"Okay, open."
I blink several times, squinting against the instant brightness of the room. And when my eyes adjust, my breath catches. The greenhouse is one giant arched space with windows making up the walls and ceiling, white window panes connecting each rectangular glass. The floor is a white speckled concrete.
There's nothing else in here yet—no booths or decor, just the blue sky above with puffy white clouds and a small crop of trees on the far side of the restaurant that faces away from the farm. And yet, it feels finished. Like this is all that's really needed.
I pivot around, taking it all in, and notice the one solid wall on the far end of the building. Assuming it leads to the kitchen, I look away from it and back toward the main dining area. No, thank you.
I can easily imagine what the finished version will look like. Wooden tables, each with a tiny floral arrangement from Annie's, naturally. Comfortable booths along the perimeter of the walls. People laughing and holding hands across the table, waiting for their meals, which will be comprised of ingredients harvested straight from this land. And because of the windows, guests will experience all of it as if they're sitting directly in the middle of the crops.
The best feature will be at night when the stars are visible through the glass roof.
It's perfect. And I get to cultivate a food experience here. I get to be the chef. Me. Madison. All because James believes in me for some unidentifiable reason.
No one in my life has ever taken me this seriously. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that even my siblings are having private meetings behind my back, putting wagers on how long it'll take for me to run this restaurant into the ground.
"You okay?" James asks, watching me blink back a thousand tears.
I clear my throat. "Oh, yeah. I'm good."
"You're crying."
"No I'm not." A tear splats on the floor by my shoe. We both look at it. "I think it's the ghost of onions lingering in the air here."
"Granny was known for her fried hush puppies."
"Really?" This delights me. Sparks something in my creativity that wants to grab on to that little nugget of history.
"Mmm." He nods. "Everyone said she put too much onion in them. But I thought they were delicious."
I point to my face, shoulders sagging. "It's only fair to tell you I cry a lot when I'm tired."
"I know."
"And when I'm stressed." I pause. "Or if there's a strong breeze. And definitely if it's Tuesday." My face skews. "Are you sure you want a ball of emotions as your chef? Because these tears aren't a rare thing. The onion ghosts are going to choke me up a lot." I want him to fire me. Right now. Just do it and get it over with, James. It'll be easier on both of us if it happens now.
James doesn't laugh. He comes closer. "Madison. Do you think I didn't already know these things about you before I asked you to take the job? All these years growing up together and you think I haven't been paying attention?"
A breath snags somewhere between my ribs. "I guess I didn't realize you were. I've always gotten the very strong impression that you didn't want me around. That I'm just annoying to you. When I enrolled in culinary school, one of my very first thoughts was, James is going to be glad to get rid of me."
He takes a step closer. "Okay, but you've always acted like I was annoying to you too. All the low-IQ jokes?"
"That's because I'm petty! And you were rude to me first, so I was rude back. It's the way the world turns. That's why when you asked me to take this job, I briefly considered the possibility that you'd had a concussion. I never thought you hated me, but I definitely didn't think you liked me either."
James frowns and looks in the direction of the doors, silent for a minute. And then, "You and I . . . we have an age difference."
"Four years," I confirm.
He nods. "And for a long time that was enough to make you Noah's annoying little sister to me."
"Oof—" I say like he punched me in the gut. "The truth hurts."
"But . . ." His jaw flexes as his eyes meet mine. "I guess when I stopped seeing you that way, we had already solidified a normal course of interaction. I never quite figured out how to change it."
By my math and quick calculations, all of those words add up to this: James does not view me as Noah's annoying little sister anymore. But based on his reaction back at the cottage, he doesn't want me to find him attractive either. Probably for the best.
In my silence, James chooses his words as carefully as a surgeon picking his instruments. "I never wanted to get rid of you, Madison." He breathes in and looks like there's so much more he wants to say. And then an antagonizing smile splits across his face. "But it was pretty nice not having a giant mess to clean up in my kitchen after family dinner."
I air-kick him. "Jerk. I always cleaned up after myself !"
He's backing away from me. "You don't even know how to clean."
"Sure I do. Watch me clean that stupid smile right off your face!"
He's laughing now as he turns his back to me and disappears through a swinging door. I follow him, ready to show him just how annoying I can be, but then I stop dead in my tracks.
We're in the kitchen.
"These are what clean countertops look like. . . . Maybe go ahead and take a picture so you can remember the state they are supposed to return to."
I don't respond to his joke. I can't. But not for the same breathless reason as a few minutes ago.
The metal countertops are so crisp. There's this huge sink and a giant oven. Stainless-steel pots and pans and empty containers on a shelf where dry ingredients will be stored. There's even a little window above the sink, but it does nothing to make me feel less caged right now.
My heart is a hammer, threatening to crack my ribs.
My nails bite into my palms.
I can't find my breath.
The lights are so bright, they're sharp as knives.
I reach out to steady myself, but the familiar cold stainless-steel countertop meets my overly heated fingertips and jolts me back to memories I never want to relive but do all too often.
Distantly, I hear James say my name, but I've tunneled too far into my senses to acknowledge him.
A firm grip takes hold of my waist, and his breath touches my temple. "You're shaking."
"Because I'm going to die," I murmur into James's chest after he scoops me off the ground.
"No, you're not. I'm here." His voice is a life preserver tossed out to where I'm barely treading water, but I can't reach it because I'm not actually here—I'm stuck back in New York.