You, Again(26)

“No.” He pauses for a half-second—just long enough for Ari’s expression to shift into disappointment, ensuring that the invitation was genuine. “How about an actual drink instead?”





5


“THE TIMES RAN A HIT piece instead of a review. Suddenly it was open season on me just because my dad owned a deli.”

Ari sits next to Josh at a bar in a boutique hotel around the corner from CreamPot, with a tumbler of Jim Beam and a glass of malbec, respectively. Josh looks less polished these days: There’s a slump in his shoulders, like he doesn’t want to take up so much space in the world. A patchy beard covers the lower half of his face, muting the way his feelings are written on the surface.

“The phrase ‘just because my dad owned…’ doesn’t exactly make you more sympathetic,” Ari observes. The place is quiet in the lull between late brunch and early dinner. It’s a relief to sit elbow to elbow, rather than across a table, where Josh would be able to see her every microexpression.

“That fucking piece made me radioactive. I was trying to breathe new life into the business. Suddenly, all these people who probably hadn’t eaten at Brodsky’s in years were accusing me of dishonoring my father’s memory.” He sets his glass down on the coaster with a bit too much force. “I’m not the heir to some great culinary legacy. My father believed that any dish with more seasoning than schmaltz, salt, and pepper had no place on the menu. I’m allowed to want more than that. I was supposed to create something important. I was supposed to have a Michelin star by now.”

“Maybe to some people,” Ari says, “a pastrami sandwich with just the right amount of mustard is more impactful than an award from a tire company.” Josh stares at his wineglass, unconvinced. She clears her throat and grasps for a subject change. “Well, at least you have…Sarah?”

“Sophie.”

“Right.” She leans in. “Your ‘good girl.’?”

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t remember her name, but you remember that?”

“Seared into my brain,” she says, tapping her temple. “Did she end up being the missing half of your black-and-white cookie with the arms and legs and the weird little penis?”

The bartender looks up.

“That drawing was not a self-portrait.” He swallows another gulp of malbec and shakes his head. “Sophie had only seen me at my most successful. That’s the part she signed up for. Not…this.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “You know what bothers me? I spent my best years on that relationship. Two years ago, I appeared on Chopped. I had a spread in Food & Wine. I got invited to festivals and food events. I’d get messages from women. One of them always referred to me as ‘the biggest boy’ and kept asking me to step on her neck.”

Ari nearly spits out eight dollars’ worth of whiskey. It might be her first unforced laugh all week.

“And now when a woman googles me, the first thing they’ll see is…” He trails off, like he’s unsure of the right terminology.

“A dumpster fire?” Ari suggests.

“A feature on Eater where I’m portrayed as a petulant child, ruining his father’s legacy by adding orange zest to a blintz recipe.” He exhales and his whole torso seems to crumple.

“Okay, but she’ll be dating a man who can make blintzes. And you can still cook,” Ari points out, because for some reason, other people’s problems always seem obviously fixable. She hasn’t had a reason to absorb someone else’s pain since Cass left. It doesn’t feel good, but it’s an odd sort of relief from wallowing in her own misery.

Josh stares into the dregs of his wine, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. “I have no interest in stepping foot in another kitchen, not that anyone wants to hire me.” His voice is softer than she’s ever heard it. Resigned. Like the furious, know-it-all energy that used to surround him burned away and left a shell of a person. “Every morning I wake up and remember I have no plans and nothing to look forward to.”

“Well, that’s not true.” Ari swallows, searching her brain for a way to cut the grim direction of the conversation, even though she had the exact same realization when she lay awake at four a.m. on the inflatable mattress. “You just spent eighty-six dollars at CreamPot.”

“I did not need to buy a hands-free lube dispenser,” he points out.

“It’s convenient and hygienic.” She laughs, the last sip of whiskey still burning a streak down her throat. “You’ll thank me the next time you bring a girl back to your place and you’re not fumbling around in your nightstand.”

He finishes his wine. “Don’t be nice to me. It makes me uncomfortable. And I don’t deserve it.”

The Jim Beam makes her want to reach over and squeeze his arm or something. But that much human contact would probably shatter him at this point.

“I think I prefer this version of you. You’re morose as shit, but for once, you’re not acting like an entitled prick.”

The look on Josh’s face is hard to parse, like he’s both offended and pleased. When their eyes meet, it’s as if he sees behind the tight smile she’s been plastering on her face.

Ari slides down from her stool, grabbing her shopping bag—filled with high-end vibrators that she cannot afford—from the hook beneath the counter.