Chapter 18
Phelps
Bunny was literally trying to sell sex toys. He’d thought she was joking, but she’d pulled them out of her bag and they were
now displayed on the dining room table, in the middle of all the crafting chaos. An aqua dildo scaled to Avatar proportions, ridged with what looked like rows of gills. An egg-shaped vibrator. Pink fur-lined cuffs. Something that looked
like a leather pom-pom, and a purple light-up riding crop that sparkled on impact.
“So this one is on the large side, but post-babies, let’s be real—we need something a little more substantial, don’t we?”
Bunny was saying, waving the aqua dildo like a flag.
Phelps had to chuckle at Jenn’s expression, which was horrified. Olivia looked politely interested, and Hellie was stroking
the cuffs as if the pink fur was a cat. If anyone was going to purchase a sex toy tonight, his bets were on Allie, who had
picked up the riding crop and was smacking it against her palm as it winked and blinked.
He wouldn’t mind if Jenn just got offended and left, like she’d done . . . which year was it? Dragging Will with her, freaking
out about her unborn baby inhaling marijuana smoke . . . But tonight, she was stuck to Will like duct tape. When Will had
come to the kitchen to ask if he could help, Jenn came too.
“Go back and sex toy shop with the ladies,” said Phelps. “We bro-dudes need to catch up in our own special way.”
“That’s okay,” said Jenn sweetly. “I’d prefer to help in the kitchen, really! Sex stuff isn’t really our thing.”
“You evangelicals don’t have sex?” Phelps said. “I thought immaculate conceptions were a Catholic thing?”
“Very funny,” said Jenn, but she didn’t look amused.
No way that energy was staying in his kitchen.
“I have a different job for you two, then. Take drink orders and mix up some beverages. Supplies are in the bar cart. There’s
stuff downstairs in the basement bar too.”
“I’m not drinking,” said Jenn.
“Perfect. None of the best bartenders drink,” said Phelps. “And hey, we need to get the dining table cleared off for dinner.
Go commission someone to move all the crafty shit to the living room.”
That dispatched the two of them, and in the welcome silence, Phelps took the long slab of salmon out of the fridge. He’d dropped
almost a hundred dollars on it. Thirteen bucks a pound, but it was fresh, never frozen, and a nice thick center piece.
He slathered the salmon with oil on all sides, then salted it. Dinner was thirty minutes away from being ready, and it was
finally starting to feel like a party in here. Of course there had been some awkwardness with all the arrivals. It had been
so long since they were all together. But he could feel everyone warming up to each other. Throw some food in the mix, some
more booze, and this could end up being the best night of his year.
He relished the sound of merriment from the dining room: Olivia’s throaty laugh; Bennett’s energetic cackle; Hellie’s raspy
caw. It was good to have his friends here, to be cooking for them.
Cooking had always been his sanctuary. He was never religious, even before he had reason to really hate religion, but you could say that, in a way, food was his religion.
He’d had a knack for it since he was young.
His favorite childhood toy? The plastic kitchen set his mom picked up at Goodwill, missing most of the pieces, but still completely wonderful.
He’d pretend to fry eggs, or bake cookies, and he felt .
. . great. Then he started helping out at his uncle’s restaurant when he was fourteen, and worked at Rock the Clock a couple summers, where he really got a taste for the business, and what a food establishment could mean to people.
His senior year, he disappointed all his school counselors by not applying for college like they all so desperately wanted him to, but instead becoming a full-time employee at his uncle’s place as a line cook, and dating Bunny.
Well, dating Bunny hadn’t ultimately been good, nor had working for his uncle, who was unquestionably an asshole, but . . .
the cooking had been good. It was simple, unlike everything else in Phelps’s life. You took these ingredients, and you made them taste
fucking great. Done. That was cooking. You couldn’t lie with cooking. It either tasted good or it didn’t. There was a raw
honesty to it. And Phelps had a knack. When people loved his cooking, it was the same as if they loved him—better, actually,
because he hadn’t tricked them into it. He would never forget that first New Year’s, when Doug put him in charge of an elaborate
menu, which he spent all day cooking. They were all still young and stupid back then, and, yes, Phelps had undercooked the
salmon that night, but the poached pears—the way Olivia had groaned when she took that first bite—
Better than sex. Feeding people, experiencing their pleasure in what you’d created, was better than coitus. God’s honest truth.
The streamers rustled.
“Hey.” It was Bennett, his party hat on his head, held with a string under his chin and shedding glitter. A kindergartner could have done a better job with that hat. Not to mention it was boring as hell. No fucking imagination.
“Nice hat,” said Phelps as he spooned his specialty mayo-mustard-dill sauce onto the salmon. The secret was a pinch of brown
sugar. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask . . . what’s going on with Olivia? She seemed a little upset . . .”
Bennett didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned his lanky form against the counter. His jaw was tense. In fact, Phelps now realized
Bennett had been tense since he arrived, right under his good humor. Phelps frequently didn’t realize the things he himself
realized, until later. Like there was some delayed reaction to what he saw.
“What’s wrong?” Phelps slid the salmon filet, now covered with pale green-flecked sauce, onto the preheated sheet pan. It
sizzled on contact.
He was about to put it into the oven when Bennett said, “Why did you sleep with my wife?”
Phelps nearly dropped the pan, but at the last minute caught it, burning his thumb against the oven rack. He bit back a cry
of pain and slid the pan in. Closed the oven door.
His thumb was throbbing. Served him right for only wearing one oven mitt.
“What?” he said as he straightened up, yanking off the oven mitt and slapping it down on the counter. “And also, what?”
There was a charged silence. Well, he wasn’t going to speak first.
“I’m going to level with you,” said Bennett. His voice and face were calm, but not calm like a beach. Calm like a rock. Like
a cliff. Like the cliffs of fucking Dover. “You slept with Olivia five years ago. I’ve known for a while, okay? We don’t have
to let this dominate the evening. I just want you to have your chance to come clean and apologize.”
Phelps leaned against the counter, casually turned on the faucet to cold, and stuck his thumb right underneath the icy current.
“She told you this?”
“Not until today. But I already knew before.”
Phelps couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “So you decided now would be a good time to talk about this.”
Bennett shrugged. “Olivia brought it up, and now that it’s out there, we might as well deal with it man-to-man.”
Ah. Old sins. They came to get you. He’d just never thought this particular one was even worth the devil’s notice.
“Well?” pressed Bennett.
“I’m gathering my thoughts,” said Phelps dryly. He didn’t feel upset. He felt curious, that was for damn sure. But he wasn’t
idiotic enough to think that this could play out rationally. He could feel the electric charge in Bennett, and if Phelps denied
it too quickly, if he didn’t handle this with kid gloves . . . Damn, his thumb was throbbing.
He vaguely registered a new arrival. The sound of the front door opening and closing—Doug’s voice, too loud. “Ted! You came!”
Then Ted Kristos’s reedy voice, greeting everyone.
“Will, I saw you on the news, man! Did you know you went viral?” he was saying.
Back in their Speech and Debate days, Ted’s voice was plummy, confident. He played his voice like an instrument. Now, he talked
from the sinus. It didn’t seem like a great idea for Ted and Doug to be at the same party together . . . the druggie and the
dealer . . . Well, Phelps couldn’t do anything about it now. No one got kicked out of this party. Those were the ground rules.
He made a mental note to collect Ted’s keys, then switched his focus back to Bennett.
There was a brief spark in his stomach that might flame into rage if he let it—rage that Bennett would come at him like this, in his own house, just assuming Phelps was a morally bankrupt asshat—
“We should talk about this later,” Phelps said as he summarily doused the rage. His voice was totally, 100 percent calm.
Bennett had no idea how calm Phelps could be when he set his mind to it. How he could muscle all his anger and passion and
resolve deep down, and then act cold as a motherfucking iceberg. Like when he’d left Bunny in the night. He’d moved to Nashville
in good faith after they got engaged, even though he’d never left the Midwest, except for his eighth-grade trip to Washington,
DC. For a brief moment, he’d deceived himself into setting aside his reservations, and believing that he and Bunny could make
a new life together. An exciting life; an enviable life; the kind of life his parents never could have dreamed of. Then, three
weeks later, he was getting into his car, without even packing his stuff. He just started driving. His pulse wasn’t even racing.
His head felt like he’d dunked it into Lake Michigan in the winter. Cool and clear. He had to go. He couldn’t stand Bunny’s
oppressive ambition, her constant questioning of what he’d done and where he’d been and how his job search was going—and the
horrible gut feeling that Bunny was never going to make it as a country star. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Nashville
was a whole city of musicians competing for at most five slots. Maybe Phelps was a failure, maybe he was just the kind of
Rust Belt kid who would coast through life and never amount to anything special, but at least he knew his limits, at least
he wasn’t shooting for the fucking stars. Bunny was going to make a fool of herself, and he could not bear to stand back and watch her dreams slowly burn while everyone laughed from the sidelines. He could handle being a failure,
but he couldn’t handle being a fool.
It was obvious that he had to leave, so he did. Then it was just a matter of living with the consequences . . . or hiding from them. Hiding was just as solid an option.
“Later?” Bennett said. “Why not now?”
“Because,” Phelps said in his most reasonable voice, “I still have a table to set, and this salmon will be done in exactly
fourteen minutes, and I swear to God I am not letting it get a second past done, because, Bennett, you know I love you, man,
and I want us to work our shit out, but I am not serving overcooked salmon to my fucking guests.”
He heard Bunny shout from the other room, “I have more dildos in the car! Hang tight!” He sincerely hoped Ted was the one
asking.
There was a silence. Phelps could feel the tension between them. It was . . . interesting. Weirdly interesting. To see Bennett
all worked up—Bennett, who was never worked up. To know that their friendship might not last the night.
But it sure as hell would last until the salmon was done.