She gives me a look and I sigh, taking a sip of my latte. "Still spiraling just a bit,” I say. “Having the future I've been working toward my entire life just evaporate is quite the mindfuck. No New York restaurant, which my father used to describe to me when I was like eight years old, this place I'd run someday, this legacy I'd take over. And then when I was sixteen it got really serious—business plan, numbers, projections, all of it. And now I'm just... floating. The pop-up ends soon, I get on a plane back to California, and then what? I have absolutely no idea what to do next. Maybe this restaurant with Camille, but it even feels weird considering it."
Margot nods sympathetically. "Have you talked to Alex about it? I mean really talked, not just surface reassurances?"
I shift uncomfortably, fiddling with my latte cup. "No, not much. I hate bringing it up since I dumpster-fired his entire future. He's being so nice about it, so understanding, telling me it's all going to work out. And it just makes me feel even more guilty."
"He loves you," Margot says simply. "Of course he's being nice about it. That's what you do when you love someone."
"I know, but—" I stop myself, looking out the window at a businessman yelling into his phone while balancing a briefcase and coffee cup. "I don't know. I just keep thinking about how he had this perfect opportunity lined up and I ruined it."
She reaches for her coffee, taking a careful sip now that it'scooled slightly. "From what you've told me, you didn't ruin it. Your father ruined it by being impossible."
"Same end result though."
"Maybe," she concedes. "Have you talked to your father? Maybe you can get him to change his mind about Alex? Smooth things over?"
"I called two days ago and told him that if he blacklists Alex, he'd never see me again, and he said Alex is a manipulator who's using me for his connections, and that I'm too blinded by infatuation to see it clearly." I shake my head bitterly. "He told me to break up with him. Can you believe that? He's actually unhinged."
Margot's eyebrows shoot up, her coffee cup pausing halfway to her mouth. "I've got to say, I always kind of thought my family was a bit intense with all the country club drama and the expectations. But your father truly takes the cake. I have never in my life heard of someone being quite that controlling over their adult daughter."
I shake my head, pulling off a piece of the almond croissant on the plate between us. "Welcome to my life. I didn't even tell Alex about the call. It's all just bad news and misery and I don't want to pile more onto him."
Margot reaches over and squeezes my hand gently. "He'd want to know, Isabelle. He'd want to support you through it."
"I know. I'll tell him. Just not right now when everything is already so complicated. I feel guilty even being here," I say. "Looking at potential jobs and planning my future when I just destroyed his. He lost Seattle because of me, and here I am having breakfast in Manhattan and touring restaurants like nothing happened."
"Your life blew up too. You can't put everything on hold because you feel guilty. That's not fair to you and it's not what Alex would want."
I nod, knowing she's right but not quite believing it. Alexflew back to Dark River for the three-day break to handle a few things at Harbor & Ash, maybe to clear his head too. He called me last night and reassured me before bed, his voice warm and patient, but the guilt still won't leave me. I don't want it to. Maybe I'm a glutton for the punishment I deserve.
Margot glances at her watch. "We should start heading out, right? Don't want to be late."
I nod. Margot and I share a love of punctuality that borders on neurotic. We bundle up and head down the street, me in a wool sweater and blue scarf, pointing out various places along the way, Margot craning her neck and staring up at the buildings with wonder.
"I just can't get over it!" She stops on the corner, tilting her head back to take in the skyscrapers. "The architecture here is insane. We don't have anything like this in California."
I stop and look up with her, really look instead of just rushing past like I've done for years. "I guess it really is. I've lived here so long that I've gotten used to it. I can't remember the last time I looked up and marveled at the buildings."
She laughs, linking her arm through mine as we start walking again. "I mean, I'm the same way with California. A gorgeous beach with perfect sand and tide pools? Grew up on them, barely notice anymore. Rolling vineyards with those perfect rows of vines stretching into the sunset? Day and night, I see it constantly. I think we all become immune to our own backyards."
"So you're falling in love with the East Coast then?” I grin, teasing. “Thinking about moving?"
"It's beautiful, and definitely impressive in a completely different way. But California is where my soul lives. West coast best coast, sorry." She bumps my shoulder playfully and I laugh.
"That's alright. I'm biased in that the east coast is, I think, more sophisticated by far. The history, the culture, the seasonsactuallychanging. But—" I pause as she raises her eyebrows atme expectantly. "I'll give it to you about the Napa Valley. I think I've fallen more in love with it than I expected to."
"Ha! See? West coast for the win!" She does a little victorious hand gesture that makes me laugh.
And I really have fallen for it. Being back in New York, it feels like I've been away for a lifetime. My life has mostly been here, and I loved it for so long. But Napa Valley got under my skin somehow. The cliche I guess, all those songs written about California for a reason.
Margot's words about where her soul lives echo in my mind. In Napa I felt like I could finally breathe properly. Like how I felt those summers in Provence with my grandmother, when I was my happiest. The thought that New York City might not be the right fit for me genuinely never occurred to me before, since I was always preparing to take over my father's place and live here.
Suddenly the world feels open in a way it never has before.
We arrive at Camille's restaurant. It's a beautiful old building in the Flatiron District, tucked onto a street that somehow feels quieter than the surrounding chaos, like the noise stops at the corner. The exterior is elegant, with a dark green awning and gold lettering, brass lamps polished to a high shine.
We walk in and Camille greets us immediately, emerging from the back with her arms outstretched. She's in her mid-thirties, tall and striking, with black hair pulled back in a tight bun.
We worked together years ago during one of my stages in Paris at a two-star place in the 6th arrondissement, and she was always kind to me when other chefs weren't, never made me feel unwelcome even though everyone knew who my father was.