“Partner?” I tried, arching a brow at Hendrix to gauge his reaction at the label. “And this is Hendrix.”
“Lovely to meet you, Hendrix.” Marzena offered him her hand, palm down. He tentatively took it, realizing he was meant to kiss the top of her hand, not offer her a traditional shake.
“You too, I think.”
“I’ll get waters and a menu. One for you too, sweetheart?”
“I…uh…” Hendrix looked at me nervously, settling in the slightest. “I’ll let Miles order for me.”
I bit my lips together between my teeth, pleased on multiple levels at his acquiescence. Marzena gave me a knowing look, then turned, wiping her hands on the towel that hung from the apron around her waist.
“That was—” Wesley started, only to be interrupted by Hendrix.
“A lot. She is a lot.”
“This place is a lot.” Wes gestured at the decor and, well…he wasn’t wrong.
“How did you even find this place?” Hendrix asked.
Grayson shot me a look, and I shrugged. “Marzena was friends with my grandparents. I don’t want to say I grew up here, but…”
“He grew up here,” Grayson said.
“It’s not like I was raised by family friends in the kitchen of a restaurant,” I corrected with a roll of my eyes. “But I spent a lot of time here as a kid. It was her grandma who taught me how to make pierogi and proper borscht.”
“And the rolls.” Grayson swirled his fingers together.
“The stuffed cabbage, yes.”
“You know how to make stuffed cabbage?” Hendrix asked.
“I know how to make a lot of things.”
It sounded like a brag, but it was the truth. I’d had good parents, but better grandparents, and some of the most supportive family friends anyone could have asked for. My grandma and Marzena were friends for most of their lives, close as sisters, and if there was anything to know about Polish people, it was that everyone was family.
My grandparents used to go to the restaurant every Saturday for lunch, staying well past dinner. I’d spent many late nights tucked into the same booth we were all smashed into, eating, laughing, drinking—when I was old enough, or almost old enough—and sometimes even sleeping. Though I was pretty sure I hadn’t fallen asleep at Marzena’s since before I was ten.
“Will you cook for me sometime?” Hendrix asked.
“Anytime.”
Marzena brought us waters and dropped a menu off for Wesley. I could tell she wanted to sit and talk. She loved to talk, and I loved to talk to her. There hadn’t been a major life experience I’d had that she didn’t know about. Even through my relationship and breakup with Grayson, Marzena had been there. When my grandparents died, she was there, and now…
Still.
Always.
She circled back quickly, a bottle of vodka in one hand. At the edge of the table, she fished five shot glasses out of the front pocket of her apron, pouring us each a shot of the sour cherry-infused bison grass vodka she loved so much.
“Na zdrowie,” I said, raising the glass and shooting the liquor straight down my throat so it didn’t have time to singe the outer layers of my mouth off.
Hendrix took his like a seasoned pro, earning an approving nod from Marzena. She scooped the glasses back into the front of her apron and snatched the menu from Wesley’s hands.
“Ready to order?”
“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.
“Don’t worry about it.” Grayson shouldered himself into Wesley. “Marzena will take good care of us. She always does.”
