Lizbet has arrived before JJ on purpose. She waves at Leigh, embraces her across the bar, then orders her usual, a cocktail called Celery, Man, which is made with mescal joven （Lizbet has, quite intentionally, not touched tequila in months either） and celery syrup with a white-peppercorn rim. It’s a savory cocktail, which she prefers to sweet （sorry, Heartbreaker）。 Lizbet relishes the first ice-cold sip. She has missed this place.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Leigh asks.
Lizbet shrugs. “Maybe.”
Leigh cocks an eyebrow—and the very next second she breaks into a smile. “Look what the cat dragged in! It’s just like old times. Can I get you the usual, Chef?”
“Please,” JJ says.
Lizbet stands and greets him with a hug as though he’s an old friend from high school. He takes the opportunity to squeeze Lizbet tight and she inhales his scent—boy fresh from the shower, Ivory soap, wintergreen aftershave, a lingering hint of the cigarette he smoked on his way here.
When she pulls away, he says, “You look gorgeous, Libby. I don’t think I’ve seen that dress before.”
“You haven’t.” Lizbet is wearing a red crinkled-cotton sundress—short, to show off her legs—and her nude wedges.
They take their stools, the same ones they’ve sat on a hundred times before. When JJ’s drink arrives, they touch glasses. Lizbet has unwittingly slipped right back into her former life. This is a meeting, she reminds herself. Not a date. She knows Leigh is not only tenacious but discreet; anyone else would be sending an all-caps text around the island: LIZBET AND JJ REUNITING AT PROPS BAR!!!!
Lizbet isn’t sure what to say to the person she knows better than anyone on earth. Should she ask him about Christina? （No.） Should she launch into the story about the impostor Shelly Carpenter? （No, he won’t get it.） He seems nervous. His hand shakes as he holds up the dinner menu.
To put him at ease （she can’t believe she’s falling into the same old habit of worrying about his comfort）， she asks about the restaurant.
“Worst summer ever,” he says.
“We said that every August.”
“I’m serious, Libby. Everything sucks. The place has no soul. My cooking is technically sound and the staff know what they’re doing but there’s no love, no magic.”
Well, Lizbet thinks.
“My TravelTattler reviews are atrocious. Everyone calls the dining ‘disappointing.’ It’s like we’re being punished for being great in the past. Any idea how frustrating that is? People hear, ‘Oh, the Deck is the best,’ and they come in with unreasonable expectations. We’re human beings running a restaurant. Things happen.”
“They certainly do.”
“I need you to come back, Libby.”
Lizbet scream-laughs and Leigh glances over. Lizbet flags her. “We’re ready to order.”
There’s no conflict or confusion where the menu is concerned because Lizbet and JJ always get the same thing. They start with one order of fried green tomatoes with pimiento cheese and black-pepper honey and one order of the bone marrow. Then Lizbet gets the chicken-fried trout and JJ the Korean short ribs with kimchi grits.
“Would you like another drink?” Leigh asks Lizbet.
“I’m going to stick with one,” Lizbet says. “I have an early day tomorrow.” She has an early day every day now and can’t afford to stumble out of here the way she used to.
When Leigh leaves, Lizbet says, “I’m not coming back, JJ. You blew it.”
He swivels toward her so that his knees are kissing her leg. He puts his hand on the back of her barstool, leans in, and speaks very softly. Lizbet can’t make out everything he says, but she gets the gist of it: I was such an idiot, a fool, a creep, I hate myself for what I did, I would do anything to go back to how it was, I was so unhappy with Christina, she’s shallow and mean-spirited and insecure and so jealous of you, she almost ruined the restaurant, the staff hated her, she let some underage kids in on a Sunday and sold them the wineglasses even though a blind man could have seen their IDs were fake, I would do anything to get you back, if you don’t come back, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
“You’ll do what we all do, JJ,” she says. “You’ll keep on keepin’ on.”
“I’ll sell the restaurant to Goose,” he says. “Walk away.”
“You would never.”
“Watch me.”
“It sounds like you’re trying to threaten me,” Lizbet says. “But I don’t care if you sell the Deck. Why would I care? It’s yours.”