There’s a brief pause in the crush of eggshell from her end of the counter.
Josh continues cracking, peeling, separating. Trying and failing to ignore the emotional grenades threatening to go off in his head: How he feels Ari’s absence every single day. How she’s taken root in some deep, inaccessible place that can’t be edited or overwritten—just managed. Like a chronic illness.
There’s an unmistakable lump in his throat now. Anchor, dammit.
“We danced to this at our wedding,” Abby says after another quick series of thwacks. “I wanted Fleetwood Mac. This one was your dad’s idea.” Obviously. The lyrics start with his mantra: Don’t go changing. “We even took dance lessons at a studio on Sixth Ave. He still stepped all over my feet.”
With the memory of Ari in that black dress, awkwardly dancing to a song from forty years ago permeating his brain, Josh makes it as far as the song’s second mention of “clever conversation” before the anchor gives way, sweeping him out past the point of no return. He spends the last forty-five seconds of the saxophone solo quietly sobbing into his sleeve, being careful not to touch his face with his yolk-covered hands.
This shirt will be forever associated with the time a maudlin Billy Joel hit grabbed him by the throat as he cried in front of his mother into a bowl of egg whites.
Thankfully, Abby doesn’t turn her head to look at him. When the song ends, she hands Josh a clean bar towel off the pass. “It gets easier.”
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.