Page 24 of Holding Out for a Gyro
I wanted her to scream, to stand up for me, for her. To walkaway. She never did.
He did a couple of years later—for a few days that first time. He didn’t leave us for good until much,muchlater.
The first time, I felt nothing but relief, but my mom lost herself in depression and frantic attempts to chase him down and try to bring him back. I never knew what promises she made to him, but he came back, worse than before, like he had her at a total disadvantage and knew it.
That was when he started in on me. She might have protected me before, but she caved into herself. I think she regretted bringing him back. Maybe she’d convinced herself she couldn’t live without him, but we couldn’t live with him, either.
It scared me that love could blind someone to their own better interests. Part of me couldn’t forgive her for not being the one to leave him. She should have taken me and gone somewhere safe. But she stayed.
I never wanted to be that weak, to need someone until I couldn’t separate myself from him. To be at his mercy for my happiness, and to open myself to such grief when he eventually disappointed me.
But this was all Old Chelsea terrain, of course, the knee-jerk self-protection and fear. I wanted to fight against my natural reaction, prove to myself I could take a risk. So that’s why I said yes to Basil’s invitation.
When I got off work, I discovered him waiting outside, bottle of wine in hand. “Change in plans.”
“Is this a bait and switch?” I said, pulling my coat on. November had finally decided to make its presence known.
“Sort of.” He started walking, and I began to follow even though I had no idea where we were going. “But not like you think.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Do you trust me?”
What an odd question. Logically, I shouldn’t. Not yet. But I did, and somehow had since the first night we met. Maybe that was how murderers got away with it, though. “Up until you try to load me into a white panel van.”
He laughed. “I bet if that van was stocked with tiramisu, you might think about it.”
He wasn’t wrong. “So what happened with the market kitchen?”
“I got in trouble, and I just needed to get away.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Ryan, my manager, started a new protocol, and I can’t seem to adhere to it. And now I have to go back tonight and redo a bunch of orders. I’m so tired of that little dictator.”
I’d never heard him so off-kilter. He usually exuded an unflappable optimism. I kind of liked flustered, ruffled, bitchy Bas.
“Do you want to call this off? Rain check?” I’d be disappointed if he did. The only thing getting me through the afternoon shift was the promise of experimental Bas food.
“What? No way. This is the only thing that’s gotten me through this day,” he said, like an echo of my thoughts. “You’re gonna cheer me up.”
It surprised me that anyone thought I was capable of cheering them up. I was usually the grumpy one. In fact, my parents had called me Lucy, as in Charlie Brown’s Lucy, when I was a kid, and not because of my hair.
“Todd,” I said.
“Todd?”
“Todd’s my little dictator. I’m too old to be scolded for messing up an order.”
He nodded. “We should stage a coup.”
“Overthrow our managerial overlords?” I laughed at the image.
“See? You’re cheering me up already.”
“Sometimes I wonder what I’m even doing with my life.” I couldn’t figure out how he got me to share thoughts normally reserved for Elizabeth. “You’re at least creating something original.”
“I hear you’re an artist.” He leaned into me. “Maybe someday you’ll show me some of your work.”
