At my feet, Pepper drools.
“I’m sorry, but I need to feed Salinger your portion too. You’ve seen him—he’s huge.”
More canine whining.
“You ate a meatball,” I remind the dog, “and a whole, entire donut. It won’t do us any harm to skip a meal. You’re not going to starve to death between now and dinnertime.”
The dog flops down on the tile floor.
Then my Greek salad with feta, fresh veggies, and fancy olive oil goes in a white bowl, and I place it on a bamboo tray. A glass of ice water with a slice of lemon joins it.
My stomach grumbles. Maybe I’m a little hungrier than I thought.
What is Salinger going to say, though?
My stomach churns with nerves as I arrange the rest of the food on the bamboo tray. The casserole is a cheesy, meaty, greasy rectangle of deliciousness, all carbs and dairy. I’ve never served Salinger something like it before.
I scurry in and silently slide the tray on his desk, bracing myself for the inevitable outburst.
He makes an angry face at me then barks at someone on the phone. Before I can escape, he holds up a hand, stopping me.
I stand there, sweat pooling under my bra as I wait for him to finish his call.
The call ends.
I brace for the detonation.
My boss scowls down at his food. “What the fuck is this?”
I’m about to pass out from holding my breath. “New restaurant,” I squawk out. “Mediterranean. You like salad.”
“Is this pasta?” The scowl deepens.
“Yes, but mostly meat and veggies. You can try something new. I’ll order you the scallops again tomorrow.”
The smell of the pastitsio makes my mouth water.
He looks down at the food again.
I swallow. “Or I can just go right now…”
“No,” he barks, “just leave it. I’m already behind schedule.”
4
SALINGER
My phone is blowing up again. Alma just cannot take a hint.
I scroll through my past texts to her.
Salinger:I don’t think this is working
Salinger:I think we should see other people
Salinger:I’m breaking up with you
But it’s like I never said the words, sent the messages, wrote the letter.
