Page 79 of Back for Seconds

Bruising food is the process of gently damaging an herb or vegetable’s stems and leaves in an effort to bring out the full flavor. Damaged cells release the fullest, most aromatic oils, so by crushing, tearing, and generally traumatizing your food, you can ensure full-bodied herbaceousness.

This is not a metaphor.

Chapter 25 June

The entire drive to Atlantic City, my brain was a chaotic snarl of conflicting, cruel thoughts.

You have sex with the guy once and suddenly you’re in love. Seriously?

Best sex of my life. Best week of my life.

You did this before, June. You rushed everything and missed all the red flags.

Why does this feel so different? Why does it feel like I’ve known him my entire life?

I wanted to pull over and write it all down. List out every one of my thoughts as they came into my mind. If I had my laptop with me, I would have punched them into a model.

What is the likelihood of PERSON A (divorced parents, married after only dating the guy for a year, also divorced) and PERSON B (reliable to a fault, willing to grin and bear it, family-oriented, kind down to his bone marrow) staying together long enough that PERSON A won’t need to buy another new table?

La Costiera Atlantica was located in the first and basement floors of a beach house not completely dissimilar to my own little house, a few short blocks from the iconic Atlantic City boardwalk. A white-vinyl, three-story cottage with picture windows, they’d enclosed their porch to make room for more seating. Unpretentious and unassuming, my brother’s place of employment had once been the premiere mobster hang spot in the eighties. Now—well, it was lower on the list.

Inside, the air was heavy with the delicious smell of buttery white wine broth poured over mussels and clams, herby slow-braised pork, savory Marsala sauce brightened with lemon and capers. The main dining room—which had clearly once been the living room, when this had been someone’s home—was crowded with tables, each adorned with a white tablecloth and a little brass reading lamp. On the far side of the room, tucked under the staircase, was a lacquered oak bar. Beyond that, through a set of French doors in the home’s original dining room, was a baby grand piano, a single microphone, and a few more tables. I spied Mimi chatting with the pianist while she sipped something in a martini glass. She looked perfectly festive and glamorous in a form-fitting black velvet dress and a red lip. If only everyone knew you’re a total slob, I thought ruefully, crossing the room.

The restaurant was mostly empty, as evening dinner service usually drew in the big Christmas crowd. A few couples were smattered here and there, heads bent low as they shared plates of pappardelle and stuffed pork chops. The usual din of restaurant noise was muffled by the heavy curtains draped around the big, south-facing windows and the red wall-to-wall carpet. No matter the time of day, it always felt like night here.

Behind the bar, my brother looked like a stately proprietor of a bygone era. His jet-black waves were styled back and away from his face, his semi-ironic handlebar mustache waxed into position. Like all Alfiero men, he was barrel-chested and bright-eyed, with a set of expressive eyebrows that seemed to always be flexing in accordance with his feelings. Currently, my brother had one eyebrow arched nearly to his square hairline; the other was pulled into a contemplative frown. He stirred what appeared to be an old-fashioned while shaking another beverage over his shoulder. A busy man.

I slid into a stool in front of him, barely suppressing a giggle. “Hey, handsome. I’ll take an extra-dirty martini, double olives, hold the vodka.”

He grinned at me. “Monica Bellucci, what’re you doin’ here?”

I returned his smile. “Merry Christmas, brother. Thank you for having me.” I set a red-paper-wrapped package down on the bar. “For you.”

Sal poured out the shaken drink into a salt-rimmed glass, garnished it with a sprig of rosemary, then topped off the old-fashioned with some orange rind. With both drinks sent off to their table, Sal turned all his attention on me. “You shouldn’t have!” He picked up his present and gave it a squeeze. “But if this isn’t the fourth book in my dragon series, I’m gonna fuckin’ scream.”

“You’re lucky I got you anything after what you did,” I chastised him, doing my best AnneMarie impression. I had to be careful how much I revealed to Sal and when. The last thing I needed was him driving over to Brian’s and making things worse. “You’re on the naughty list for life.”

“Oh, yeah?” He grinned and began carefully pulling the paper away. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

I flapped a hand at him. “Hurry up, unwrap faster—I need a freezing cold glass of Pinot Grigio.”

“No, today you’re having the Cabernet and you’re ordering the osso buco.” Sal held up his unwrapped present in triumph, demurely pumping a fist as to not draw any unwarranted attention from the diners around us. “Book four, baby! Thank you, sis.”

I waved away his gratitude and encouraged him to go heavy-handed as he poured my Cabernet. We discussed the latest in his love life, Mimi’s vocal abilities, and our shared dread for our upcoming February birthdays. Sal was turning thirty-five, but when I looked at him, I still saw the cherubic eight-year-old who’d shit himself on Splash Mountain.

He put in my dinner order—handling all the decision-making while I glugged down my wine, letting the soft twinkle of the piano and Mimi’s smooth mezzo-soprano lull me into a state of internal peace and warmth I associated so specifically with Christmas. Like candlelight and the woody smell of balsam fern. Like semisweet hot chocolate with extra mini marshmallows. Like cuddling close against the most beautiful man you’ve ever met and then letting his mouth find yours while his curly hair tickled your nose.

Halfway through my fishbowl of wine, Sal slid a plate in front of me: tender medjool dates, pitted and stuffed with Italian gorgonzola, wrapped in prosciutto and baked until they melted over my tongue with just a single bite. They tasted exactly how I felt. Comfort cocooned me. I ate the entire plate.

Next was the osso buco—which arrived on a piping hot platter that I was encouraged to let sit for a minute. The veal shank was melting like butter off the bone over a bed of saffron risotto. The perfume of beef broth, bone marrow, and sautéed mirepoix was almost as intoxicating as my wine. I bowed my head low and huffed. Heaven.

Sal handed me a steak knife, and I took this as an invitation to slice into my meal. The meat fell apart on my fork. I spent a moment crafting a perfect first bite with the perfect combination of risotto and veal. This was a habit that Joey had pointed out to me. He’d done so with kindness, a little observation that made me feel like I was sitting in a beam of starlight.

I took my bite and I had to suppress a deeply, tonally inappropriate groan. I chased the herby richness with a sip of bright, dry wine. Sal had been right. A perfect duo.

Two things were absolutely true, right now. One: This meal was perfect. Two: I wished Joey was here. I missed him—his smile, his laugh, his little comments. The way his hand felt, tight in mine.

I wanted to know what he was doing right this moment—what he was wearing, what he was eating. I wanted to know what his brothers were saying, if they got him any presents. I wanted him—all of him. Not in a slow drip; not in quick bursts. I wanted to mainline him into my life.