Chapter 5 Then #2
“Thea.” Her smile falls. She peers warily at the card. “Your cards make me emotional. You know I don’t like public displays of emotion.”
I nudge the card closer to her. The card teeters on the café table’s edge. “Lo,” I say dramatically, “don’t let my gift fall! My precious gift! Oh no, it’s going to—”
She swipes the card from the table.
“You and your damn gifts,” she mutters. She slides a finger beneath the envelope’s edge, careful as she opens it.
“How,” I ask, “can you open it that slowly? Don’t you just want to rip it off?”
“Nope.” Lauren pulls out the card and traces the embroidery. She smiles softly. I can tell she loves it. When she opens the card and sees what’s inside it, her mouth falls open. She swats me with the card. “Theadora—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I tell her. “Bon appétit, friend.”
She stares at the gift card in her hand. “It’s too much.”
“Is not,” I say.
“Savoureux,” she says quietly.
Savoureux, Lauren’s told me, is the first restaurant she visited after moving to Pittsburgh for work.
It’s the place that made her fall, in her words, “just a little in love” with the city.
Since then, she’s had the worst luck trying to get a reservation.
They book months out, and any time she’s tried, they haven’t had openings that lined up with her demanding work schedule.
She peers up at me, and, shockingly, her eyes are wet. Lauren is not a crier. “Thea, thank you.”
I squeeze her hand. “You’re welcome. And that’s not all.
I got a reservation on your birthday weekend!
The first opening they had was the second Sunday in September, which I figured was pretty safe, since you usually only work through Saturday on the weekend…
” My voice dies off as Lauren bursts into tears.
“Oh my god.” I lean in, clasping her arm. “Lauren, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she chokes out. She drops her forehead to the table.
“Lauren, clearly something is wrong.”
Her chest rises and falls with a deep, yogic breath as she gracefully sits up, then dabs beneath her eyes.
“I’m fine,” she says.
Giving me another one of those too-bright smiles, she grabs her Aperol spritz and sucks down the second half.
She is definitely not fine.
Before I can press, Lauren reaches inside her bag and says. “Funnily enough, I have something for you, too.”
“Lo,” I whine. “Can’t I just give you a gift for once?”
“Don’t be petulant.” She unearths from her purse a rectangular something wrapped in beautiful floral paper.
“I’ve been a shitty friend the past few months. I haven’t been tuned in. I’ve been a self-absorbed Debbie Downer, and I wanted to do something nice for you for the first time in—”
“Excuse me.” She drops my gift with a thud on the table.
“Hey.” I scoop up whatever she’s giving me, cradling it to my chest. “Be nice to my gift.”
“You listen here, and you listen good. You haven’t been a shitty friend. You’ve been going through hell.”
“I mean, those two things aren’t mutually exclusive—”
“Thea,” she says. “Stop it. You are a good friend. I love you, and I know you love me, and I haven’t doubted that one bit the past few months.”
“Lo.” I clutch the gift tighter to my chest, pressed against the ache in my heart.
“Now, no more mushy feelings.” She nods to my gift. “Open it!”
I tear off the paper, ripping at it eagerly.
Lauren sighs. “You open presents like a feral squirrel.”
“I get excited! I can’t help it…” My voice dies off.
I’m looking at a book, on whose cover is none other than Alex Bruscato. Above him, in a striking gold embossed serif, Come Viene, Viene.
What is Alex doing on the cover of a book? What is his name doing on a book? I open it, flipping through the pages.
A cookbook. A very beautiful cookbook. I shut it, staring at the cover again.
At Alex. He’s wearing in an indigo chambray button-up, cuffed at his elbows, that matches his eyes.
His dark hair is styled so that a rakish curl falls on his forehead; flour covers his hands and the table he’s leaning on.
I turn the book over. On the back, he’s in the same outfit, leaning on the same table.
Licking a half-melted cone of what is, I presume, because the universe is cruel, and because the front of the book is in Italian, gelato.
“Oof,” I mutter.
Lauren says, “It’s obscene, right? How fine he is?”
I nod.
“I know cooking isn’t your thing,” she tells me, “but I figured maybe this book could be your gateway, now that you’ve got your own place, your own kitchen. Crack this sucker open and you and the hot chef can enjoy some”—she leans in and says meaningfully—“one-on-one time.”
“Lo!”
“Seriously, though, this cookbook is hailed as the best intro to Italian cooking, which I know you love. And if you don’t want to try cooking, you never have to open it and you’ve still got your money’s worth. Just feast your eyes on the cover.”
I open the book again, this time turning the pages slowly so I can take it in.
Mouthwatering food photos—heaping twirls of homemade pasta scattered with fresh herbs, cracked pepper, and coarse sea salt dusting a pan of colorful roasted veggies, luscious desserts flecked with chocolate shavings, raspberries, a sprig of mint.
I peer closer to read what look like hand-scribbled notes around the tidy recipes, the up-close photos of the chef at work in his kitchen, in profile, sweat on his temple, flour at his throat.
They feel so intimate, these peeks of Alex woven throughout.
I flip to the back, to the author bio. My stomach drops. I’ve watched enough cooking shows, since Ethan loved them, to know the prestigious terms. James Beard. Michelin star.
My not-really old friend and first love is a culinary prodigy.
“You look upset,” Lauren says. “I’m sorry, if it seems like pressure, giving you a cookbook—”
“I’m not upset,” I tell her honestly. “I’m just… surprised.”
“Well,” she says, “that’s fair. Like your gift to me today, this was meant to be given on a relevant occasion.”
“What occasion?” I ask.
“It was going to be an apartment warming gift.” She lifts her dark, expertly shaped eyebrows. “But that would require my being invited to your apartment.”
“Ah.” I flip the book shut and plant my hand over Alex’s face. I can’t keep staring at him. “Well, I was going to invite you. Eventually.”
“When?” she asks. “Thanksgiving?”
“Lo.” I sigh. “It’s just… not… presentable yet.”
“Presentable? You really think I’ll care what your apartment looks like?”
I stare at her.
Lauren tips her head, receiving my meaning. “Okay, I take your point. Generally, I care very deeply about interior design and architectural aesthetics and can be quite judgmental, but I’m not going to say anything about your place.”
“True.” I lean in and tap her temple. “But you’ll think it.”
“Will not!”
“Fine. You can see it. Soon. Ish.”
She glares at me.
“Just give me a couple days,” I tell her, “to zhuzh it up.”
“But I want to zhzuh it up with you!”
“Nope. You’ve done enough for me the past few months.”
She rolls her eyes. “Thea, I got sad drunk with you a couple times and dragged you to a pedicure—that’s hardly anything.”
She’s done a lot more than that. But I know better than to argue with her.
“Next Tacos and Tequila Tuesday?” I ask. “How’s that sound?”
She smiles. “That sounds lovely. What can I bring?”
I think of my sweltering third-floor apartment, how miserable Lauren will be. “A lot of ice?”
“Sure,” she says. “I’ll bring a bottle of tequila, too.”
“No you won’t.” I scoop up the cookbook and slide it into my messenger bag. “I’ll provide the tequila. And the margarita fixings.”
“Bringing tequila,” she says.
I tell her, “Paying for tacos, then.”
“Speaking of paying.” Lauren pulls out her wallet and glances around, looking for the waiter. “Of course. Now that I actually want him here, he’s nowhere to be seen.”
I smile.
She narrows her eyes. “You got the tab, didn’t you?”
“Told him it was on me when he walked us to our table.”
“Thea!”
“I’m so sorry I treated on your almost-birthday!”
“Almost-birthday that’s a month away,” she mutters. Standing, she hikes her bag onto her shoulder. “Not forgiven.”
“Lauren.” I stand, too. “All you’ve done lately is steal tabs when we eat out.”
“Well,” she says, as we start down the sidewalk, “only one of us is divorced and not collecting alimony from her dirtbag ex.”
“I don’t want Ethan’s money. I don’t want anything of Ethan’s.”
“Why not?” she says. “You should clean that fucker out, Thea.”
I peer at her. There’s an edge in Lauren’s voice, a level of anger toward Ethan that, even for her, seems unprecedented.
“You sound more pissed at him than I am. Which is impressive. And up till now, I thought, impossible.”
Lauren’s mouth tightens.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She adjusts her sunglasses but doesn’t answer me.
“Lauren.”
Lauren peers up at the sky and mutters, “Fuck.” Then she rips off her sunglasses, meets my eyes, and says auctioneer fast, “I saw Ethan on a date with a woman last night.”
My stomach tightens. Ethan. On a date. With Jen.
Or maybe it wasn’t Jen. Maybe they just banged and moved on. If that’s the case, I’ll have no reason to be friends with Alex.
That thought leaves me oddly sad. Alex and I haven’t texted since exchanging numbers that night at his house, but I told myself it was fine for there to be a stretch of quiet following the chaos that threw us together.
He said he’d have Mia the next few days, so I’m sure he’s been busy.
And I’ve been fully booked with work at The Bookshop and tears to cry and also maybe waiting for Alex to text and make the first friend move.
It’s only now, when faced with possibly having no cause to stay in it, that I realize I was weirdly looking forward to this pickle Alex and I got ourselves into.
Or maybe I was only looking forward to, for the first time in a while, being in anything with somebody else. Not feeling so deeply alone.
“So this woman,” I say to Lauren. “Was she by any chance petite? Annoyingly pretty? Natural honey blond with sky-blue eyes and killer curves?”
Lauren blinks. “That… was a disturbingly accurate guess.”
“Not a guess,” I admit.
“Wait, you knew about her already?” Lauren throws up her hands. “Why haven’t I heard about this?”
I bite my lip.
I was going to tell Lauren about Alex, about our lie, about Ethan and Jen, over lunch. But then I realized something was up with Lauren, and the last thing I needed was to spend more time talking about me and my dumpster-fire life.
She steps closer, eyes locked on me. “First, you steal the tab. Then, you don’t tell me your ex is out there swinging his dick around mere weeks after your divorce. Happy almost-birthday to me!”
“Oh so now you’re fine with calling it your ‘almost-birthday.’ ” I lift the flap of my bag and pull out the cookbook. “Her name is Jen. I met her at Ethan’s when I picked up Argos on Monday. Their vibe was… postcoital.”
Lauren shudders. “Ew.”
“Very ew. And very awkward. Also.” I lift the cookbook and point to Alex’s face. “This guy was there.”
Lauren blinks. “I’m sorry, did you just say the hot chef was there?”
I nod. “He’s her ex-husband.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” she says. “Wait, that means you’ve met him.” Her voice is getting louder. “You didn’t tell me you’d met the hot chef! What kind of best friendship is this?”
“A loving but dysfunctional one,” I remind her. “In which, say, one best friend uncharacteristically bursts into tears, and, when asked by her concerned best friend if she’s fine, refuses to talk about it?”
Lauren purses her lips. “Touché.”
It’s not the explanation I wanted, but at least now she knows I’m onto her.
“Come on.” I shove the cookbook back in my bag, then loop my arm with hers. “I’ll tell you everything. But we have to walk and talk, or I’ll be late for work.”
“I can’t wait,” she says giddily. “You met Hot Chef in the hot flesh!”
“At one point, I even held his hot hand.”
She screeches, “Thea! What? How?”
I sigh as I hit the crosswalk button and glance her way. “You are truly never going to believe me when I tell you.”