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“Great teeth,” Alice said. She was tapping one of her chopsticks on the edge of her plate. “So what do you think?”

The waitress came to clear our appetizer plates, giving me a few moments before I had to respond. It seemed like it always worked out that way. Maybe they’d all taken a course or something in how to defuse awkward moments.

And then she was gone. “I think it sounds awesome.” I was totally sincere, and I hoped Alice could see it. She set the chopstick down, which I hoped was a good sign. “I love the idea. I think it would be so much fun to work for you. And not just for you, but not for some old stuffy rich dude. And how many people actually have dental insurance?”

“Probably not many.”

“Exactly.” I took a deep breath. “But could I have all the details of the offer? I love you, and I trust you, but I have to think it over against my other offer.”

“Of course. I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

The strong urge to give her the biggest hug I possibly could swamped me. But then our entrées came, and sorry, Alice, but they smelled so good I only wanted to hug them. Which I did not do, because then they’d be all over my shirt and not in my mouth. Which was the only place I wanted the beef roll, tender shreds of beef braised in garlic and ginger and soy sauce all chopped up and snuggled tightly inside a flaky, oniony, tender scallion pancake. The effect was something like beef Wellington, but better. Alice and I gobbled it down, using our fingertips to scrape up the last few flakes of pancake in the hot, peppery sauce.

Then we turned to the other dish. “Is this . . . a doughnut sandwich?” Alice asked, cocking her head and blinking.

“Yes,” I said with relish.

Alice’s entire face lit up. “Excellent.”

And it was. From the outside, it looked like any normal glazed doughnut, shiny with hardened sugar and puffy from the heat. But the chef had sliced it down the middle and filled it with the most delightful combination of ingredients: a salty, savory aged prosciutto-like ham that melted in my mouth; little bits of tart, sweet pickled pineapple; leaves of grassy cilantro. Together, when they came into contact with the sweet, fluffy doughnut, everything crashed into a bite that was sugary and crunchy and tart and spicy and bright, so bright.

22

Two days later, the pressure was mounting on me to make a decision. Or at least it was in my head. I still had one more day before my deadline. I just wanted to have everything squared away, to be able to look forward, excited, to my future.

Right now I was looking forward, excited, at Bennett over a table of food. Not at a restaurant. At his home. And it was a meal he’d cooked himself. When I’d arrived, the doorman had buzzed me up, and I’d entered to capital-S Smells drifting out of the kitchen. Some good, some that made me a little nervous. “Don’t come in,” he called, and I was all too happy to oblige, drifting into his living space to watch the sun set through his giant windows.

But now that he was looking at me nervously over plates of linguine and clams and bowls of salad, I didn’t want to look at anything except him. “Smells good,” I said. “Do you think you’ve proven yourself?”

“I just hope I don’t give us food poisoning,” he said, picking at his pointer finger and grimacing.

I glanced down at the plate. The pasta was glossy with butter and scattered with bits of something fresh and green, the clamshells open and pointing photogenically toward the ceiling. “I mean, I’m not totally sure, but I think that if the clamshells are open, they’re safe to eat.” I was totally sure; I’d googled it on the way over when he told me he was making clams. Just in case. “Let’s dig in?”

He took a deep breath. “Good luck.” I hoped he wasn’t talking to me.

As it turned out, I didn’t need it. The pasta was maybe a little bit overcooked, but not mushy, and the plate was bright with lemon and rich with butter. The garlic could have been chopped more finely, and—

No. Turn off JulieZeeEatsNYC. Tonight, you’re just Julie eating a meal your boyfriend cooked for you. Boyfriend. He’s your boyfriend.

“You’re smiling,” Bennett said. “That’s a good sign.”

I swallowed. “It is. Really. Good.” I mock-frowned. “I guess this means I’ll have to cook something for you next.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “If you think you’re up for it.”

“Well, now I definitely have to.”

The conversation turned from the food to the Decker office. “I hear he’s lost without you,” Bennett said. “Keeps ghosting on lunches and not responding to emails. The temp they sent over can barely answer the phone.”

I wasn’t going to lie: hearing that felt good. Maybe if I went back, he’d appreciate me and what I did. Perhaps with a healthy raise. “I know. I’ve been hearing the same thing from Emerson Leigh. She thinks it’s hilarious.”

He snorted. “I kind of do, too. Did you hear what she’s doing now? She just told me before you got here.”

I hadn’t checked my texts since I got on the subway. “Hopefully not painting me another nude portrait?”

“Oh God, you got one, too?” Bennett asked. At my grimace, he laughed. “It’s somewhere in the back of my closet. Anyway, she signed up to volunteer with Ellen’s Promise.”

“Her dad’s charity?” I said, surprised. “Since when did she develop a passion for curing ovarian cancer?”