She is definitely not fine.
Before I can press, Lauren reaches inside her bag and says. “Funnily enough, I have something for you, too.”
“Lo,” I whine. “Can’t I just give you a gift for once?”
“Don’t be petulant.” She unearths from her purse a rectangular something wrapped in beautiful floral paper.
“I’ve been a shitty friend the past few months. I haven’t been tuned in. I’ve been a self-absorbed Debbie Downer, and I wanted to do something nice foryoufor the first time in—”
“Excuse me.” She drops my gift with a thud on the table.
“Hey.” I scoop up whatever she’s giving me, cradling it to my chest. “Be nice to my gift.”
“You listen here, and you listen good. You haven’t been a shitty friend. You’ve been going throughhell.”
“I mean, those two things aren’t mutually exclusive—”
“Thea,” she says. “Stop it. You are a good friend. I love you, and I know you love me, and I haven’t doubted that one bit the past few months.”
“Lo.” I clutch the gift tighter to my chest, pressed against the ache in my heart.
“Now, no more mushy feelings.” She nods to my gift. “Open it!”
I tear off the paper, ripping at it eagerly.
Lauren sighs. “You open presents like a feral squirrel.”
“I get excited! I can’t help it…” My voice dies off.
I’m looking at a book, on whose cover is none other than Alex Bruscato. Above him, in a striking gold embossed serif,Come Viene, Viene.
What is Alex doing on the cover of a book? What is hisnamedoing on a book? I open it, flipping through the pages.
A cookbook. A very beautiful cookbook. I shut it, staring at the cover again. At Alex. He’s wearing in an indigo chambray button-up, cuffed at his elbows, that matches his eyes. His dark hair is styled so that a rakish curl falls on his forehead; flour covers his hands and the table he’s leaning on. I turn the book over. On the back, he’s in the same outfit, leaning on the same table.Lickinga half-melted cone of what is, I presume, because the universe is cruel, and because the front of the book is in Italian, gelato.
“Oof,” I mutter.
Lauren says, “It’s obscene, right? How fine he is?”
I nod.
“I know cooking isn’t your thing,” she tells me, “but I figured maybe this book could be your gateway, now that you’ve got your own place, your own kitchen. Crack this sucker open and you and the hot chef can enjoy some”—she leans in and says meaningfully—“one-on-one time.”
“Lo!”
“Seriously, though, this cookbook is hailed asthebest intro to Italian cooking, which I know you love. And if you don’t want to try cooking, you never have to open it and you’ve still got your money’s worth. Just feast your eyes on the cover.”
I open the book again, this time turning the pages slowly so I can take it in. Mouthwatering food photos—heaping twirls of homemade pasta scattered with fresh herbs, cracked pepper, and coarse sea salt dusting a pan of colorful roasted veggies, luscious desserts flecked with chocolate shavings, raspberries, a sprig of mint. I peer closer to read what look like hand-scribbled notes around the tidy recipes, the up-close photos of the chefat work in his kitchen, in profile, sweat on his temple, flour at his throat. They feel so intimate, these peeks of Alex woven throughout.
I flip to the back, to the author bio. My stomach drops. I’ve watched enough cooking shows, since Ethan loved them, to know the prestigious terms.James Beard. Michelin star.
My not-really old friend and first love is a culinary prodigy.
“You look upset,” Lauren says. “I’m sorry, if it seems like pressure, giving you a cookbook—”
“I’m not upset,” I tell her honestly. “I’m just… surprised.”
“Well,” she says, “that’s fair. Like your gift to me today, this was meant to be given on a relevant occasion.”
