20
Clarify: Most often refers to butter, where the milk solids are rendered from the butterfat by gently melting the butter and allowing separation, then skimming off the solids.
15
Gale went straight home after lunch service at Marco’s to get ready for his date.
The first date he’d made since that woman he used to score from, back when Sean was still alive.
He didn’t even remember her name, only that she was kind of hot, if constantly fucked-up.
It made their relationship easier, because she rarely remembered him from one date to the next. Fifty First Dates, opiate style.
Nando and Jimmy were sleeping, but Kyle was up and about when Gale let himself into the apartment.
The place stunk to high heaven; he grimaced before the look on Kyle’s face could stop him.
“Sorry, dude.
I’ll spray some room freshener.”
“Uh, thanks.”
Kyle went through the apartment with the room freshener, spraying.
“This is why I never make egg salad.”
Gale chuckled.
“Yeah, sure.
Egg salad.”
“Dude, if I stunk up the place this bad, I’d be proud.
Then I’d head to the hospital because there’d be something seriously wrong with my digestive tract.
You want some?”
He held up a bowl of fluffy-looking egg salad.
“My own special touches.”
Gale grabbed a spoon from the drying rack, tasted.
“Nice.
That Dijon I taste?”
“It is.
And I made my own mayo.”
“Eggs dressed with eggs.
What a concept, huh?”
“It’s good though, right? I got some day-old pumpernickel from the restaurant, and microgreens.
I’m thinking of slicing some avocado, too.”
“Might be a little too rich.”
“Yeah, you’re right.
I should try using the avocado instead of the mayo.”
“That could be interesting.
Squeeze of lemon, to brighten it up?”
“Awesome, dude.
I’ll try that.”
“You testing something for one of the restaurants?”
Gale asked.
“Yes and no.”
Kyle nudged him in the gut with his elbow.
“Not the restaurant where I’m currently working.
A food cart.
My food cart.”
“You have .
.
.
you bought . . . ?”
“Not yet, but I’m hoping for this time next year.
Maybe get a spot out on Long Wharf, you know, where all those trucks are down by the water near the IKEA? Or try to get a spot somewhere around Yale.
It’d be a hit with the students, shoppers, businesspeople.
Don’t you think?”
You and every other food truck person.
“It’s a fantastic idea,”
Gale answered.
“Have you done any research yet? What’s already out there? Where they are?”
“Some.
I kind of wanted to see if I could come up with anything, you know, really good.
Special.
A concept.”
“And?”
Kyle held up the bowl.
“You’re looking at it.”
“Egg salad?”
“Not only egg salad.
Just Eggs.
That’s what I want to call my truck.
I’ll do eggs in a bunch of different ways. Egg sandwiches with everything from serrano ham to my own cured bacon. Savory soufflés, sweet ones. All different kinds of egg salads. Great, right?”
It kind of is.
“I wish I’d thought of it.”
“I always have room for you on my gravy train.”
Another nudge to the gut.
“Say the word.”
“I may just take you up on it.”
If it ever happened.
If this newest idea made it to the end of the week.
“I got to get in the shower before the boys wake up.”
“Right, your date with the Uber driver.”
“It wasn’t Uber.”
“You’re really not going to tell me how you did?”
“Can’t.
I signed a nondisclosure thing.”
“What if I sign one of those too?”
Gale shook his head.
“Doesn’t work that way. Sorry.”
“Fine.”
Kyle put a lid on his bowl of egg salad, stuck it in the fridge.
“Feel free to partake, if you get hungry.
There’s going to be a lot of egg stuff in there for a while.”
Great.
The apartment’s going to stink for weeks.
“You can’t smell it,”
Gale murmured on his way to the bathroom.
How do you know?
“Well, can you?”
No.
Letting the water get hot, Gale got undressed, set the timer on his phone.
They had all agreed to no more than seven minutes in the shower, to keep the bills down.
Mold in the grout between the tiles needed to be sprayed down with bleach.
It was Jimmy’s turn to clean the bathroom. Gale was pretty sure his roommate hadn’t done so more than three times in the two years they’d lived together. Kyle always did it for him without saying anything. He was good that way. Jimmy was generous with his beer—which Gale never took him up on—and Nando took the recycling back for the deposits once a month without fail. For his part, Gale made sure all the bills were paid on time, reminding someone who would inevitably forget that the internet bill came due on the first and the electricity on the tenth. Aside from the occasional lapse in internet-bill contribution, they were good roommates; he loved them all. Gale just didn’t want roommates anymore. He’d never, in his thirty years of life, lived alone.
Maybe it’s time, man.
Tilting his head back, Gale rinsed the shampoo from his hair.
The echo always there, always haunting, seemed more solid in the steam.
Not quite as skinny, haggard, greasy-haired.
Resisting the urge to throw back the curtain, catch the specter unaware, Gale closed his eyes instead. “How come you can hear what’s in my head, but I can’t talk back to you in there?”
How the fuck do I know?
“I think you’re lying.”
Gale blew water from his lips.
“It’s probably boring, living inside my head.”
It’s crowded, is what it is.
“Then go.”
The water ran hot down his body.
The timer chimed.
Gale got out of the shower, toweled off, and wrapped it around his waist.
Still nothing from Sean. Not while he combed his hair, got dressed, put on shoes that weren’t meant for the kitchen. Not until he started down the stairs of his apartment building to await Jenara.
You really think I want to hang around? You know how nuts that is, man?
“I’ve asked you to go.
I’ve told you to.”
But you keep bringing me back.
I’m fucking dead.
“And it’s my fault.”
I didn’t say that.
I never did.
“You imply it.
You’re the reason I can’t live alone.
You yammering on constantly? I’d be using again in a week.”
If that’s what you want to tell yourself.
I’m your excuse for everything.
I was back then.
I am now. Grow the fuck up, Gale, and take responsibility for yourself.
“When I do that, you tell me it wasn’t my fault, that I shouldn’t—”
You’re not hearing what I’m saying, man.
Sean sighed.
Or the wind blew just a little brisker.
Thankfully, a Mercedes pulled up. The window rolled down and Jenara’s face appeared, banishing Sean, or, at least, keeping him quiet.
“You clean up nice.”
She grinned, then, “You coming?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Gale trotted around to the passenger side, got in.
Black leather interior.
Plush seats.
No juice boxes or granola bar wrappers on the floor, like his mom’s car when he and his brother were kids. No fingerprints on the window. “Nice car. Did you borrow it from the livery?”
“Borrow it from .
.
.
? Dude. This is my car. They’re all my cars. I own the service.”
Heat crept up his neck.
“Oh.
I .
. . um . . . didn’t think . . . I mean, you have a kid. It’s so clean.”
“This isn’t the car I cart my daughter around in.”
She snickered.
“That one should be condemned.
Kids, right?”
“I guess.”
Gale tried really hard to pretend his face wasn’t burning off.
“So, where’re we going?”
“Buckle up,”
Jenara said as if he hadn’t just marginalized her.
“You’ll see in about ten minutes.”
The pop-up restaurant, arranged family style on the covered patio of a spa/yoga studio, featured farm to table, wood-fired food.
Everything from amuse-bouche to dessert was cooked over different woods, in gigantic grills made out of old oil tanks.
The thing was on wheels and had a hitch.
The proprietors, a husband and husband team, did private parties, pop-ups, and otherwise traveled around the country to cook at fairs and do competitions. Gale had to admit, it seemed like a pretty sweet gig. Kyle would love it.
You have to remember to tell him about this.
Fuck.
Sean had been quiet all night.
Of course, the moment Jenara left him to use the restroom, he showed up.
He was full of shit with all that you keep me here crap. Gale hadn’t been thinking about him, thinking about anything other than how cool this pop-up life was. The minute he was actually happy, almost care-free—
“Hey, did I miss anything?”
Jenara slipped onto the chair beside him.
“Not yet.
I think dessert’s almost ready though.
Did you want coffee?”
“I’d love it.”
Gale poured coffee from the communal carafe into her cup, passed her the sugar and cream.
“Oh, good stuff.”
“They roast it themselves.”
“Of course, they do.”
Jenara took another sip.
“Tastes woodsmoky.”
“How’d you get tickets for this, anyway?”
Gale asked.
“I heard someone say it was sold out over a month ago.”
Jenara sipped again, looked up at him over the rim, through thick lashes.
Pretty eyes.
“I have a confession to make.”
“Uh-oh.”
She set her cup down, chuckling softly.
“I bought two tickets months ago, when I saw they’d be in town.
I hoped I’d meet someone I wanted to take before the event.
And look! I did.”
“So you’re saying I was your last resort.”
“No, my mother would have been my last resort.
But don’t tell her that.”
“Not much chance, considering I don’t even know her.”
“Well, I’m hoping that’s not the case for long.”
She winked.
No false modesty.
No hedging.
Just flirting that felt more like the good kind of teasing. “What was your favorite?”
“The sweet potatoes with curried yogurt.”
“That was quick.”
“Because it’s by far one of the best things I ever put in my mouth.
What about you?”
“I’m a carnivore,”
she said.
“The wood-fired chicken.”
“Everything’s wood-fired.”
“True.
It’s brined in pineapple juice.”
“I saw that on the menu.”
Pouring them each another cup of coffee, Gale drained the pot.
He held it up for one of the waitstaff to refill.
“I love where I work, don’t get me wrong, and I love Italian food, but it’d be great to be able to be more creative with the menu.”
“People go to an Italian restaurant for Italian food.”
“Yeah, that’s what Frances says.”
“Your boss?”
“She thinks so.”
Gale grinned.
“She’s the main sous chef.
Marco owns the restaurant.”
“But she runs it.”
“Like a dictator.”
They laughed together.
“She’s not so bad.”
He took the full coffeepot from the waitress, held it up in offer to their tablemates.
Pouring for several of them, he told Jenara, “I kind of get her now.
She’s as hard on herself as she is on everyone else.
Straying outside the lines? It’s just not going to happen. It’s who she is. We’re way different chefs, that’s for sure.”
“Sounds like that’s a good thing,”
Jenara said.
“For you.”
“Oh, definitely.”
Gale poured his coffee.
“Thing is, she’s been free with compliments lately.
I think she appreciates how much I’ve improved in the last few months.
Don’t get me wrong, the food at my place is amazing no matter who cooks. It’s just always the same. Even the specials feel done to death.”
“Kind of like those artists who put out those seascapes that all look pretty much the same because that’s what the people on the boardwalk want to buy.
Pretty, but .
. . yeah.”
“Exactly.
Is it conceited to consider myself a kind of artist?”
“Not at all.
I wish I had a creative side.”
She tapped her still-empty coffee cup for another refill.
“Oh, sorry.
I got distracted.”
“It happens.”
Cream.
Sugar.
Stir.
“I guess that’s why I started my business,”
she said.
“It takes no creativity whatsoever.
It’s all logistics.
Practical.”
“I’m sure it isn’t easy, though.”
“I sort of fell into it.
Dad drove on the weekends.
When he got sick, I did the driving.
Then he died, I got a good buy on a nicer car and a low-interest loan. Most of what I did back then was airport runs.”
“You obviously did well, considering you now have a fleet.”
“Well enough to support my kid and my mom without pinching pennies.”
“I’m really sorry about assuming—”
“Don’t stress about it.
I’m young.
I’m pretty.
I’m Hispanic. No one expects me to be a successful businesswoman.”
The waitstaff serving the grilled peaches, and Tahitian vanilla and ginger ice cream—the only thing not made on the grill—saved Gale from more embarrassed fumbling.
Jenara’s confidence despite how others might view her seemed genuine.
She dug into her dessert as if she hadn’t already consumed five rounds of the six-course meal.
Another reason to like her; she didn’t pretend not to eat.
“I think that was the best thing I ever ate.”
Jenara licked her spoon. “Wow.”
“It’s good,”
Gale told her, “but I’d still take the sweet potatoes first.”
“I’m a carnivore and a sweets gal.”
“I’m more of a savory guy.”
“Next time, we can trade.”
Next time.
Gale smiled.
Jenara’s dimples appeared.
She placed her hand, palm up, on the table. He took it; their fingers entwined.
“I’m really glad the driver who was supposed to take you home bagged on me,”
she said.
“This was fun.”
“You weren’t supposed to be driving that night?”
“Nah.
I don’t drive as much as I used to.
Once in a while, just to break up the monotony of office crap.
Doing the nine-to-five thing gives me more time with my kid. Being the boss lets me take time off when she’s got school stuff.”
“What’s her name? How old is she?”
“Alicia.
It was my grandmother’s name.
She’s ten.”
“Ten, wow.
I kind of figured she was still a toddler.”
“I had her young.”
Gale hesitated.
“Is her dad still around?”
“That’s a story for another day.”
Jenara pulled her hand gently from his, smiling a little sadly.
“Looks like they’re herding us out.”
Most of the diners were exiting the covered patio.
Gale rose, held the back of Jenara’s chair as his mother taught him to do a million years ago.
He wasn’t sure how much this all cost, but whatever it was, it had been worth it.
“Do you know where I pay the bill?”
“It’s all paid,”
Jenara said.
“Remember? I bought the tickets months ago.”
There came the heat again, up his neck, across his cheeks.
“I .
.
. but . . . you shouldn’t . . .”
“Please don’t do that guy thing.”
Jenara kissed his cheek. “Okay?”
Gale could only nod.
It was sort of old-fashioned to get weird about who paid the check, but he got weird anyway.
Inside his head.
Outside of it, he thanked her and said, “Next time it’s on me,”
or something equally predictable, then, “How about tomorrow?,”
which neither of them predicted at all, even if her dimples deepened all over again.