Puck

Chapter 4

“You are aware that the best restaurant in the state is upstairs, right?” Puck asks Zander.

He’s bent over the stovetop in his room, vigorously whisking eggs in a stainless-steel bowl, a gorgeous mess of dark curls bouncing atop his head.

Puck wasn’t even aware any of the suites in the Athenian had their own kitchens, but apparently this one was custom-built for the live-in staff of the wealthy family who once occupied the adjacent penthouse, and Zander was able to convince Mia to reserve it for him as a condition of his attendance.

“Do you trust them to make you an omelet more than you trust me?” Zander fires back, and it’s a point well-taken.

No matter how highly rated the Court is, the swanky hotel restaurant would find a way to over-chef this dish.

They’d use Gruyère instead of the cheddar Zander procured on his drive here last night and herbs de Provence instead of the parsley and chives he is currently chopping up, his knife moving so rapidly that it becomes a silver blur against the cutting board.

What Puck needs is something simple and filling; they slept fitfully last night, conking out on the couch in their street clothes, still agitated by their conversation with Mia.

A fistful of overpriced M Puck was partial to Memento, and both of them pretended to understand Tenet when it came out, only to later admit over text that they had each watched hours of YouTube explainers afterward.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, Zan. I’ve missed you.”

Puck means it. They haven’t seen him face-to-face in three years, ever since the last time they visited New York.

Of the Emory crew, he’s the only one who has never made a remotely judgmental comment about Puck’s choice of profession.

It’s probably because he has survived working in New York kitchens—loud, chaotic, and definitely unethical spaces that have to be constructed the way that they are to serve meals at price points diners can tolerate.

For years living with Mia in the city post-graduation, he worked his way through roughly a dozen restaurants, hopping between kitchens and participating far too enthusiastically in the post-closing nightlife.

It was only after Mia left him that he got serious—and then sober.

After that, he quickly climbed his way to where he is now: the executive chef of some buzzy French-Italian place in the Meatpacking District.

But like Puck, he knows that entertaining people isn’t something you can do while keeping your hands clean.

“I missed you, too,” Zander says, checking to see if one side of the omelet can lift off the pan without folding it just yet. “But I can’t believe I’m here. She’s really doing this, huh?”

Puck exchanged texts with Zander after the breakup, feeling not exactly guilty but more …

odd about back-channeling without Mia’s knowledge.

Their fraternal dynamic usually came with feminine supervision, which was suddenly absent.

Zander has been in denial for the last year.

But even so, Puck was expecting him to have some fight left.

Mia “doing this” was far from inevitable.

Weddings are not weather events. And Zander’s a hot chef making six figures who has more than a year of sobriety under his belt.

Plus, he has the weight of history behind him; Damon’s just got a Black Card.

“I guess she is,” Puck says, toeing the line between commiseration and uncertainty.

Zander sprinkles the cheese and herbs into the omelet with a precision that even Puck finds sexy.

He watches it cook for a moment longer before sensing exactly when to make his move.

“I definitely can’t compete with this place,” he says, setting his spatula down on the countertop.

“My family couldn’t afford to stay here for a night. ”

Puck understands Zander’s frustration. But Mia isn’t some cartoon character who would get dollar signs in her eyes and run off with the rich guy, tempted as Puck was to apply that theory to her yesterday.

No, there has to be a deeper emotional truth underlying her decision to pick someone like Damon.

Mia enjoys going to Mykonos, sure—what hot girl who looks good in a floppy hat wouldn’t?

—but there’s something else that gives him an edge over Zander.

Or at least, over the version of Zander who Mia dated.

It must be security, plain and simple. Puck puzzled over it for hours last night, and in the end decided that a refreshing boringness is probably the best thing Damon has to offer Mia—but next to the old Zander, that’s enough.

Zander’s right to have a chip on his shoulder about the money angle; he was the only one in the group going to Emory on financial aid.

But he could afford to realize that he’s actually the elusive full package now: hot, talented, and reliable.

He can’t take her to Mykonos, but he can take her to Miami, and can anyone tell the difference if you crop the photos right?

Sand is sand. Water can be made turquoise with the right filter.

“I don’t think it’s just about the money, Zan,” Puck gently suggests. “Besides, Damon’s part of this, too. Why not blame him?”

Zander is laser-focused on plating the omelet, garnishing it with the remaining chopped herbs, but he pauses at the question. It’s something Puck has been trying to ask about in circumspect ways for the last year.

“I can’t really blame anyone except myself,” Zander says, returning to his work, fastidiously wiping the edges of the plate with a clean white cloth. “I know how badly I messed up. I hate what I put her through. Someone else was always going to give her a better life. But Damon? Fuck.”

Puck’s having a hard time squaring this with what Zander just said.

He’s at once trying to take responsibility for his actions—an AA lesson, no doubt—while sounding bitter about how everything went down.

The truth is probably somewhere in between: He’s repentant, but he also wants Mia back.

His anger with himself is real, but it can’t completely paper over his disappointment with his friend.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting it to be Damon either,” Puck says.

Zander ignores the comment. He rotates the plate slightly, beholds his creation, then looks up with that winning smile of his. “Voilà,” he declares. “One classic omelet, made to order.”

Puck already has their fork clutched in their hand, tines pointing up, like a barbarian eager to skewer a hunk of meat. Zander slides the plate over the counter and Puck takes their first bite. It’s exactly what they needed.

“All I know is that Damon can’t compete with this,” they continue, barely managing to stop eating long enough to get the words out.

“This is incredible. Do you know how many plates of sad overdone scrambled eggs girls have eaten in boys’ apartments the morning after?

It’s one of the world’s great injustices. ”

Zander smiles. It doesn’t matter how many times someone compliments his cooking; the praise wriggles its way into the core of him each time.

Puck can relate. Even after seven seasons, whenever they hear someone say they’re “hooked” on Homewreckers, Puck grins like a child whose finger painting just got stuck to the fridge. Nothing compares.

“Well, if omelets alone were good enough, maybe I could have gotten her back,” Zander says. “And then we wouldn’t be here.”

Puck sighs. Do they really have to spell this out again? “We’ve always been straight with each other, yeah, Zan?” they ask between mouthfuls.

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

He moves around the kitchen island to stand opposite Puck, as though he needs a slab of granite between them to guard against whatever hard truth is about to get hurled his way.

“What time is it?” Puck asks, and Zander looks back at them, confused.

“What?”

“Check the clock. What time is it?”

“Eight thirty … five?” Zander squints to read the grandfather clock over in the sitting area.

“Why? Got somewhere to be? Croquet isn’t until noon, I thought.

” He emphasizes the point by sliding over an itinerary that lists the day’s activities in an absurd amount of detail, including notes about dress code and an hourly weather forecast. Puck found the same paper slipped under their door this morning.

“No, but when you were with Mia, how often were you awake at eight thirty-five a.m.?” they ask him.

Zander smirks. “I mean, sometimes I was up this early because I had been out with the line cooks all night, but yeah, I get your point. I know I can’t expect her to forgive me. Besides the restaurant, the regret is all I think about.”

Puck had fielded the frustrated phone calls from Mia through those early years in New York.

She was up every morning at six to get ready for her teaching job, and by the time she got home in the late afternoon, Zander had already left for dinner service.

At best, the couple got a few hours together on Zander’s off days, and sometimes they made the most of them.

Puck saw occasional photos from the Rockaways.

But the low moments were really low, like when Zander stumbled back into their Crown Heights apartment with an obvious case of the cocaine sniffles and threw up in the kitchen sink while Mia was trying to make her morning coffee.

Women don’t forget stuff like that. But Puck doesn’t need to scold Zander for his past behavior; staying in the bro zone is the best way to keep him in a good headspace.

“Girls aren’t complicated,” they tell him.

“Maybe sometimes they want you to think that they’re delicate, emotionally complicated little puzzle boxes.

But that’s just PR. At the end of the day, they want someone who’s around.

And I hope you know that’s all Damon is now that he’s gone corporate: around. ”

Zander grabs a spare fork, leans over the island, and steals a bite of his own handiwork, even though he already ate before Puck arrived. “You’re right.”

It’s Puck’s turn for a proud smile. “About women? Of course I am.”

“No. About the omelet. It is incredible.”

“C’mon, Zan. I’m trying to impart some sagely wisdom here.”

“I mean, I hear you, dude. But there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

Nothing? Puck can feel an idea solidifying in their mind. It took root, however subconsciously, when Mia essentially admitted to giving up teaching for Damon. It emerged for the first time as an uncomfortable joke about “ending relationships every day.”

But seeing their best guy friend this downtrodden has solidified it: If Zander’s not going to stop Mia from making the worst mistake of her life, then Puck will have to.

They produce people for a living. How hard can it be to produce their friends?

This wedding can just be Homewreckers: Emory Edition.

Mia may enjoy the calm of being with Damon now, but she’ll regret it one day.

If she doesn’t come to her senses soon enough, she’ll probably have a kid with him, maybe even multiple.

The inevitable divorce will be difficult, especially if the McLeods made her sign a prenup, which they almost certainly have.

At worst, she’ll have to stay in North Carolina for years because his lawyers will secure joint custody, trapping her in a state she only moved to for a man.

From there, it’ll be a long road back to the Mia she used to be, if she can ever claw her way back to herself.

Zander will have long moved on by then too, leaving only Puck to help her get back on her feet.

They can see that future so clearly—but they’re also best equipped to stop it.

This week doesn’t have to feel like a time bomb anymore, or at least if it does, it can be one that Puck is actively trying to defuse.

For starters, it’ll help if Zander drops the defeatist attitude, ideally before he sees Mia for the first time at croquet.

Puck picks their next words carefully. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?

” they ask, and before Zander can respond, they stand up to wash their plate, making a deliberate amount of noise while doing the chore.

They don’t want the comment to land like some profound suggestion; better for it to sink in over the course of the day.

“Hey, can you make me breakfast again tomorrow?” Puck calls over their shoulder. “I’d like French toast, please, ideally with a raspberry compote.”

They place the dish on a drying towel and turn around to find Zander smiling. Good.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promises.