You, Again(46)

He might have watched several tutorials.

“Is it the tiny sleeping golden retriever puppy I asked for?” She shakes the box near her ear before lifting the lid.

Ari’s smile fades. She looks down into the box, eyebrows knitted together.

“They still sell them at Pearl River Mart,” he says quickly. “I know it’s not the bowl but it’s the same pattern with the blue rim and the dragon design. I wanted you to”—she looks up at him with the corners of her mouth turned down, like she’s trying to contain something—“be able to eat cereal again.”

After a few seconds she manages to shift it into a lopsided smile. She picks up the bowl. It was $3.50—less than he’d spent on the wrapping paper. Probably the least expensive gift he’s ever purchased.

“Damn,” she says quietly. “You really go for the jugular, Kestenbutt.”

“Well, it’s…” he starts, having no idea how to finish the sentence. “Make sure you wash it first.”

“Thanks.” She traces her index finger around the rim.

“I had a slight ulterior motive.” He takes a breath in like he’s preparing to inflate a balloon. “What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?”

“Gabe hosts a karaoke fundraiser every year. We sing obnoxious songs and raise money for LaughRiot while wearing ridiculous-but-sexy outfits.” He glances up at that. “Cass never wanted to go. Do you want to? Maybe sing a terrible rendition of ‘Piano Man’?”

“There are good renditions of ‘Piano Man’?” Josh retorts automatically.

“I’m more of a ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ girl.” She tilts her head. “Why, what do you have planned for New Year’s? You’ve already done Zach Braff’s seafood place. Are you challenging an aspiring actress to a match at Susan Sarandon’s ping pong bar? Bringing a fitness influencer to Jeremy Renner’s Cajun bistro?”

“Really?”

“You’re right.” She nods. “That’s more of a Bastille Day spot.”

Josh hesitates. Every word he’s about to utter sounds embarrassing in his head. “On New Year’s Eve, my father is being honored at a black-tie event at the New-York Historical Society.”

“Seriously?”

“They’re opening a new exhibition on Jewish foodways,” he explains with a dismissive gesture. “My dad sat for some interviews a couple years ago. Begrudgingly, I assume. My mom donated some Brodsky’s memorabilia and they’re expecting the family to show up at the gala.”

“You can’t get out of it?”

Josh shakes his head. “Briar has our mother convinced that it will be a good way to move on from the whole son-who-killed-his-father’s-beloved-Jewish-deli narrative.”

Ari nods. “Tough rep. I get it.”

“Meanwhile, Briar will be off in the desert on some sponsored influencer trip while my mother spends the whole evening accusing me of being rude to all her real estate developer friends. They’ll serve steam-table brisket and some Broadway ingénue will perform a couple Stephen Schwartz songs. And if I run into someone I know I’ll have to explain why Sophie’s not there….” Josh lets the sentence trail off, raising his eyebrows at Ari in a way that communicates his request without him having to complete the ask.

“Ahh,” she says, narrowing her eyes and nodding slowly. Ari collapses onto a kitchen chair. “The thing is, I’m bad arm candy at parties for one-percenters. Cass made me go to a few with her. No one finds me funny and I can’t dance.”

“And you act like a brat at museums,” he adds.

“You’re really selling this. Keep going.”

He takes a seat on the other chair, so they’re back at the same eye level. “If you show up and let my mother fawn over you for two hours, you can complain all you want.”

“Will she think I’m your date?”

“I’ll make it clear we’re just friends.”

Ari narrows her eyes. He can’t tell if this is a good sign or not. “Fine. But if I agree to this, you’d owe me a favor, right?”

“Fine,” he agrees. “Do you need me to reach something on a high shelf?”

“Radhya’s holding a pop-up at Bohemian Garden next month. She’s making Gujarati bar snacks.” She pauses. “You could finally apologize to her.”

“Apologize?” He stands up from the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “No.”

“That’s like, one tenth the effort of a gala with your mother on the biggest date night of the year!”

“Radhya wouldn’t want me there.” He knows he’s right. Ari knows he’s right.

She sighs, clearly disappointed, and stands up with a full body stretch. “Do you have books to sell? I think they close at eight.”



* * *





“YOU REALLY DON’T want to keep any of your cookbooks?” Ari watches Josh pack up a stack of pristine hardcovers as a gust of wind rattles the large window at the front of the loft.

“The whole point is to rid ourselves of these reminders of the past.” Josh has that “please wade no further into this subject” look on his face, so Ari drops it, looking out the window. A light snow has started to fall, visible in front of the glow of a streetlamp. “Ugh, it looks windy.”