Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116708 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Twisting the clear plastic cup with a red Coca-Cola logo rubbing off the front, I made a mental note to trash them immediately before confirming, “I did say owner.”
“Of this restaurant?” Dylan lifted a single finger in the air. “Nay, this hellhole?”
“Yep, and I don’t want to hear shit about it.”
“I mean, shit is quite literally all I can say about it,” she shot back.
I glared at her, but Angela quickly waded in, her freshly manicured nails patting me on the thigh under the table. “Ohhhhh-kay, let’s take it down a notch. Maybe we should allow Gwen a few minutes to explain.”
When I’d sent Angela a text telling her I’d bought a restaurant, she’d been stoked. Which was exactly why I’d texted her and not Dylan. Sure, I’d glossed over the fact that it was a diner still stuck in the nineties, complete with greasy linoleum and tattered booths. But I could see the promise hidden in those four walls. Currently known as The Grille, the soon-to-be Rosewood Café had been around since I was a kid. Surely that had to mean it at least had the potential to be successful. Maybe The Rosewood was having a midlife crisis too. Life didn’t end because you had saggy boobs or booths. A little facelift and new accessories and she could look and feel fabulous again too.
Honestly, Old Rose and I were the perfect fit for each other. I’d fix her up physically, and she’d help me find my place in the world again. Win-win.
What else could my friends possibly want me to explain? “I bought a restaurant. I’m excited. Renovations start this weekend. Ribbon cutting in four-to-six weeks. You’re both invited. There. Explained.”
“Great. Ribbon cutting. Awesome,” Dylan deadpanned. “Any chance you want to touch on the part where you’ve never shown even the slightest interest in owning a restaurant before today?”
I arched a challenging eyebrow. “That is completely untrue. I managed three restaurants, and cooked at two before I met Jeff. And then remember when Nate first started preschool and I toyed with the idea of a catering business?”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “But Jeff hated the idea of you working because then he couldn’t lord it over you that he made all the money and thus had the right to control your every move.”
It was my turn to speak with my eyes. I flashed them wide to yell, Would you shut up! The kids can hear you.
It could be said that neither of my friends was Jeff’s biggest fan, but Dylan lacked the ability to bite her tongue. She never missed an opportunity to bash him. Both to his face and behind his back. A solid ninety-nine percent of the time, he deserved it. But I wouldn’t stand for it to be done in front of my son.
Co-parenting with a narcissist was hard enough. I couldn’t control what Jeff said about me on his weekends with Nate, but I’d vowed I would never sink to his level. Not just because his level was so low it could scrape the floor of the ocean, but rather because Nate was the only one who would suffer from that kind of toxicity. Jeff would always be his father, and I would always be his mother. We didn’t work as husband and wife, but there was nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure my son never felt the blowback of that failure.
Dylan immediately lifted her hands in surrender. “Sorry. Habit.”
I sighed. “There’s a lot of stuff I haven’t shown interest in over the last decade. Myself being at the very top of that list.”
Her eyes got soft with understanding, and Angela scooted closer to my side.
“But I’ve got to start somewhere. I know this place looks bad now, but I remember when The Grille had the best burgers and cheese fries in all of Belton. I mean, it wasn’t difficult. There were, like, four restaurants here back then. But this was the place to be. There was a line out the door practically every day. And then…” I shrugged. “Life happened. For me and this place. Short of building a time machine, there’s not much I can do about the me part of that equation, but I think it would be really therapeutic to prove to myself that it’s possible to rebuild, reinvent, and come back better than ever.”
Dylan blew out a ragged breath. “I hear you. I really do. But buying a restaurant seems like a big step. What if we just go on a shopping spree to redecorate your living room instead?”
“Well, that would be tough considering I just spent my life savings on what you seem to think is a dump.”
She flinched. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
Angela, who might as well have been the personification of rainbows and kittens, chimed in. “It’s not a dump. It just needs a little TLC.” She folded her hands over mine. “And you’re not a dump, either.”