Oh.
Our eyes met. My throat went dry. Trey was my friend. The best friend I had, next to Meg. I needed to keep him that way. Because if I didn’t... And then we broke up... Well, I’d seen how rapidly he discarded his old girlfriends.
He kissed me.
Surprise, curiosity, compassion held me still. My thoughts churned. My stomach fluttered. It was not, after all, like kissing my brother. If I had a brother. Which, much to our father’s disappointment, I didn’t. Oh, I did my best to fill the role—the family tomboy, the son he never had. We didn’t watch football together or shop for power tools or anything. But he’d taught me to stand up for myself and encouraged me to read. When some parents petitioned to haveThe Handmaid’s Taleremoved from the AP English curriculum, Daddy was the one who went with me to the school board meeting to defend my reading choices.
I remembered how scared I’d been. Not of the grown-ups seated behind the long table, but of letting him down. And then my father caught my eye from the front row of folding chairs, smiling faintly the way he did when he was pleased. He looked so handsome in his uniform, the cross of his chaplaincy on his lapel, and my whole body flooded with courage.
Hm. Apparently my brain wanted to think about anything but this kiss.
The truth was, sex wasn’t really my thing. Not that I’d taken a vow of celibacy or anything. But unlike Meg, who dreamed of love and romance, or Amy, who thrived on drama, I wasn’t looking for love. Sex made things messy.
I tried to focus as Trey kissed me again, with more confidence and tongue. Giving him a chance. Givingusa chance. It was... nice. Not that I had a lot to compare it to, but it was better than in high school.
He drew back. His gaze met mine, his eyes dark and expectant.
I cleared my throat. “Pretty good.”
“Thanks.” He leaned in again.
I leaned back. “Must be all the practice.”
“Don’t hold it against me.”
My cheeks started a slow burn. “I don’t. The thing is... I don’t think you should practice with me.”
“Not with you. For you.” His eyes held mine with dark, disconcerting sincerity. “Everything I’ve ever done... It’s all for you, Jo.”
My heart lurched. “Trey, stop.”
“Why?”
“I’ve told you before. We’re too young.”
“Weweretoo young. We’re twenty now.”
“Exactly. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us. Places to go. Things to do.”
“That’s what you always say.”
The memories followed me to bed that night, clustering like shadows in the corners of my attic room. Eventually, I sat up, my back against the wall, and scrolled through the day’s blog comments. Thirty-four little notes, pictures from cell phones and cries for help, including some guy in New Jersey who had failed to defrost his turkey in time and wanted to know if he could quick-thaw the bird in the dishwasher.Um, no.Honestly, hadn’t these people ever heard of the Butterball Turkey hotline?
I responded to every comment, congratulating, commiserating, offering thanks and advice, grateful for the distraction, for every post reminding me that I had readers, friends, and followers outside Bunyan, North Carolina. I had an identity: Jo March, theHungryblogger, biting into everything life had to offer.
I typed “Gusto” into my browser, immediately noting theTimesreview near the top of the search results. I clicked and read eagerly. The restaurant was anunpretentious oasis, the monkfishseasonal, stylish, and straightforward, the quail with fig pureeuninhibited and presentedwith flair. Yay! Not that one review would change Chef’s opinion of food critics, but...
On impulse, I sent a message to [email protected]:
Something to be thankful for.
With the link.
And waited.
No answer.
I closed my hand on disappointment. Well, what did I expect? It was barely midnight. The last orders would be trickling into the kitchen at Gusto, the cooks already packing up their mise en place, scrubbing down their stations, snapping towels and cracking jokes and counting the minutes until they could all go out drinking. Plenty of bars open in New York at the end of the night, even on Thanksgiving. Chef would stay behind, calculating portions and proteins and the night’s receipts. He wouldn’t be wasting his time checking the restaurant’s e-mail accounts.
