“What do they have?”
“Everything.”
“How do you know what’s good?”
I laugh. “Trust me. It’s good.”
He casts me a sideways look, holding the small card with the handwritten number.
“Call the number,” I say. “They don’t bite. Get me a pastrami sandwich on rye and a portion of their house-special fries.”
I stare at Seymour as he takes his phone out to place the order, flicking the corner of the card with the tip of his fingernail.
A pang of nostalgia hits me all of a sudden, taking my breath away. He looks at me, but the voice on the phone grabs his attention back.
I head to the sink to clean my pan while we wait for the food and before I have to buy yet another pan. I’ll never admit this is the second pan I’ve bought in as many weeks.
Cooking was never my strong point. Porter loved cooking, experimenting with food and trying new cuisines. I hated when he wanted to try out a new restaurant because he’d end up asking to speak to the chef and lose himself in conversation.
One time I snuck out of the restaurant and waited for him at home just to prove a point.
I’d give anything to have those moments back now. Sit through every boring conversation about sourcing quality ingredients or cooking techniques.
“Dude, ordering food was an exercise in self-discipline because the guy on the phone had the deepest, sexiest voice. You know? The kind that can make your toes curl by reading out the grocery list,” Seymour says.
I shake my head, contemplating telling him that Bob is pushing seventy. But he does have a point. His daughter-in-law has him working the phone orders because of his radio voice and kind personality.
Seymour grabs the stack of reusable takeout boxes from the top of my fridge, giving me a look.
“They’re from the soup kitchen,” I explain.
“The situation is worse than I thought.” He shakes his head.
“What situation?”
“You’re eating food from the soup kitchen, man.”
I let out a tired breath. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried Cathy’s food.”
Seymour stares at me, and there it is, that same expression his brother used to wear whenever he wanted to say something but was waiting for the right time to deliver it most efficiently.
My stomach clenches again. No one would ever believe the six-year gap between the two brothers. If I don’t catch myself, my brain might even start believing it’s Porter in front of me. They look so alike that when Porter died, I couldn’t bear to be around Seymour without breaking down, so I moved away.
Not that anything would ever happen between Seymour and me. He kissed me once on the day we met, and the adrenaline of performing together skewed his judgment. I would have punched him, but then he introduced me to his brother, Porter, and I would have kissed him back if Porter hadn’t been so…Porter.
Calm. Open. Captivating.
It broke Seymour’s heart to lose his brother and have me move away so soon after, but everything was too hard. Not that it’s gotten any easier. Maybe just a fraction.
The sudden need to move or do something comes over me, so I go to the laundry room and put a load of clothes in the washing machine.
Seymour seems to have disappeared when I return to the kitchen, but before I call for him, he’s back, carrying a suitcase and a takeout bag with our food.
“Dude, you could have told me the takeout place is run by twinks on steroids.”
I snort. “You’re telling me that SeymourtheFlirty Silver Fox David, can’t take a little…flirting anymore?”
“Don’t try to make that nickname happen, and I’m not really into precocious teenagers.” He gives me the side eye, and I’m too hungry to tease him.
