You, Again(100)
Does it? Or does it get more painful the longer your person is absent from your life? The more weeks and months you spend going over the what-ifs? Did those original humans become more haggard and distraught the longer they searched the world for their lost soulmates, watching everyone else reunite with their other halves?
Abby silently reaches up to a high shelf and places a bright red spice container in front of the bowls. The pop of color reflects off the stainless steel. It must be Radhya’s; paprika had no place in his dad’s kitchen.
Josh stares at it.
“I always thought the egg salad could use a bit of a kick,” she says. “I think your dad would agree with me if he’d actually tasted it.” Abby taps a finger across the counter. “He wouldn’t have cared about a Michelin star, you know. But he would’ve been proud of what you’ve done here.”
Josh wipes his eyes with the towel and takes a breath, looking out at the empty dining area in the same way Danny did for forty years. Standing in this kitchen isn’t a capitulation or a betrayal. For the first time, it feels like the right place to anchor.
Even the little red bottle seems to belong in here. Along with the turmeric and the cardamom pods and the two kinds of coriander for the brisket rub.
Because it’s Josh’s kitchen now. Well, Radhya’s and Josh’s.
He takes a deep breath in. “Maybe we should…keep doing this.” He removes an entire half of a shell in one piece. Josh doesn’t believe in signs, but eggs never peel that easily. “And not sell. Yet.”
Abby winks and nudges him with her elbow. “Should we add some dill?”
28
“THANK YOU, ZACH!” ARI SAYS into the microphone as the harmonica notes finally fade into silence for the second time that night. “?‘Piano Man’ is fresh every time you hear it, right?” She points to the sign on the easel next to the stage featuring an enormous rainbow QR code and the title LaughRiot: Money, Please.
“And you can ring in the new year by subjecting this lovely bar to whatever karaoke clichés you want for a fifteen-dollar donation to our crowd-funding campaign. All the money goes directly toward an entire slate of programs for queer teens. Any of the songs on the ‘Please, God, No’ list require a thirty-dollar donation. The ‘Fuck You to This Entire Room’ list—which includes Journey, Adele, Queen, and more—is fifty and up. As the host, I obviously reserve the right to heckle you and perform a very earnest rendition of ‘Part of Your World’ at any point. Next up”—she consults her Notes app—“here’s Cameron with my personal theme song, ‘Return of the Mack.’?”
Ari hands over the mic and awkwardly mimics nineties dance moves, making her way through the crowd to the merch table where Gabe and Radhya are selling LaughRiot apparel at wildly inflated New Year’s Eve prices.
“When it’s time to go outside and wait for an Uber or walk to the train, you’re gonna realize how fucking cold it is outside and desperately want one of these hoodies,” Gabe tells a young man in a tank top. The guy shakes his head and walks away. “The prices are going up after midnight!” Gabe shouts after him.
“You’re losing your touch, old man,” Ari says, perching on Radhya’s lap in lieu of a chair. “Eye contact. Compliments. Flirting. Then, ‘Hey, I actually think this hoodie would look hot on you—’?”
“—but it would look better on my bedroom floor,” Radhya adds.
Ari grabs two plastic champagne flutes. “It’s so cruel that Radhya is probably the love of my life and pretty much my only friend who isn’t attracted to women.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Radhya replies, downing one serving of cheap prosecco. “But one round of living with you was enough.”
“Funny, that’s what my ex-wife said.”
Radhya pretends to drum a badum-tss on the piles of sweatshirts and shorts. “Hey, I love you so much, I’m spending the number-one hookup holiday at a gay bar where I’m pretty much guaranteed to end the evening alone.”
“First,” Gabe says, downing his prosecco, “I’m available for all your midnight-kiss needs. And second, you’re spending the number-one hookup holiday enjoying two different but equally terrible renditions of ‘Piano Man.’?”
In her head, Ari hears the punch line in Josh’s voice: There are good renditions of “Piano Man”?
“Last year, I was working New Year’s Eve,” Radhya says, slurring her words a bit. “I got off at two a.m.” She pauses, grinning. “Then I also got off at two thirty-five a.m.”
Gabe clears his throat. “Exactly one year ago, I served hors d’oeuvres at a rooftop in Koreatown, came here to host the fundraiser”—he glances pointedly at Ari—“alone. And woke up in Alphabet City without my pants. I have no memory of how I got home, except that Ari was passed out on my futon in her evening gown, snoring and drooling.” He glances at her. “I assume this year will be the same, except for the clothes. That’s not an outfit that gets you laid.”
Ari looks down at the LaughRiot-branded T-shirt, shorts, and sparkly rainbow tights that Gabe ordered her to wear tonight, recalling, in perfect detail, the circumstances of how she ended up on the futon last year. She’s been trying not to let her mind wander to those places.