“What’s your new restaurant called?” I already know it’s his last name, but I don’t want him to know I googled him.
“Corrigan’s.”
“Is it the same kind of food as Bib’s?”
“Sort of. It’s fine dining, but with an Italian-inspired menu.” He rolls onto his side, propping his phone on something so that he’s mirroring my position. It feels like old times when we’d stay up late chatting on my bed. “I don’t want to talk about me. How are you? How’s the floral business? What’s your daughter like?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“I have a lot more, but let’s start with those.”
“Okay. Well. I’m good. Exhausted most of the time, but I guess that’s what I get for being a business owner and a single mother.”
“You don’t look exhausted.”
I laugh. “Good lighting.”
“When does Emerson turn one?”
“On the eleventh. I’m going to cry; this first year went so fast.”
“I can’t get over how much she looks like you.”
“You think so?”
He nods, and then says, “But the flower shop is good? You’re happy there?”
I move my head from side to side and make a face. “It’s okay.”
“Why just okay?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m tired of it. Or tired in general. It’s a lot, and it’s tedious work for not very much financial return. I mean, I’m proud that it’s been successful and that I did it, but sometimes I daydream about working in a factory assembly line.”
“I can relate,” he says. “The idea of being able to go home and not think about your job is tempting.”
“Do you ever get bored of being a chef?”
“Every now and then. It’s why I opened Corrigan’s, honestly. I decided to take more of an ownership role and less of a chef role. I still cook several nights a week, but a lot of my time goes to keeping them both running on the business side.”
“Do you work crazy hours?”
“I do. But nothing I can’t work a date night around.”
That makes me smile. I fidget with my comforter, avoiding eye contact because I know I’m blushing. “Are you asking me out?”
“I am. Are you saying yes?”
“I can free up a night.”
We’re both smiling now. But then Atlas clears his throat, like he’s preparing for a caveat. “Can I ask you a difficult question?”
“Okay.” I try to hide my nerves over what he’s about to ask.
“Earlier today you mentioned your life was complicated. If this… us… becomes something, is it really going to be an issue for Ryle?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t like you.”
“Me specifically or any guy you might potentially date?”
I scrunch up my nose. “You. Specifically you.”
“Because of the fight at my restaurant?”
“Because of a lot of things,” I admit. I roll onto my back and move my phone with me. “He blames most of our fights on you.” Atlas is clearly confused, so I elaborate without making things too uncomfortable. “Remember when we were teenagers and I used to write in my journal?”
“I do. Even though you never let me read anything.”
“Well, Ryle found the journals. And he read them. And he didn’t like what he read.”
Atlas sighs. “Lily, we were kids.”
“Jealousy doesn’t have an expiration date, apparently.”
Atlas presses his lips into a thin line for a moment, like he’s attempting to push down his frustration. “I really hate that you’re stressing over his potential reaction to things that haven’t even happened yet. But I get it. It’s the unfortunate position you’re in.” He looks at me reassuringly. “We’ll take it one step at a time, okay?”
“One very slow step at a time,” I suggest.
“Deal. Slow steps.” Atlas adjusts the pillow beneath his head. “I used to see you writing in those journals. I always wondered what you wrote about me. If you wrote about me.”
“Almost everything was about you.”
“Do you still have them?”
“Yeah, they’re in a box in my closet.”
Atlas sits up. “Read me something.”
“No. God, no.”