Page 119 of Aftertaste

Kostya gaped at him.

“Fuck, man.” It was the saddest thing he’d ever heard. “Dying like that, when you had the best life of, like, anyone I ever met.”

“That really how you think it was?” Frankie zigged and zagged around the bags of grain. “It looked good from the outside, but none of it was deep. Just surface. The parties, the crew. They were good to fuck up a Saturday night, but that’s all it was. You and Rio were the only ones who actually cared.”

“That’s not true! Women loved you! You had more game than an arcade.”

“Game,” Frankie repeated, bitter. “I was young. I looked good. The women—I got lucky. I had some fun nights. And days. And mornings.” Hecracked a small smile, remembering, then wiped it away. “That’s all it was, though. Nothing real. I was so caught up in myself and my spot that I never let anyone in. I never loved anybody. Not like you.”

“Please. What did I know about love?”

“Plenty! When I died—I felt you. Right here.” Frankie tapped his chest. “Holding on. So tight I couldn’t set one foot out the Hall.”

“Fuck, Frankie, if I made you Hungry—”

“You didn’t.” Frankie cocked his head. “Least not for long. When you met your girl, that grip you had on me? It let go.”

“Leftovers,” Kostya whispered.

“But being Hungry,” Frankie continued, “even for a little, made me see how bad others were hurting.”

“So you started the tour.”

Frankie nodded.

“I’d seen you do your thing, so I thought, hey, I can help folks. Give you a little help from the other side. Make those aftertastes easier to come by. Finally get that chance to make my name, too. Get famous for the good I did.” They came to the end of the tent, and Frankie shoved through it into the freckled light of a grove of trees, their sweet, fermented smell hanging in the air. Apples. “Joke’s on me, huh?”

He strode through the orchard, Kostya jogging to keep up.

“I tried reaching out so we could sync up, but you kept your word, Bones. Let me stay Dead. Which, in retrospect, was damn lucky. Kept me from going Hangry.”

“Shit.” Kostya panted, realizing. “You were waiting on DUH because there was no other way to get in touch. You didn’t know the spirits I brought back were getting stuck.”

“Wouldn’t have done any of this if I had.Definitelywouldn’t have brought the whole tour to your big opening night. I just thought I was serving closure. Same as you. We wanted to believe it so bad, man. Both of us. That we were the good guys.”

“I wanted to make things better.” Kostya kicked hard at an apple on the ground, sent it flying. “Turned out like always.”

“Well, there’s still time. C’mon. We got an Afterlife to fix.”

Frankie sped along the row of trees, through a garden gate, and toward a fork in the road, evaluating the options before heading down a path Kostya hadn’t even seen—an aisle of Granny Smiths.

“I don’t see how. I can’t get within ten feet of an ingredient. And I bet the kitchen’s gonna be uphill, too.”

“The Hall can really hold a grudge. But I know a spot you can cook. And the ingredients—won’t be easy, but there’s a work-around.”

“Okay?”

“See, most of the food here?” Frankie picked an apple off a tree, took a bite. “It’s just for show.” He tossed it to Kostya, who startled at the strangenothingbeneath its skin. Air, where there should have been flesh, pith, seeds. “It’s just there to make you hungry. Sights. Smells. Hocus-pocus. For food you can eat—it’s made to order. From your memories.”

“The food here eats memories?”

“The food hereismemories.”

Kostya stopped walking. It made sense, like something he’d known way down in his bones. Every aftertaste he’d ever cooked had been like that—a shorthand for something else, each dish a memory shared by the Living and Dead.

“So then, can memoriesbefood? Like—like raw ingredients?”

“That’s how the Hall cooks.” Frankie nodded. “It translates memories into meals, so we can process. But the hard stuff, like aftertastes—it doesn’t always have the chops. And you’re arealchef, a better one. You channel the Dead and youfeelwhat they felt. Taste it. Pour your soul into every dish you make. The Food Hall can’t do that. So if anyone can cook with memory, my money’s on you.”

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