“Love you, too,” I tell her.
A bottle of blanc de blancs settles on the table beside us, and our hands come apart as we ease back into our seats. We peer up at our server, perplexed.
He smiles. “From Chef, on the house,” he explains, drawing thecork out of the bottle with a cheery pop. “Chef said to tell you she’s glad to have you here and please come back any night; a table will always be available. Any friend of Chef Alex’s is a friend of hers.”
Lauren’s eyes roll up to the ceiling as he fills her flute, then mine. “Of course there’ll be an always-open table,” she mutters, “now that I’mleaving.”
“All the more reason for you to come back and visit.” I lift my flute and tell her, “Cheers to wishes coming true… better late than never?”
Lauren sighs as she clinks her flute with mine. “That goddamn Hot Chef.”
Our meal is divine, at least by my humble standards. What makes me happiest is that Lauren thinks so, too. When we order dessert and ask for the check, we’re told it’s already been covered.On the house, we’re told again.
But I have a hunch that whileChefmight have been kind enough to gift us a bottle of wine, she would not have comped a three-hundred-dollar meal.
Alex did this.
While Lauren’s in the bathroom, I text him from beneath the table,You’re in trouble.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I peer down.Wouldn’t be the first time.
I smile as I type,Being serious, thank you, Alex. For the reservation. For the meal. That was incredibly generous. TOO generous.
When it comes to good food, there’s no such thing. You deserve adamn fine send-off for your friend. Now enjoy it, Chef’s orders. Bon appétit.
Before I can form a meaningful response, Lauren’s back from the restroom. I tap a heart on the message, then hide my phone. Determined to enjoy this bittersweet night as much as I can.
Bellies and hearts full, we linger at our table, the last pour of dry, sparkling white fizzing in our glasses as we pick at the lemon mille-feuille on a plate between us.
“Jesus,” Lauren mutters around her bite. “This is decadent.”
I nod, eyes shut, savoring the flavors on my tongue. Buttery puff pastry, tart-sweet lemon curd, rich pastry cream. “I love it,” I whisper.
Lauren snorts. “I can tell.”
A loud familiar blast of a laugh echoes through the restaurant, rupturing my happy bubble. My eyes snap open, focused toward the source of the sound.
And then I drop my fork. It lands quietly on the tablecloth, drawing no one’s attention except Lauren’s. She glances over her shoulder, in the direction I’m staring, then freezes. “What in the ever-lovingfuckis that chode doing here?”
Ethan sits with a group of eight, three tables over, his back to us, his arm stretched out along the chair beside him, where I see warm-honey-blond hair, a familiar petite hourglass silhouette… Jen.
“What in the ever-lovingfuckisshedoing here?” Lauren hisses.
I knock her knee with mine under the table. “Lo.”
She glances back at me, rage in her eyes. “What.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It was bound to happen.” I shrug, hoping I seem fine, observant and unemotional. “Life in a midsize city, ya know?”
Lauren drains the last of her wine, then sets down the flute. “That fucker is just hanging out already with all your old friends andher—”
“They were nevermyfriends, Lo.” I sip my wine, trying to calm my racing heart. “They were his friends from work and their wives, and we never meshed. I wasn’t their type.”
“Boring jerks with sticks up their asses?” she offers.
I smile. “We were just different.”
Lauren seems to hesitate for a second, then leans in. “Doyou have other friends here, Thea? Am I stranding you with Hot Chef?”
