It Ends with Us

Chapter Fifteen
I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. Right when I was about to
close tonight I had a customer come in to order flowers for a funeral. I
couldn’t turn them away because . . . sadly . . . funerals are the best
business for florists.
Ryle waves me over to the table and I walk straight to them, doing my
best not to look around. I don’t want to see Atlas. I tried twice to get them
to change the restaurant location, but Allysa was hell-bent on eating here
after Ryle told her how good it was.
I slide into the booth and Ryle leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
“Hey, girlfriend.”
Allysa groans. “God, you guys are so cute, it’s sickening.” I smile at her,
and her eyes immediately go to the corner of my eye. It doesn’t look as
bad as I thought it might today, which is probably due to Ryle forcing me
to keep ice on it. “Oh my God,” Allysa says. “Ryle told me what happened
but I didn’t think it was that bad.”
I glance at Ryle, wondering what he told her. The truth? He smiles and
says, “Olive oil was everywhere. When she slipped, it was so graceful you’d
think she was a ballerina.”
A lie.
Fair enough. I would have done the same thing.
“It was pretty pathetic,” I say with a laugh.
Somehow, we get through dinner without a hitch. No sign of Atlas, no
thoughts of last night, and Ryle and I both avoid the wine. After we’re
finished with our food, our waiter approaches the table. “Care for
dessert?” he asks.
I shake my head, but Allysa perks up. “What do you have?”
Marshall looks just as interested. “We’re eating for two, so we’ll take
anything chocolate,” he says.
The waiter nods, and when he walks away, Allysa looks at Marshall.
“This baby is the size of a bedbug right now. You better not encourage bad

---

habits for the next several months.”
The waiter returns with a dessert cart. “The chef gives all expectant
mothers dessert on the house,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“He does?” Allysa says, perking up.
“Guess that’s why it’s called Bib’s,” Marshall says. “Chef likes the
babies.”
We all look at the cart. “Oh, God,” I say, looking at the options.
“This is my new favorite restaurant,” Allysa says.
We pick out three desserts for the table. The four of us spend the time
waiting for it to be served discussing baby names.
“No,” Allysa says to Marshall. “We’re not naming this baby after a state.”
“But I love Nebraska,” he whines. “Idaho?”
Allysa drops her head in her hands. “This is going to be the demise of
our marriage.”
“Demise,” Marshall says. “That’s actually a good name.”
Marshall’s murder is thwarted by the arrival of dessert. Our waiter
places a piece of chocolate cake in front of Allysa, and steps aside to make
room for the waiter behind him who is holding the other two desserts. The
waiter motions toward the guy placing our desserts down and says, “The
chef would like to extend his congratulations.”
“How was the meal?” the chef asks, looking at Allysa and Marshall.
By the time his eyes make it to mine, my anxiety is seeping from me.
Atlas locks eyes with me, and without thinking, I blurt out, “You’re the
chef?”
The waiter leans around Atlas and says. “The chef. The owner.
Sometimes waiter, sometimes dishwasher. He gives a new meaning to
hands-on.”
The next five seconds go unnoticed by everyone at our table, but they
play out in slow motion to me.
Atlas’s eyes fall to the cut on my eye.
The bandage wrapped around Ryle’s hand.
Back to my eye.
“We love your restaurant,” Allysa says. “You have an incredible place
here.”
Atlas doesn’t look at her. I see the roll of his throat as he swallows. His
jaw hardens and he says nothing as he walks away.
Shit.

---

The waiter tries to cover for Atlas’s hasty retreat by smiling and showing
way too many teeth. “Enjoy your dessert,” he says, scuffling off to the
kitchen.
“Bummer,” Allysa says. “We find a new favorite restaurant and the chef
is an asshole.”
Ryle laughs. “Yeah, but the assholes are the best ones. Gordon Ramsay?”
“Good point,” Marshall says.
I put my hand on Ryle’s arm. “Bathroom,” I tell him.
He nods as I scoot out of the booth, and Marshall says, “What about
Wolfgang Puck? You think he’s an asshole?”
I walk across the restaurant, head down, fast paced. As soon as I get into
the familiar hallway, I keep going. I push open the door to the women’s
restroom and then turn around and lock it.