Page 51 of Aftertaste

“Not—not exactly.”

Viktor raised his eyebrows. Nodded again. Lifted a glass of champagne to his lips. Took a long, relaxed sip.

This wasn’t good.

“Maybe we misunderstanding each other,” he said at last. “I like very much your concept—”

“It’s not just a concept,” Kostya said quickly. “I can do it. My dishes—my food—I serve closure. It matters. I’ll work hard, harder than—”

“I like very much your concept,” Viktor repeated, cutting him off, “but Ilooking to open restaurant. You not ready. You need practice. Test kitchen, not restaurant. This not for me. I no longer interesting.”

They didn’t stay for dessert.

KOSTYA TRUDGED HOMEin the cold.

As he passed the Times Square McDonald’s, an old standby in moments like this, he resisted the urge to go in, to order several combo meals and shove them, one after the other, into his mouth. He didn’t want to be that guy anymore.

Then again, that guy’s life had been simple. Predictable. Safe.

That guy had had a job—a shitty, soulless, dead-end delivery job he hated, granted, but most of New York seemed perfectly at peace with that kind of arrangement. He’d had Frankie, who always knew what to do. He’d had a quiet, stable existence rather than this Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of fuckups, each one more spectacular than the last.

When Kostya finally made it inside, his apartment was a Popsicle. Had the furnace busted? Had he missed a bill? Was it just the universe, icing him out while he was down?

He retreated to Frankie’s old room, the most interior, for warmth, and wrapped himself in the comforter. It was so cold he could see the puffs of his jagged breath as he sat there trying not to wallow, which wasn’t exactly easy when he was shivering in an apartment he’d shortly be unable to afford, smelling his dead friend’s body spray on the sheets, reliving in his mind how catastrophically it had gone with Viktor.

It’d be almost funny if it weren’t so sad. He hadn’t raised enough ghosts to satisfy Mr. Musizchka, but too many (if she only knew) for Maura’s taste. One kasha too cold, the other too hot. Maybe it was good, he told himself, that Viktor had passed. Kostya didn’t think he could open a ghost restaurant and be with Maura, too. It’d be like running a steak house and dating a vegan.

You kind of had to pick a side.

He wanted Maura; that was as undeniable as the alchemy between butter and salt. It was more than mere attraction, though there was plenty of that. Being with her was like cooking by intuition, without a recipe, just a feeling that this thing and this other one would be magic if you put them together. If it were anything else he needed to give up, any other obstacle he’d have to overcome to be with her, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Never drink again? Done.

Disown your family? Okey dokey.

Rob a bank? Citi or Chase?

But hisaftertastes?Even with all their setbacks, the inconvenience and disappointment and frustration they’d invited into his life, he couldn’t just leave them behind. The good of them was too good.

Each time he succeeded in raising the Dead, the rush was like rocket fuel. It made him feel like he was more than a fluke. Like he was worthy. Impressive. Exceptional.

With every spirit he brought back, he felt like he was changing a life, like what he was doing mattered. He wasn’t sure he could just abandon them—the ghosts, the dishes, the Living—or his decades of flavor profiling, his months of kitchen toil, the shadow parts of himself that he’d only just begun letting into the light.

Then again, maybe Maura was worth that. How he felt when he was feeding her—that was life-changing, too. He could picture it with her. Something real. Long-lasting. He could imagine growing old—his body too stooped to lift a cast-iron pan, his fingers so gnarled they could barely crack eggs—and still working each day to make Maura a meal. To feed her something that would draw out that smile.

But that was insane!

Months of fantasizing notwithstanding, he’d barely spent twenty-four hours in her actual company. He couldn’t throw away everything he’d been working toward for a crush!

… Or could he?

He plopped down onto Frankie’s pillow, wanting the darkness to ingest him, to make it so he wouldn’t have to think, but a sheet of paper fluttered down from the bedside table and he leaned down to fetch it.

It was a daily calendar page featuring a questionable recipe for English Muffin Pizza Bites:If you don’t have pizza sauce handy, sub in pasta sauce or catsup!

This aberration was probably a gift from one of Frankie’s many hookups, someone who actually believed that what a professional chef wanted most for the holidays was 365 days’ worth of bad ideas.

The other side was a menu. Frankie had written it, his cramped block letters dashed off in a flurry, the ink smeared:

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