“Don’t you have a job to do?” she asks, not looking up from her work, which I prefer. I’d like her anyway but especially with all her fingers intact.

“I’m doing it,” I mutter, as she squeezes a lemon wedge over the pan. “I’m the supervisor.”

She tosses the lemon carcass onto the counter and turns to me. “I don’t need your supervision, Amy,” she says, her voice low. “I distinctly remember you saying you didn’t want to supervise me at all anymore.”

“I definitely never said that.”

“‘You should take the other job,’” she says, doing a terrible imitation of my voice.

“Right.” I straighten from the deep drift I was doing toward her. Sweat glistens at the edge of her hairline, her skin dewy and glowing. “Sorry, I’ll...”

I start toward the hostess stand so I don’t have to finish that sentence. The scalloped potatoes will take the longest and I take my time at the front with Maggie, who doesn’t actually need my help. The taps have just been changed, and I don’t want to expo food and be accused of hovering again. After a quarter of an hour annoying Maggie, I stand at the back of the restaurant, watching my father start on his third glass of wine and laugh cruelly at his friends’ jokes. Or maybe their expense.

Sophie’s timing is impeccable. Somehow, she pulls together their family style meal at least twenty minutes faster than she should have been able to. As she lines up the tenderloins, I creep forward.

“Drew.” I grab his arm as he drops off some plates for the dishwasher. “Help me bring these out.”

His throat bobs as he glances between the food and my father.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take the lead.”

With a heavy sigh, he nods.

I slide the plates to Drew and nod to Sophie. “Thanks, chef.”

Her mouth curves in a tight-lipped smile as she chops. I pause on this side of the counter. Something inside me doesn’t let me walk away yet. Probably avoidance, because no one in this restaurant wants to deal with my Dad’s table. Except I’m still frozen here. The food will get cold. With every second that ticks by the steaks sit past their resting period. Look at me, look. I want her eyes. It’s selfish, but I can’t help it. I broke things off—whatever it was we were doing—to protect her but I don’t want to make this walk alone. And Drew doesn’t count. I need her. The short, stern fortitude she brings to the kitchen or the bubblier kind of strength she brings to the rest of her life. I’d take any of it, either or.

Just look.

She glances up once, a brief, uninterested scan of the restaurant, and her gaze falls on me. She looks down again, then back up. Like she’s finally realized that I’ve been standing here begging for her eyes. The relief unfurls in me, like the soft ribbon of my old pointe shoes on the bare skin of my calf. It takes everything in me not to throw these steaks on the floor and tell her it was all a mistake. A stupid, selfish mistake. One I made to make myself feel better, like I was selfless, some kind of good person, when what I really want, what I’ve always wanted, was to take her to bed and make her feel so good she never wants to leave.