“Avery . . . I thought I was helping,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, you weren’t,” I snapped back. I took one last look in the mirror, stood up, and tied my apron around my waist. “I should probably get back out there, I have a bunch of tables waiting on their orders.”
Charlie backed away, his expression a bit wounded. “Yeah, the lunch crowd should get moving if they’re going to make curtain. Oh, before I forget, Kai got called in at the last minute to cover in The Lion King matinee.”
“So you’ll be duetting me?” I asked.
“If that’s okay?”
I forced a smile back on my face. “Yeah, of course it is.”
“Good.”
I stepped back into the crowded dining room and spotted Gabe clapping and singing along to “Dancing Queen” from Mamma Mia!—a sight I never thought I’d see. I twirled over to his stool and sang a few bars to him. Gabe pulled a cheesy bite from his meatball sandwich and bobbed his head along with me to the music before I shimmied over to my other tables to take their orders.
An hour later, following a Sondheim tribute that included an immersive Sweeney Todd moment that left Lyla covered in fake blood and minced meat, it was time for me to perform again. Charlie swung his acoustic guitar over his shoulder, and we met underneath the mainstage spotlight. After adjusting our mics, we sat down on two stools facing the audience. Lifting his pick, Charlie strummed the opening notes to “Falling Slowly” from Once.
As he and I sang about redemption and second chances through the airy and delicate notes of the ballad, I let the music overtake my soul, and this time, my voice didn’t crack—it soared. Our tight harmonies and the apropos lyrics about sinking boats and concepts of home swelled through the diner as Gabe’s eyes settled firmly on me, full of pride and admiration. He was seeing me, really seeing me.
I glanced at Charlie, who was beaming as we took our bows. He slung the guitar behind his back and grabbed our stools to exit the stage. Nodding in the direction of all the dollar bills spilling out of our tip jar, he said, “You sounded fantastic. Looks like you found your new showstopper.”
“Our new showstopper,” I replied. “We sounded fantastic together!”
“Yeah, we sure did,” he agreed.
“Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I guess I’m just getting my sea legs back and haven’t been feeling all that sturdy lately. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said, squeezing him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I just . . . kinda selfishly, couldn’t wait to hear you sing it. It was good, you know. You were good.”
The words signaled an unspoken truce, any awkwardness from earlier evaporating with their sound into the coffee-scented air. Taking us out of the moment with his excited voice, Gabe found his way over to where Charlie and I were standing together.
“Avery, that was incredible. You sounded amazing. You too, man,” Gabe said, jutting his arm out for a handshake. “I’m Gabe.”
“Hey,” Charlie said, reaching for Gabe’s proffered hand, “it’s good to finally be able to put a face with the name.”
Gabe’s eyebrows furrowed and his eyes shot to me, clearly confused by Charlie’s comment.
I interjected, “Charlie and I waited tables together back when I used to work here during college. He’s the manager now.”
“That’s right. I remember,” Gabe said.
Charlie’s eyes zeroed in on him. “Yeah, I remember you too. Avery used to talk about you a lot.”
Gabe lowered his head and nodded. “I can imagine that they weren’t the most flattering things back then, if we’re being honest. But a lot of time’s passed”—Gabe shifted his gaze to me—“and I’m not that same guy.”
Charlie repositioned the guitar on his back and glanced between me and Gabe, suddenly aware he was now the third wheel. He looked at his watch, cleared his throat, and said, “You only have a few minutes left in your shift. If you want, you two kids can take off. I’ll clock you out.”
“Thanks man, appreciate it,” Gabe said.
“Gabe, just give me a minute. I have to grab my things and put this apron away. Be right back.”
I scurried to the dressing room, shoved my apron in my locker, and grabbed my coat and purse. When I rejoined Gabe in the restaurant, he took my hand and led me, not to the door, but instead to the dance floor in front of the stage. Surprised by the gesture, my face broke out into a wide grin as he twirled me around and then pulled me into his broad chest, his arm wrapping around my waist. I put my head on his shoulder, and we swayed to “Tonight” from West Side Story, and for just a moment, he was Tony and I was Maria and nobody else existed in the diner, New York City, or the whole damn world.
A sudden vibration from his phone rattled all the way up to his chest, and I pulled my head back to look at him. “Do you need to get that?”
He slid his hand into his pocket, once again silencing the ringer like he had at the coffee shop, and drew me into his embrace. With an alluring smile and attentive gaze, he caressed a hand over my back.
“No, my dear, it’s only you tonight,” he said, and pulled me in a little closer.
Chapter Eighteen
Hand in hand, and without any real destination in mind, Gabe and I found ourselves strolling up Fifth Avenue, window-shopping at the luxury stores and marveling at their ornate window displays. Since Gabe was still full from his meatball hero and I’d grabbed a few too many handfuls of Edel-fries in the kitchen between sets, we skipped the French bistro reservation and headed out into the late-afternoon air and setting sun. It was cool but not cold, just enough chill to keep me snuggled up to Gabe’s side as we walked.
“I was planning to win you back with your favorite vintage of Chablis and Loic’s rendition of ‘La Vie En Rose,’ but now I’m at a loss. I mean, how’s a guy supposed to compete with moules frites?” Gabe smirked playfully with a shrug in my direction. “But I am determined to salvage this date somehow, so we can do anything you want. Anything at all. Just say the word and we’re there.”
I thought back to when I first met Gabe. He was my New York passport, showing me all the best spots and hidden gems only “real” New Yorkers knew about. I remember one time we took the subway all the way down to Essex Street so he could show me what used to be “Pickle Alley,” aptly named for the dozens of pickle vendors who could once be found there. Only a few stands remained, but we spent our afternoon on a “pickle crawl,” tasting and critiquing the briny delights and laughing at our ridiculous mock assessments.
With our snootiest accents we mocked, “Hmm . . . good girth, but the hint of dill makes it less than exemplary.” “Ah yes, this one’s a bit too sour for my refined palate.” The proprietors of the stands were not as amused as we were.
That’s what it was like to be with Gabe—he kept me on my toes by always managing to find the extraordinary in the ordinary. Unlike Adam, who made every occasion flashy and lavish, Gabe kept it simple. Straightforward. There was no pretense or underlying motive. He was who he was, and there was something comforting in that, especially after finding out Adam had ten different aliases and probably an entirely different set of lies built around each one.