The Bridge Back to You

Chapter 1

Olivia

Now

The cake is heart-shaped to mark an important day of my life, with intricate pink-frosted flowers I'll never forget, and the words You're Divorced Bitch written in bold red letters.

When I blow out the candles, a chorus of hollers and even a dramatic hallelujah rings through the kitchen. The music kicks up, a glass is shoved into my hand, and my friend Denise orders me to drink my first shot of tequila as a "meant to be free" woman.

I appreciate that she hasn't said it too many times throughout the course of the celebration she surprised me with. Especially because everyone else here is more her friend than mine. A year ago, I told her I was going to marry Michael, and she cackled like it was a joke. Even my therapist said, "Olive, I'm afraid your ADHD is showing. If your friends wanted to jump off a bridge, would you jump with them?" To which I replied: "It would be my idea in the first place," and she responded with: "Exactly."

Needless to say, I jumped into marriage anyway. In hindsight, it could've been because I began receiving wedding invitations more frequently than birthday invites, but more importantly, I felt like there was something missing in my life: a partner I could live it with. And to be fair to myself, Michael was a great boyfriend for a solid six months. He was older than me, worked hard as a lawyer to match my drive, and said he loved that I traveled for work. He'd be busy, I'd be busy. What more could I ask for than someone who could fit so seamlessly into my lifestyle?

Unfortunately, after we eloped, he wasn't the person I thought he was. Suddenly, he was pressuring me for kids he'd said he didn't want and complaining about things he used to "admire" about me-like the number of stamps I was collecting on my passport and my "crazy" schedule. And sure, maybe I should've started working less so I could love on him a little more, but truthfully, somewhere down the line, I had a gut-wrenching realization that I never had the urge to come home to him after I was gone for a while. All this to say, I think we were pieces of entirely different puzzles, and whatever we were missing, we wouldn't get from each other.

So here I am, sliding in to sit beside Denise in the white limo she rented for this occasion. She decorated it with streamers and a Newly Divorced banner and made sure it was big enough to fit the seven of us. We have a full itinerary, but first on their list: a male strip club. Truth is, a man dancing in my face wearing a blue thong isn't my idea of a good time, but I'm down to see if my mind might be changed today.

Except, my phone rings right as Denise holds the door of the strip club open for me, saying, "Time to see some thangs jiggle and wiggle."

My belly drops. A breath gets caught in my throat. I stare at the name in the same kind of shock I'd feel if someone just said I made a bad cheesecake. "Oh," I whisper.

Denise peers over at my screen, says, "Shit. Oh wow," in her raspy voice.

"I know," I say, and the other girls ask to get in on the know too.

"Don't pick it up," Denise demands. "Exes aren't allowed in your atmosphere today."

But after the fourth ring, I can feel my strength slipping. If I don't pick up, this particular ex probably won't answer my call tomorrow, and he might not ever call me again.

Curiosity consumes me, but there's also something else there.

A pull in my chest that I've never been able to ignore when it comes to him.

Denise's eyes widen when I place the phone to my ear.

I shift my attention to my shoes. "Hello?"

There's silence for a second. Then a low voice that haunts my dreams. "Olivia?"

He asks like he's not sure if he has the right number, and I remember that even though he hasn't changed his, he's never called my new one. "Carmello?" I say.

He sighs, short and soft, like he's relieved he doesn't have to look for me. Goose bumps break over my arms. It's been a decade since I've heard his voice over the phone. Ten years since he's sighed for me. Time has made his voice deeper, sleepier, but still distinctively his.

"You busy? Sounds like you're at a party. I can call you back," he says.

And suddenly on this fine Sunday, I'm the equivalent of the sweat-drop smile emoji, realizing the door to the strip club is still open, the speakers inside playing the song "My Neck, My Back" at the part about butt cracks. I take a step backward and can feel Denise's gaze, accusatory and laser sharp as I turn and begin walking down the block.

When I find privacy, I say, "It's not a party, it's . . ." Then I pause, remembering I don't need to explain myself to this man, to any man now that the judge signed a decree. Besides, I'm at a strip club at 3 p.m. on a Sunday, sounds no better. "I can talk. What's up?"

I can't imagine why he's calling. We broke up ten autumns ago while the leaves were starting to crisp so they would fall, but now the branches above my head are bare save for the buds beginning to grow. I lean against the skinny tree trunk, hoping it'll support my weight while I calm my racing heart.

Carmello Rodriguez. Calling two days after my divorce was finalized.

Like some sick joke from the universe.

"How are you?" he says, and that muscle in my chest beats harder. Is he . . . missing me? The thought is laughable, another thing I can't fathom, but I still think it before he exhales again. This one is from some deep place in his stomach, and it makes mine flip. "Actually, I don't have time for small talk. I have to cook for dinner deliveries."

I ignore the sting below my breastbone. Carmello is a chef like I am, so I get the rush, but not the irritation in his tone that he should have contained. "Why are you calling me, Carmello?" I ask, pushing off the tree to pace the pavement. My own irritation bubbling to the surface.

Maybe Denise was right about not letting ex-boyfriends ruin the day.

"My mom's updated will was . . . discovered," he says, voice suddenly flat and airtight. As if there's not an emotion about her he wants to expose to me. His mom passed away from breast cancer six months ago. Someone posted the date for the funeral on their restaurant's social media pages, and I remember panicking when I saw it days later. I was working for a client overseas and didn't make it back to the States in time, but I couldn't bring myself to call Carmello to say how sorry I was. And with each day that went by, it became harder to pick up the phone, not knowing how to explain why I didn't call right away, not wanting to ask why he didn't call me and knowing I'd ask anyway, ridiculous as those expectations may have been. He didn't owe me anything, but when I first heard, I felt something sharp knowing Celia never told me her cancer came back. We'd stayed in touch, even though I was no longer dating her son. The guilt of not being there, and the hurt of wondering if she didn't want me to be, has haunted me every day since. And sometimes Carmello isn't the only Rodriguez I hear when I dream at night.

I press my back into the tree again. I'm not sure where this conversation is going, but now's my chance for me to use my voice to say: "I'm so sorry that I . . ."

"Olivia," he cuts in, and I don't blame him for not wanting my condolences. In the past, his mom was like family to me, and there's no excuse for the bare minimum-I'd eventually decided on-of me sending a bouquet of her favorite flowers with a handwritten apology, detailing the first time she taught me something in the kitchen and how much it meant to me. I didn't have his address, so I sent it to the restaurant with my new number scrawled at the bottom, telling myself if he wanted to talk to me, he'd call. I wondered for months if he'd read my note; now I assume it's how he got my number. "You . . . you're . . ." He pauses, struggling to get words out. Then: "You're in the will."

I'm surprised by what he says but distracted by how he says it. He clearly doesn't want to be having this conversation, and I wonder why he didn't just give my number to the executor.

Nothing Celia left me could be so important that he'd call me himself, I think.

But it is. It is. It is.

Because while I watch the group I'm with coming up the block, calling out about how sexy the strippers are, saying, "Get over here and get you a lap dance, girl," my ex-boyfriend Carmello is telling me that his mother left her cherished restaurant to the both of us.

The world spins and the tree supporting me suddenly feels like a string. I struggle to keep steady while six women fast approach me. Denise is now wearing a necklace with little dicks strung around the beads, the balls swinging and bumping together against her brown skin.

I turn away from them and blow out a breath, count each heartbeat that pounds in my ear. "As in . . . she left it for you and me?" I whisper.

"Yes," Carmello says. A dry laugh. His worst nightmare come true. An old dream of mine making my body tingle. "Apparently, we are the co-owners of my restaurant."

Chapter 2

Carmello

Now

It's been three days since I received a scheduled email from my dead mother. There was a one-line note inside that said: For Carmello, this isn't a draft. Underneath was a pdf file of her last will and testament, signed with two witnesses, dated five months before her death, declaring a quarter of the restaurant go to Olivia Jones.

A prank. That's what I thought this shit show was. In her lifetime, my mother Celia Rodriguez might have been better known by many for Celia's Place. The Filipino American-inspired restaurant she opened as a single mom with a toddler. The one that was still thriving months before she passed away. The one that we were equal partners in. A legacy she said she was honored to leave to me. Entirely to me, she'd implied. Not 75 percent to me and 25 percent to Olivia, of all people.

But Celia was also known as a woman that liked to play tricks. Once she called to tell me the building was broken into, then was mad at me for being mad at her for "a joke." Her favorite holiday was Halloween. She'd dress as Michael Myers at the restaurant and scare children. She would be the person to type up a will, make it look official, and leave it somewhere for me to find in order to get a good laugh in the afterlife. But the will is legit. None of this is a joke.

Olivia Jones, who used to be my Olivia, a woman who became someone I don't want to know, owns a piece of a place that should only belong to me.

I'm zoning out about things I've tried to forget, and don't notice that I'm burning the ground beef in the pan until Paula walks into the kitchen at Celia's and says, "Carmello, you're burning the beef."

"Shit," I hiss, and make quick work to save the meat with a spatula.

Paula leans her hip against the stove. If anyone can tell I've hardly slept in forty-eight hours, it's her. She looks paler than she usually does too. "Debra told me that table nine wants to know what's taking so long," she says, "and the fridge started leaking again in the back room."

"Their order is almost ready, and I'll put some towels down on the floor in front of the fridge for now," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. A complaining customer I can deal with, but one more malfunction or surprise this week might send me over the edge.

Paula's worked at this restaurant as a baker and even the occasional waitress for twenty years, and she's got the tone to prove it. I can tell she wants to talk shit about my temporary solution, but she bites her tongue. "Have you spoken to Olivia about signing her shares over?"

"I did," I say, and my brain decides to relive the conversation from yesterday again. Olivia's voice. Low and breathy, a bit huskier than when we were younger. Hearing her say my name that first time. And . . . that bullshit apology she tried to give me.

A short laugh slips from my mouth now as I'm reminded that my mother left a piece of her biggest accomplishment to someone who didn't even attend her funeral.

I pull a fresh batch of lumpia from the pot, trying to keep my hands from trembling.

"What did she say?" Paula asks.

"She said she wouldn't sign anything over to me. When I asked why the hell not, she said she was at a strip club and she'd call me back. Then, she never did."

It's Paula's turn to laugh. "Well . . . isn't that something."

She only sounds a little surprised, and I'm sure it's because she's thinking what I'm thinking. Olivia Jones might have gotten older, but that doesn't mean she has grown up.

I check my watch and blow out a breath. "I need to leave to get Teddy before my meeting. Most of the food is prepped. You sure you can handle everything while I'm gone?"

The longest lag time during a day at the restaurant is between lunch and dinner, which usually works out perfectly for me to pick my son up from school. But our line cook quit last week, and it's made it harder on my sous-chef Steven. Paula's usually done baking for the day by noon, so she offered to be an extra set of hands in the kitchen until I hire someone. But I worry about her being back here. With hot things. She's more accident-prone than my six-year-old.

She takes the tongs from me and jumps to avoid the popping oil after adding more egg rolls to the frying pot. I flinch by proxy. "I'll be fine," she says. "Bring Teddy to see me after the appointment? I miss his little face. And don't worry. Steven's here to help me, if anything."