Childhood Sweethearts No More Chapter 2

Rachel had liked a photo Dennis had posted, one of him at some fancy fine-dining meal.

"There's no more pasta in the kitchen. Order yourself something," I said, and kept dragging my suitcase toward the bedroom.

Rachel grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave a red mark instantly.

"Adrian, I've spent the last ten minutes swallowing my pride to talk you down. Are you seriously still going?"

Pain shot up my wrist, and I flinched on instinct.

Rachel's eyes caught on the ugly burn scar running up my right arm, flickering for a moment before she finally let go.

That scar was from the night I was eighteen, when her family's house caught fire and I ran in to drag her out. Because of it, I'd given up my dream of testing into flight school. I'd picked up a spatula instead, and taken over the run-down stew house my mother had left me.

Back then, Rachel had held me while I was covered in blood and sobbed that she'd take care of me for the rest of her life. Now, the smell of the stew house on my clothes was enough to disgust her precious golden boy.

"I'm not throwing a fit. I'm just tired." I rubbed my wrist, my voice flat.

Rachel stared at me for a moment, then let out a cold laugh.

"Fine. Won't cook, huh? Then tomorrow, I'll have someone sell off that dump of yours.

"Dennis has to cover his nose every time he walks past that street anyway. I've wanted you to shut the place down for a while now."

I froze mid-step and turned back to face her, unable to believe what I'd just heard.

"Rachel, that place is the only thing my mother left me. What right do you have to sell it?"

Seeing that she'd finally gotten a rise out of me, a flicker of satisfaction crossed her eyes.

"The right of owning the property, since it's under my name now.

"Adrian, just be reasonable. Close the place, come work logistics at my company. Keep your hands clean for once. Isn't that better?

"You spend all day steeped in that greasy hole, reeking like someone from the gutter. It embarrasses me just bringing you along to business dinners."

Someone from the gutter.

Those words hit me square in the chest.

For twenty years, I'd stayed up nights simmering broth for her, kept that stew house running to earn her the first pot of money for her business. Now that she'd made it, she looked down on the very smell that had gotten her here.

I took a breath and pushed the sourness building behind my eyes back down.

"Do whatever you want."

I turned and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

Outside, I heard Rachel kick over the coffee table, followed by her voice rising out of control.

"Adrian! Don't think I won't do it! If you dare open that place tomorrow, I'll have your sign smashed to pieces!"

I leaned against the door and slid slowly down to the floor, pulling the plane ticket to the capital of Dufonce, Beleinse City, out of my pocket.

'Two more days. Rachel, you won't have to put up with the smell of someone like me much longer.'

The next morning, I went to the notary's office downtown and signed away my fifty percent stake in the stew house, the half that actually belonged to me, to a buyer who'd been wanting to take the place over for a while.

The ink had barely dried when my phone started buzzing like mad. It was Gary Owen, the floor manager at the stew house, and there was panic in his voice.

"Adrian, get over here! Rachel brought a whole crew to tear the place apart!

"They're saying they're renovating it into some fancy patisserie. They're throwing everything out onto the street right now!"

My grip tightened around the phone.

'Rachel. You really don't do anything by halves,' I fumed inwardly.

I flagged down a cab and told the driver to get to the stew house as fast as he could.