Page 2 of Watching Ames
Even though Bex was my sister and best friend, her vendetta against Peter had caused an undercurrent of tension between us for the last couple of years. Despite growing up in the same suburban home and attending the same schools, Bex and I had always had distinctly different ideas for our futures. I majored in accounting in college and worked at a firm for a couple years afterward, only pursuing ceramics this past year, once I gained enough of a following on social media and had the financial stability to take the risk pursuing what I had always viewed as a hobby.
Bex had forgone college all together, pursuing a string of short-lived jobs which had included hairdressing, making custom jewelry, and growing microgreens. That is, until she got involved with a government hacker who ended up getting her arrested and almost sent to jail a few months ago. If we hadn’t gotten lucky with a great lawyer having a sudden opening in her schedule and the police losing a large amount of evidence against my sister, she would have been in jail.
Despite our differences, we had always gotten along, our parents’ sudden death from a car accident five years ago bringing us even closer together. We had different goals and personalities, and that had never been a problem. Until Peter. She had issues with how he treated me (“like a pet”), his job (“a lawyer? Need I say more?”), his father (“definitely in some sort of baby-killing old white man cult”), and even his rotating assistants (“red flag”). Bex was great at taking a few negative interactions and using them to try and disrupt my entire relationship. She didn’t understand the appeal of simplicity and stability, made clear by her previous choices in partners. Her current girlfriend was a punk-rock tattoo artist with a criminal history, and it was by far the most stable romantic relationship she’d ever had. Yet, she still felt she had room to judge my relationship.
I took a deep breath and tried to reason with her. “No, I didn’t recognize the handwriting…But Peter has never really written anything to me. I mean, most of our communication has been through texting or email, if not in person, and anything handwritten is usually done by his assistants. I’ve only ever seen him sign checks, and I guess that writing was close enough.” I could feel Bex gearing up to make a snide comment at that, so I quickly continued on, “Who else would call me beautiful and sign the card with hugs and kisses?”
The rhetorical question threw her for a moment, Bex thinking so hard I could almost hear it over the bluetooth speakers. “Maybe you have a stalker?”
My thumb hovered over the end call button on my steering wheel, eyes rolling so intensely I worried I might crash the car. Just as I went to hang up on her, Bex sighed loudly, sounding put out as she attempted an apology.
“I’m sorry. I’m just kidding. The flowers were beautiful, and if Peter reallydidpick them out for you and write the card, I’m happy for you sis, really.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, shoulders relaxing down from where they had hitched up toward my ears over the course of this interrogation, anxiety escalating with each question she threw my way. “Hopefully they bring me some good luck for this pitch.”
“You’ll do great. Your work speaks for itself. Now go in there and kick some ass!” She yelled and I laughed, hanging up the call as I pulled into a parking space outside of the restaurant.
My eyes flicked to the clock, noting that I was still a few minutes early as I glanced up at the building I was parallel parked in front of. The worn red brick and dated single-pane windows were as unassuming as they were the first time I came here upon a recommendation from my boss, June. The run-down outside of the building looked even less impressive in the tepid morning light on the cloudy day. The simple black-and-white sign readMorelwith a small image of a mushroom serving as a period and a reference to the fungi for which the restaurant was named. Passing by on the street, you wouldn’t think anything based on the façade of the building, which looked similar to the rest of the early nineteenth-century single family homes common for the neighborhood, but I knew that inside was one of the most popular Italian-inspired restaurants in the city. Reservations were a requirement, with a small, intimate interior and a moody, hipster feel I had fallen in love with immediately.
* * *
Peterand I had gone for our anniversary months ago, my eyes immediately drawn to the forest-green wallpaper and antique brass fixtures that were unmistakably part of the original house before it was refashioned into a restaurant with a bar and open kitchen concept. Plants crawled along the walls and against the windows facing the street. The employees fit the vibe of the restaurant perfectly, most of them tattooed and pierced with modern hairstyles and stylish black outfits that marked them as staff.
Peter hadn’t appreciated the energy of the restaurant, the attentiveness of the staff, or the seasonally themed menu with local mushrooms featured in most dishes. Instead, he’d complained a majority of the time about the vintage feel and artwork displays by local artists, insisting that for our next celebratory dinner he would take me to his favorite Italian restaurant up north.
“You’ll love it,” he insisted, glancing down at the antique wood table we were dining on with a slight curl to his lip that I hoped the waitress couldn’t see. “It’s very refined; with white tablecloths and a prix fixe menu. Very high end. Great wine selection, too.” At this, he glanced at the spiced cocktail to my right, which had a witty, slightly sexual name that made Peter flush when I ordered it from the waiter. I finished my entrée shortly after and declined dessert, slipping quietly out of the restaurant with Peter’s hand on my back, sending an apologetic smile to our waitress, who I had overheard talking to her coworker about Peter’s attitude on my way to the restroom.
I hadn’t suggested we go back to the restaurant since. Peter surprised me a couple of months later by taking me to the Italian restaurant he mentioned for my birthday. We sat at a sturdy round table covered in a thick white tablecloth that was a far cry from the rickety, pockmarked tables atMorel. The space was huge, with dozens of tables spread out across the dark wood floors and plain white walls. The glasses were crystal, the water sparkling, and the only alcohol they served came from a wine list longer than a Cheesecake Factory menu. Peter had ordered a bottle of wine more expensive than my last grocery bill. It was delicious, as was the multi-course meal that was served on sterile white plates likely bought in bulk from a restaurant supply store.
“Much better than that other place,” Peter said later that night, his tone not quite reaching the pitch of a question. And despite enjoying the dinner, a small part of me couldn’t betray the restaurant I had immediately felt at home in all those weeks ago.
“It was good,” I acquiesced, changing the subject before Peter could insist on having me weigh in as to which was better.
* * *
Morelhad reachedout a little over a month ago to have me pitch a new line of handmade dinnerware for the restaurant. A waitress at the restaurant had bought a mug from my website, - which had slowly grown in popularity through social media and word of mouth - loving the piece so much that she bought one for Maya, the owner. We communicated a few times through email prior to the pitch, and while I had mentioned to Peter that a local restaurant was giving me the opportunity to pitch a dinnerware line, I hadn’t specified who or when or where. The only way he could have known to send the flowers today was by keeping up with my calendar, which I had shared with him months ago in an attempt to make more shared plans together.
My phone chimed with a five minute reminder for my appointment, and I gripped my hands tighter around the steering wheel, tense as I imagined the timer counting down. The reality of my situation sunk into my bones, paralyzing me with indecision. For a moment, it almost felt safer to re-buckle my seatbelt, start my car, and drive away, content with working part-time at the studio and selling a few pieces on the side through my online shop. I could be happy with my current level of success. I could handle never having to do pitches to popular restaurants or businesses larger than my own. What I didn’t think I could handle was heading into this pitch and failing; having someone look me in the eye and tell me they hate my work.
I shifted in my seat, debating on whether to start my car or open the door and head inside when I heard the soft crinkle of paper and felt a sharp edge poking through the fabric of my pants. I realized midway through pulling it out that it was the card to the bouquet I had absentmindedly stuck in my pocket before I answered Bex’s phone call.
My eyes traced over the letters, and the knowledge that someone believed in my business finally spurred me to emerge from the car, glancing down one last time at my dark pants and heeled boots paired with a thrifted houndstooth blazer that I’d cuffed to my elbows. Gathering the large cardboard box from the backseat along with my purse, I carefully picked my way across the uneven cobblestones making up the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, the door falling open easily as I pushed my way inside.
“Hello?” I called out to the empty restaurant, allowing myself to take in the worn wooden floors beneath my feet and vintage picture frames lining the walls as I stood awkwardly in the entryway, still balancing the heavy box in my arms. The restaurant was silent save for my uneven breath, the air punching out of my throat erratically the longer my calls went unanswered.
“Anyone here?” I tried again, raising my voice so I could hear it echo across the stainless steel of the kitchen appliances sitting in the small portion of the kitchen you could see from the dining room. I heard a sudden clatter from the back of the restaurant and startled, almost dropping the box as my hands grew sweaty. Just as I stepped back toward the door, a figure emerged from the back of the room, smiling as she called out.
“Hi there!” Her face lit up as she pulled headphones from her ears, and I breathed out my tension as she continued, “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I wasn’t watching the time as I prepped for dinner tonight and can’t hear much over chopping and my music.”
“No, not long at all,” I reassured her, a smile stretching over my face to match her own.
“Great. Ames, I’m assuming?” At my nod, she gestured toward the table nearest me and I set down my box so I could grasp the hand she’d stretched in my direction. “Maya,” she gestured toward herself in quick introduction, and I took in her black jeans and band t-shirt, covered slightly by a cotton and leather apron that had pens, spoons, and a whisk sticking out of the various pockets. I already liked her, from her bare face and the messy bun she’d twisted her locs into, to the casual way she gestured for me to sit down across from her at the table.
After we’d settled, she jumped right to business, and another wave of tension eased from my shoulders knowing that I wouldn’t have to slog through awkward introductions and small talk. “So, like we spoke about over email, I’m looking for a set of dessert plates for an upcoming series of gelato and cookie pairings we’ll be serving for dessert.” She glanced at the large box to my right for a moment, continuing, “Are these the samples we had talked about?”
“Well…” I hedged as I reached for the box, grabbing the first wrapped piece from its depths, gently peeling the paper back and setting it on the table in front of Maya. “I know we had spoken about my bringing previous samples of my work and then just drawings of the plate, but I did a mock-up instead. I hope that’s okay.”
I gestured toward the plate sitting on the table, with a small divot in the center to hold a scoop or two of gelato. The edges of the plate fanned out a few inches in diameter, one side tipping up in a curve while the other did the opposite, turning down as if succumbing to gravity, the lower edge not quite touching the table. The dish was black, the glaze reflecting the light from the exposed bulbs hanging above each table, but there were white flecks splattered in a haphazard design as well, lightening the design just slightly. I had purposefully chosen dark colors to fit the feel of the restaurant; an intimate space where plain white plates didn’t belong. This plate would make any color gelato - green matcha, purple mulberry, pink guava - pop against the dark, neutral background.
