I shook my head. I had my prep list for the regular Sunday brunch menu. Deciding the specials—what needed to be used up or added to the standing delivery orders or fetched fresh from the market—was the chefs’ job. “I’ll be in in the morning. Six o’clock.”
Meaning, if I skipped the bar and went straight home, I could get, what? Four hours of sleep? My bones shuddered.
But life was full of trade-offs, right? Maybe I didn’t have the career I’d always dreamed of, but I was still living the life I’d chosen in the city I loved. At least for now.
“I’ll say good night, then,” Eric said politely.
I looked at him, uncertain.Will I see you later?But I couldn’t ask. Not with Ray standing there listening.
“Here.” Eric reached into the minifridge beside his desk, where the expensive stuff was stashed, white truffles and osetra caviar, and tossed me a bottle.
I caught it. Pedialyte. Yuck. “Are you kidding? My sister gives this stuff to her two-year-olds.”
His eyes narrowed in amusement. “You need electrolytes.”
The glow spread. He was taking care of me. Of course, he looked out for everybody on his team. But his attention to me felt different. Sweet. Special.
“Oh. Well...” I raised the bottle in salute. “Cheers.”
Maybe he’d call after he left the restaurant, I thought hopefully. Or text.
And maybe he wouldn’t.
Sure, he’d texted me before. Or rather, I’d messaged him through his restaurant account. He could get my number from my file. But we weren’t exactly a couple. He could have a girlfriend I didn’t know about. A chef groupie. A regular booty call.
Sex was like food, after all. A basic need. That’s what I’d always believed, no matter what Meg or Trey or all those poets I’d studied in college said.
“I have such a taste for you, Jo.”
His whisper sparkled along my nerves, burst in my chest like a fistful of glitter. And my breath went all over again.
I walked through the kitchen on autopilot. Isaam gave me a friendly wave from the dishwashing bay as I passed.
“Good night,” I called.
“Nos vemos mañana,”Tomas said.See you in the morning.
It was almost one now. Outside, the glow of the streetlights obliterated the stars. The sidewalks glittered with frost. Going underground, the air was dank and cold. Huddled on the subway, rocking to therhythm of the train, I unscrewed the Pedialyte and took a swig. Shuddered. Recapping the bottle, I pulled out my phone. Hoping.
A message from Meg lit up the screen. An update on Mom, still recovering from her fall. A mirror selfie of Meg in a red dress, head angled like a pro.Getting ready to go out!my sister had typed.It’s not the same without you.
Unexpected tears stung my eyes. Darling Meg. I wasn’t the same without her, either. She had dragged me to parties and dressed me for prom, her popularity smoothing my way through high school. She was my oldest ally, my other half. My better half, according to Aunt Phee. All our lives, people had compared me with my pretty, kind, sensible older sister. Without her I was less defined, less myself. Lizzy without Jane, a brain without a heart.
I didn’t run to my big sister with every imagined romantic drama, the way that Amy did. But we’d shared a room until I turned fifteen, whispering secrets across the darkness between our beds. For every major event in my life, my sister was there. When I moved away to school, when I broke up with Trey for the final time, Meg called me every day to see how I was doing.
I couldn’t wait to tell her about Eric.
Unless I never heard from him again.
I texted her back—Glad to see you and the boobs going out! Hope you had fun!—before scanning the rest of my messages.
Nothing from Eric.
What did I expect?
The subway car jolted to a stop. A night-shift worker in scrubs got off. A trio of student types with backpacks and earbuds got on. The train chugged away from the platform, escalating into the dark tunnel. I checked my blog. Scrolled through my notifications, liking, replying, and retweeting. I shared a picture of potatoes fondant to Instagram, promising to post the recipe tomorrow. And... Oh my God, there was Beth, in my newsfeed, tagged in an onstage photo of Colt Henderson. My sister never posted anything. Too shy. But that was definitely her.The angle almost made it look like they were singing together, Bethie in her angel costume with her eyes half-closed, the show’s star smiling behind his guitar. I typed a caption—A star is born?—added a smiley face and forwarded her the photo. Not that she’d see it tonight. It was after midnight in Branson, way past my sister’s bedtime.
The train rattled and jerked to my station. I climbed the stairs to the street. Down the block, the bodega’s windows glowed. A far-off siren wailed against the dark. Walking home alone at this hour used to scare me. Now it was routine. I lengthened my stride, watching the shadows, listening for footsteps, holding my keys ready in my pocket. My building didn’t have a doorman.
