The Benefits of Failure

All winter I yearned for nights like these—the air thick with humidity, redolent with pine and cut grass. But stepping out of the restaurant, my senses recede behind a single sentence: “We are so proud of you Cassie." The words, meant for my sister, tumbled from my father's mouth as he raised a glass. I am seething with jealousy, then hating myself for it, a surfer betrayed by the wave he meant to ride.

Behind the restaurant the grass is tall, scratching my ankles as I trudge out. The moon is absent, allowing for a show of stars I haven’t seen in years. I’ve just spotted Orion’s belt when my foot bounces off something soft.

“Ow!”

“So sorry,” I let out as I stumble, managing to steady myself, then peer down at a prone form nestled in the grass. The whites of her eyes shine, then the tips of her teeth as she laughs.

“No, it’s ok. I’m sorry,” she says, sitting up, still chuckling softly.

“What are you d—?”

“Escaping,” she interrupts. “You?”

“Same.”

“Let me guess,” she says, examining me. “Bad date?”

“Nope, family.”

“Ah,” she says, as though this is all the explanation needed. Family. A word as heavy as the summer air.

She pats the ground next to her and I willingly oblige, settling down a few feet away. The cicadas are deafening and for a moment I am disoriented, caught between this uncanny moment and a deluge of memories—summer nights out here in the country, windows open, the rhythmic chirping of cicadas and spring peepers lulling me to sleep. The woman next to me lifts a bottle to her lips and takes a long pull, then extends it toward me. I take a sip, the wine dry and rich on my tongue.

“So, was it a first date?” I ask as I hand the bottle back to her.

“Yep,” she says. Despite the lack of light, I can see that she is soft cheeked, a feature at odds with her dark, unswerving eyes. Pieces of dried grass stick to her hair and I resist the urge to reach out and pluck them away. She holds her hand out for the bottle, then takes another swig.

“That bad, huh?” I ask.

“You know, the kind of person who looks good online, checks all the boxes. But I don’t think he asked me a single question the entire time. Went on and on about himself.”

“Hmm. Was he at least good looking?”

“Well, I couldn’t really tell. His eyes were focused elsewhere the entire time,” she says pointing to her chest. “Actually, I think maybe they had a good time.”

I laugh. “Ah, they’re the attention seeking types.”

“Actually, they’re even pickier than me,” she says, then laughs quietly into her hand, cupped over her mouth.

“They must be pickier, because you’re talking to a total stranger in the middle of a field. I mean, I could be a serial killer. Or worse, an orthodontist.”

"My father's an orthodontist," she says, face serious.

"Shit, sorry."

Then she laughs, "Got you." I chuckle, relieved. Then she adds, "And you don’t seem so bad.”

“Not according to my wise, all-knowing father. “

“Ah, Daddy issues?”

“You could say that.” I pause. But the direction of our conversation and the strangeness of the encounter, not to mention the rich wine coursing through me, has loosened my tongue. “Not sure which part of the evening was worse, the look on my mother’s face when my father kissed his new wife or my father’s effusive toast. ‘We are so proud of you Cassie. The first of your generation to finish college. Unlike your brother who is a complete failure and disgrace to our family name.’”

At that her eyes widen. “Ouch.”

“Kidding, kidding. I made up that last part,” I said.

She shoves me lightly. “You had me.”

“He wouldn’t say that, but he might as well.” I grab the bottle from her and take a long pull. “The thing that actually bothers me the most is not that my start up might not make it, but that I care more that I won't be able to prove to my father it was worth my time.”

“Right,” she says, as though this makes perfect sense. “So he doesn’t know the secret? That starting at least one company that tanks is the initiation ritual of our generation. And we can’t actually enter adulthood until we’ve miserably failed at something.”

“Exactly,” I say. I like her. And I don’t even know her name. “Ok, so what was yours? Your start up. And by the way, I’m Ezra.” I say, reaching out my hand.

She shakes it firmly. “Lilly. And...it wasn’t exactly a start up.” She abruptly pushes herself to standing. She’s leaving. My disappointment is way out of proportion to the time we’ve spent together. But then she says, “Let me show you,” and reaches out a hand to pull me up. Relief crashes through me. We trudge through the grass until we’re back in front of the restaurant.

“I can’t go in. I’m not sure they’re gone yet,” I say, fighting the instinct to jump in my car and drive off.

“Ok,” she says, leaning in and whispering in my ear. Her breath is warm on my cheek. “I’ll stake it out first.”

“I don’t think you’ll miss the two women glaring daggers at each other across the table. What about your date. He’s gone?”

“We ate somewhere else actually.”

I arch an eyebrow and she smirks before heading inside. Just as she disappears my phone dings. I pull it from my pocket and find a text from my sister :

Where are you? You ok?

I write back: I’m fine. Just needed a breather.

I press send, then add: Love you Sis. Nice work graduating and all. Seriously. Sorry to bail on you.

She writes back: Thanks. But also, I’m never forgiving you for leaving me alone with those three. 😉

I respond: I’ll make it up to you. Expect large quantities of chocolate.

Minutes later Lilly emerges. “Coast is clear.”

Inside it's quieter than before, only a few couples remaining. But the scent of meals long gone still hangs in the air. The waiter leads us to a small table near the kitchen.

“Thanks Henry. Two glasses of the Jetbird Merlot,” Lilly says. “And all the desserts except the tart tatin and the crisp.”

“Of course,” the waiter says with a wink.

“You a regular here?” I ask as the waiter shuffles off.

“Something like that,” she says. Moments later two wine glasses are placed before us along with four plates donning delicate desserts that look more like sculptures than food. Lilly immediately digs into the slice of chocolate cake, slipping it between her lips, closing her eyes and emitting a barely audible moan.

“I’ve kept this one on the menu for a year. But each time is like the first. Try it,” she says, grabbing another spoon and digging in, then reaching toward my mouth. The chocolate is rich and warm on my tongue.

“Heaven,” I say, meeting her eyes. Did we really only meet less than an hour ago? I’m distracted enough by this thought and her tongue, licking a piece of chocolate clinging to her lip, that it takes several moments to register her words. I’ve kept this one on the menu.

“Wait, are you the chef?”

She smiles. “Bingo. Although Jeff mostly runs this place since I opened a sister restaurant nearby.”

“And here I was thinking you were going to tell me about your failed start up,” I say.

“This is my third restaurant and the only successful one.” She leans in and looks at me intently. “And this one would have gone under too if I hadn’t learned from my disastrous failures. My first restaurant closed after a month.”

I nod, thinking all the while that if my path hadn’t failed to fit my father’s definition of success and if I hadn’t fled this restaurant earlier, I wouldn’t be sitting across from Lilly. And I know, or at least hope, that I will be seeing her again. So I raise my glass and tilt it toward her.

“To failure,” I say.

“To failure,” she repeats, our eyes locking over the wide rims of our glasses.