You, Again(63)

salt & pepper man + blond hotwife : my wife is really looking forward to seeing you again



She puts her phone back in her bag, feeling temporarily buoyed, even though there’s something unsettling about how the texts never come from “my wife,” herself. At least he doesn’t use the thumbs up emoji like most middle-aged men.

A minute later Gabe sets down four glasses and a full pitcher of pale ale on the table.

“Your buddy already got a number,” he says in an obnoxiously chipper tone of voice.

What’s the Chill Girl response to this? Interesting! I didn’t realize we’re both attracted to women with breasts the size of oranges!

Josh places napkins beneath each glass. His cheeks have more color than Ari’s noticed before, but his expression is tight, like he’s straining not to betray any emotion.

Ari silently helps herself to another handful of nuts while Gabe pours, filling the glasses all the way up to the brim.

He holds the pitcher over the fourth cup. “Expecting someone?”

She allows herself a half second of eye contact with Josh. “Briar’s here. But she went back to the kitch—”

“Holy shit.” An ounce of beer splashes onto the back of Ari’s hand. Gabe lets the pitcher slam down on the table as he stares at someone behind her. “I’ve been following her for years!” Ari turns to see Briar returning to the table, phone in hand, coat slung over her arm. “She’s ‘A-Briar-Commitment’ on Instagram.” Gabe glares at Ari. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Wait. Wait. I know you,” Briar says, pointing and trying to place him. “What’s your handle?”

“I’m at ‘Bye-Bye-Bi-Boy.’?” He holds his arms out, almost smacking Josh in the face.

There’s an earsplitting squeal and Briar scurries to the other side of the long communal table to embrace her kindred social media spirit.

“Oh my God! I had the biggest crush on you.” Briar holds her hand over her mouth. “Is that okay to say?”

“Fuck, yes.” They squeeze each other like long-lost friends, swaying back and forth. “Except for the ‘had’ part.”

Ari finds her gaze dipping down to the other person at the table not involved in this hug. She can’t help it. He has a face that’s begging to be scrutinized. He’s looking at her, too, but not in a way that makes her feel at ease.

“You know each other?” Josh asks.

“He’s ‘Bye-Bye-Bi-Boy’!” Briar says, like this is a common point of reference. “We’ve been mutuals for years. Here, Josh, sit next to Ari, so we’re even.”

Does Josh look reluctant as he pushes his chair back? Annoyed? Ari takes three enormous gulps of beer as Josh takes the seat next to her, like they’re third and fourth wheels on an impromptu date.



* * *





THREE HOURS MUST go by while Briar and Gabe gleefully debate the finer points of Taylor Swift’s Folklore and gossip about actors Josh has never heard of. Beyond a vague sense of unease, he’s no closer to understanding Ari’s state of mind. He pretends not to notice Radhya poking her head out of the kitchen every so often, looking increasingly frazzled as Briar’s followers pack themselves into the dining area.

But when Radhya suddenly appears at their table a rush of pure anxiety shoots up his chest. Her expression is strained, like she’s about to unleash a long-awaited tirade on him.

“I’m out of rotis,” she hisses, squatting next to Ari. “I need you to help me griddle them. Please. It’s just like making grilled cheese.”

Ari is halfway out of her chair when Briar calls out, “Wait, Josh can do it!”

Radhya recoils. “God, no—”

“Absolutely not,” Josh declares at the same instant.

“He’s a professional!” Briar beams. “No offense, Ari.” Josh shoots her an unsubtle warning look that she pretends not to notice. The last place he wants to be is in a kitchen—and especially not with someone who’s been nursing a grudge for years.

Radhya looks like she’d rather sink into the beer-stained floor than accept Josh’s assistance, but she grits her teeth (literally, she makes an actual grimace) and gestures toward the kitchen.

Josh pushes his chair back, letting the legs scrape against the floorboards. He follows Radhya past the other tables, into the kitchen, steeling himself and feeling conspicuous as fuck, even though he doesn’t recognize any of the other diners.

It’s clearly a beer hall kitchen, with multiple deep fryers and other pieces of equipment in which Josh isn’t exactly well-versed. Every surface feels like it’s coated with a fine mist of grease.

“Two hundred twenty-six grams of whole wheat flour in this plate,” she barks, pushing a wide metal dish toward him. “Then lukewarm water—gradually.”

Josh blinks at the plate for a few seconds, relieved to default into kitchen jargon instead of unwieldy apologies. He scrubs his hands in the sink. “How mu—”

“One-twenty mil, but you need to bring it together bit by bit. Watch me do the first batch before you fuck it up.” Radhya drizzles the water over her own plate of flour, mixing it together with her left hand until it turns into a soft dough. She dips her hand in water and starts to knead it, keeping her hand a little more open than Josh remembers from culinary school. “Do you have any idea how aggravating it was to look at your stupid, smug face in Bon Appétit last year?” She says it without turning around, focusing on her roti-related tasks at the prep table.