Sweetbitter(79)

I thought of him waking up last June 8, thirty years old, and not knowing that I was weeks away. Neither of them had known I was coming. This June would be a culmination. I’d watch the English peas and sugar snaps come in, maybe I would get a bike and he could teach me how to ride in the city. And his birthday. Simone and I would plan a dinner, and he would be uncomfortable but happy. When I ran back into the cellar Simone was sitting stormily, glaring at the label on a bottle of Saint-émilion.

“Quick, quick.” I barreled past any formality left between us and unbuttoned her shirt. She let me. I forced it off her shoulders. As I did her arms went up and back and I saw a mark under her bra strap. “What’s that?”

She lifted the band of her bra, dreamily, still unhurried.

It was a tattoo of a key. Matching. Identical. It was in better condition than Jake’s and looked branded into her pale skin. Of course, I thought as I balled up her dirty stripes.

“I didn’t take you for the type.” It looked ridiculous on her, like an accident. But it wasn’t. I wished it had been anything else. A butterfly, a star, a quote from Keats, a flippant tattoo. Now her body was an echo of Jake’s. No—his was an echo of hers. It was the first tattoo I had seen on him, back when he pulled me into the walk-in and opened oysters for me, before that body became familiar, before I could find all his tattoos in the dark. Would Jake and I ever have private moments, just the two of us?

If I left her here in the basement the restaurant would be thrown into a tailspin. One bad night wouldn’t ruin her, but the staff would talk. It would be a fissure in her power. I ripped the dry cleaner’s plastic off the new shirt, hoping to feel capable again, craving order.

“It’s a funny story actually.”

“I can’t wait to hear it. Another time.” I threw the light-blue stripes at her. “You’re fucked up there, Simone. One more bite of bread, please.”

The fresh shirt hadn’t revived her like I thought it would. She smelled stale, or maybe it was the wine room.

“So 11 is mid-entrée, we’re running way behind for apps on 14 but drinks are down, I sold a Quintarelli, only the Valpolicella Classico, but not the worst sale, I know it’s Italy, but they insisted, maybe if you talk to Chef he can rush the food, I would go straight to 15, Heather was dropping the check for me.” I pulled her hand. She was breathing deeply. They were rough, lachrymal breaths that I knew all too well. “Hey. When are the asparagus coming?”

Her eyes bounced to me.

“With this weather?” she asked, consulting the ceiling. “Three weeks. Minimum.”

“Oh yeah? You think it’s going to snow again?”

I kept asking her questions she knew the answers to. Once she got on the floor she went straight to 15, smiled compulsorily, and snatched up the check.

“We thought you went home,” Heather said. “In the future can I get some warning before you cleanse your spirit, darlin’? I’ll just plan on taking the whole dining room.” Simone didn’t acknowledge, apologize to, or thank her. I watched over Simone all night, but she was fine. Her tattoo faded from my mind as service beat on, relegated to the neglected file of weird, annoying shit about Jake and Simone. She got her normal tip average, an unfluctuating twenty-seven percent. The mechanics never failed.

—

“I THOUGHT YOU guys were such good friends,” Ariel said later that night. She was still halfheartedly punishing me for my absence from Park Bar. I told myself to be patient with her and Will, but I was willing to push it with her tonight.

“Wasn’t Simone like the maid of honor?” Will asked. Vivian was pouring out tequila shots. “You wanna shot?”

“Ugh,” I said. Jake was going to pick me up after he walked Simone home. I had no desire to get drunk, but it was the best shortcut to the reliable Park Bar intimacy. And, looking at them, I felt guilty. I was going to be a server. Howard had no idea how bad it was going to be for me. I couldn’t even imagine asking Ariel to get me something “on the fly” in that harried, bossy way the servers did. She was going to beat the shit out of me. “Maybe in a minute?”

“All My Friends” came on, and Ariel made Terry turn it up. I thought she would grab me like she used to and pull me onto the floor to dance. It was our song when we were heading out into the night—the manic, dizzy piano introduction stretching us. The song was all promise—that this night would be different, or different enough.

“You swallow you cunt,” said Sasha putting a shot in front of me.

“But, hey guys, it’s our song,” I said. No one acknowledged me. Simone’s meltdown made me miss the simplicity of us getting fucked up together with no ulterior agenda. But I had an agenda now—a walk with Jake, a potential breakfast—things to stay sober for. I considered the shot. If I got too drunk I figured I could throw up before Jake got there. I took it and groaned.

“It’s like Samantha represents the life she almost had with Mr. Bensen.”

“Now what if he came in,” Will said, “what if he and his wife came in? That would make tonight look like a nonevent.”

“Abandoning her section midrush—not exactly a nonevent.”

“No, wait, guys,” I said. “Slow down.”

“Oh, Bensen, the Silver Fox, I woulda done him, double shot.”