Chef Sam didn’t hear. She was pulled away by urgent words whispered in her ear.
“Emergency at station eleven,” Treasure said, sliding back into place. The two of them laughed, as if all Chef Sam’s exits went like this, and my unfinished compliment trailed away.
Wobbling taupe half globes with flecks of glitter were placed in front of us.
“Last course: savory cocoa and gold flakes, accompanied by a botrytised Sémillon; pear cider for Hiromi. You’ll like the bitter notes in this one, Jessica.”
I did. By now the staff understood my palate almost as well as Aunt Veronica. I tasted leather, smoke, salt, the mouth-drying tang of unsweetened chocolate. Dessert with no sugar. Sebastian would hate it, though he’d enjoy the cloying sweetness of the wine I’d abandoned after a sip.
A scraping sound came from behind us—the tables being pulled to the edges of the room. It was two a.m., the restaurant’s last service over; the farewell party had begun.
The overflow crowd from the bar, family and friends, thronged into the dining room. Miyeon, Danny, and Ayana were among them, and Crystal, who didn’t hide her scowl when she saw me.
Treasure caught it too, whispering to me, “She’s just mad you stole her spot as designated white friend.”
Hiromi laughed hard. “Treasure!”
A chair was placed in the center of the crowd, and when Chef Sam came out of the kitchen, we broke into applause.
She stood on the chair, wiped her hands, then realized she wasn’t wearing an apron—she’d left a smear across her shirt.
“Shit,” she said.
Laughter rippled.
“You all know what you mean to me.”
“You can still tell us!” More laughter. Most of the new arrivals looked drunk. A few were already slumped in chairs around the perimeter of the newly cleared dance floor. The alcohol in my own blood lay heavier than usual.
“Best fucking crew I’ve ever worked with,” Chef Sam said.
Her voice broke a little, and the room went quiet, emotions at the edge of spilling.
“You never miss a funeral,” I whispered to Hiromi.
“A celebration.”
“Same thing.”
She slid her hands around my waist, resting her cheek on my shoulder blade as Chef Sam went on. Stories of skittish investors, nervous health inspections, spherifications gone wrong, flubbed lines on TV. About community, hard work, and survival.
That’s when I saw him—in the corner behind Hiromi’s friends. In dark clothes, he was pretending to be lost in his phone. But he was aiming the camera, taking pictures of me and Hiromi together.
The man I’d seen following her.
I turned in Hiromi’s arms, shifting our position, so the man could capture more of her face and less of mine.
It was a grievous Morton sin to be photographed like this, but the light was low, and this was the plan. Rage had flitted across Lyon’s face as he’d watched Hiromi depart the gallery with her friends; a long embrace, here in public, would leave him jealous, grasping, spurned.
I turned to face her, giving the man my back.
“Kiss me,” I said.
When she did, my thoughts scattered. All I felt was her body against mine, fragile, soft, insistent. The taste of salt and cider on her tongue. Her lips moving against mine, whispering something soundless.
The man, clicking away, didn’t matter anymore.
30
