn’t looking at Britt as he spoke. He focused just above Britt’s head, at the door, at the bar, anywhere but at the person he was addressing.
“It’s just—it’s such bullshit,” he said. He repeated it, as if surprised to discover this. “You work your head off and you know it isn’t perfect but you count on people to give you feedback
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ou count on professionals to give you feedback
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hat’s why they’re professionals. Or supposed to be. But instead they go on about how everything is great except for two things any idiot could see. Except me, I guess, but you know what I mean.” Harry took another long gulp from his beer. He looked a little sweaty.
Britt said, confused, “Are you pissed that the review is too
good
?” He poured the rest of the pitcher into his own cup in order to keep Harry from drinking it.
“I just thought it would be helpful. It wasn’t the slightest
bit
helpful. I don’t know how we get better if I can’t see what we need to improve
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ake the lamb’s neck.” Harry wiped a beer mustache off his lip. He seemed not to be talking to Britt; Britt even glanced over his shoulder to be sure Harry had not been addressing someone else the whole time. “I love that fucking thing
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here is nothing I would change on it. Not one damn thing
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hat reviewer doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about
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here are probably a hundred other things we actually do need to fix and she was so busy talking about our best dish she didn’t say what any of them were. I
know
there is stuff we need to fix. I know it. I feel it every day when I come in, all that shit I’m not getting right that just lurks in plain sight, and everyone can probably see it but me. But nobody tells me
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nd then the day gets away from me and I can never just concentrate and figure it all out. I can’t see what I need to
do
.”
On this last syllable, Harry’s beer slopped over and onto the floor with a smack
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he sound seemed to shake him off his track. He just stood there, as if he were trying to think of something to say.
Throughout all this Britt had gone from slight discomfort to alarm. It wasn’t that Harry’s words were irrational, but they did not quite fit the situation—not in content, not in the rabbity cadence of his speech. Maybe he’d simply had too much to drink, but then he should be slower, shouldn’t he?
Britt took the cup from Harry’s hand and Harry reached for it just as quickly, almost automatically, but Britt cupped a hand over each of Harry’s shoulders and looked hard at him. “Harry. I can’t even tell exactly what you’re upset about anymore. You don’t have to fix anything. It’s all fine.” He saw a few staff members look over at them and lowered his voice. He brushed off Harry’s shoulders and let his hands drop. “You want me to drive you home?”
Harry looked startled. “No,” he said. “I’m fine. I don’t want to be alone.”
Britt opened his mouth to question this, but then Harry looked over Britt’s shoulder and jostled past him. Britt turned to see Harry let out a whoop and pull Camille to him, lifting her easily into a hug and letting her down with a resounding kiss on the cheek. Camille’s pink cheeks and the gleam of her teeth made her look both embarrassed and pleased, as if she’d admonished Harry a hundred times not to do this but had done so only halfheartedly. And indeed Harry had reached for her as naturally as if they’d been doing this for years, as naturally as if he had not just been behaving like a different person altogether.
Camille’s eyes met Britt’s over Harry’s shoulder. She pushed herself away from Harry with a hand on his shoulder and stepped back, swiping her hair off her face
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he gesture seemed to compose her, and she turned to Britt and kissed his cheek. It was all so quick that Britt wasn’t quite sure what he’d seen, if he had seen anything at all. He was not sure his own perceptions were sound in any way—hadn’t his brother just seemed so upset? But here he was, ebullient again
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nd what had that hug really been but his brother embracing a friend? She’d always been clear that they were friends.
Harry was already gone, and Britt watched him make his way through the crowd, accepting congratulations and back slaps. He was suddenly Harry again, triumphant and relaxed, the host of a raucous party.
“Well, hello,” Camille said, smiling. Having materialized so unexpectedly, stripped of the familiarity of her house and the restaurants, she was somehow taller here, more vivid and rangy among the smells of popcorn and beer, the peeling red booths and the cloudy mirrors. Britt was aware of the staff glancing over in amusement and interest.
“This is a surprise,” Britt said. He leaned over to kiss her because that was what he always did, but he was moving robotically, one eye still on his brother. Where Harry had touched her, her cheek was warm, smelling slightly, and confusingly for an instant, of Stray. “How’d you know we were here?”
“Harry,” she said. “He said you’d be at Mack’s.”
“Harry called you?”
“Texted me,” she said. “Honestly, I would have thought
you’d
call me.”
“It was already late,” Britt said.
Camille looked uncertain for the first time. “Do you not want me to be here? Is that why it was him and not you?”
“Of course I do,” Britt said, but some element was missing
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hey were looking at each other with a mix of trepidation and annoyance, and neither of them seemed entirely ready to name the reasons. But it was late now, and the tension of the past several weeks had left him depleted and inarticulate. More than Britt wanted to dredge everything up so he could address whatever had just happened with Camille, he wanted everything to be easy again.
“He’s a little worked up about the review,” Britt said. It was a relief to change the subject, but he found it difficult to articulate exactly what had made him uneasy.