“I’m sorry, Ames.”

“Our landlord gave us three months to come up with the money we owe, and Sophie invested. She saved my ass. But next month’s rent is on the horizon. Vendors are starting to make noise about their bills.” I bounce my head off the wall behind me. “I don’t think we’re going to make it.” The beer has gone warm but I drink it anyway, adding moisture to my dry mouth. “Overhead costs are the kiss of death for a new restaurant. I knew that going in and yet...” I shrug.

“See,” he says. “I knew you were the right person to come to.”

“Yeah, Wes would only try to be cheerful and, like, solve things for us.”

“Gross,” he agrees. “So what are you going to do?”

I sigh. “We’ve got this reality TV appearance. But it’s a last-ditch effort. By the time it airs, I think it will be too late.”

“You’re going to close?”

I turn to him. “Now?”

He nods.

“No. Never. I’m...the captain. Going down with the ship and all that. Besides, you wouldn’t believe the number of restaurant owners who’ve failed. It’s like...a rite of passage or something. I’m supposed to fail.” But saying that out loud doesn’t make it feel any better. My stomach aches at the thought of closing the doors to that restaurant and never opening them back up again. “If anything it was inevitable,” I say quietly.

A tear falls down my cheek. I rub at it with my shoulder. But it does nothing to stop the next one. “I wanted it so bad. You know, Jer?”

He murmurs his agreement, his big palm petting the back of my head.

“At first it was like, look what I can do. I’m twenty-six and I’m opening a restaurant and it’s going to be amazing. And then, all these young queer kids found their way there. And we fought so hard to get the staff the things they deserve, like a livable wage, for god’s sake. And Sophie took a chance on me, on this kitchen, when she probably had so many better offers. She’s turned down offers to stay with me, she’s bought into the business. I failed her. I’ve failed all of them.”

The bed dips as Jeremy gets up. He shuffles to the kitchen, rummages around in my cupboards, and comes back with a glass of water. “Drink this,” he says, exchanging it for my beer. “Alcohol is a depressant.”

“Thanks.” I sniffle and take a big gulp of water. Like an alarm, I can hear my father’s voice when I cry, telling us to stop our sniveling. To buck up. It’s why crying in front of my mother’s house feels like the only safe space. Mom encouraged crying, the painful body-racking sobs kind of crying. She said those kinds of cries released hormones that make you happy. It was science. Even Wes was known to get a good crying jag in when he thought I couldn’t hear him.