Page 90 of Aftertaste

KOSTYA RODE THAThigh through midnight, when he sat alone in his kitchen, the restaurant empty, the staff sent home to rest (who was he kidding; they were almost certainly at a bar) before their grand opening the next day. He took a long swig of champagne from one of the two fizzing glasses he’d set out, and opened the plastic bag beside them, a dozen packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups inside.

Maura was on her way to meet him.

“I want to give you a tour of the restaurant,” he’d told her. “Just us. Before the insanity of opening to the public. I want to show you everything.”

“Can’t wait,” she said. “We gonna eat in your fancy kitchen?”

“Absolutely. I want you to taste the whole menu. And I”—he said it before he could stop himself—“I might even have a surprise.”

He’d decided it the night he’d come home to find Maura waiting for him. They had just experienced the euphoria of love, of confessing it and receiving it and making it, this incomparable feeling he had waited and hoped for, and then, right there in the room, practically climbing into bed with them, had been Everleigh.

Maura would never be free so long as her sister’s ghost held on. He would never be free either. Never be certain that Maura was safe. That Death wasn’t just around the corner, threatening their happiness. That they were truly alone together.

But he had the power to change that.

He was going to bring Everleigh back again. To give Maura and her sister another chance at closure. He wasn’t sure it would work; some of the ghosts he’d resurrected had implied that these were one-time trips. But unlike those ghosts, Everleigh was still here. Still sending him aftertastes. And if thatwasn’t a sign of wanting more, he didn’t know what was. So he’d made up his mind to try. He’d gathered the Reese’s. He had everything he needed.

Everything except Maura’s permission.

And knowing how she’d hesitated before bringing Everleigh back, how secretive she’d been, how unwilling to open up about it, she would probably take some convincing.

Kostya puttered nervously around the stations, trying to keep himself busy. He arranged and rearranged the food he planned to serve, moved things out of the pantry (and back in), added oil to the deep fryer, washed produce. He refilled (then drank more of) their glasses of champagne. He was in the middle of changing clothes (nervous sweat had soaked right through his button-down) when Maura texted that she was a block away.

“Stupid stylist. Stupid tiny buttons,” he muttered, fumbling with the holes.

He wanted tonight to go right; heneededit to. If he could make it to opening night with Maura safe from ghosts and by his side, the culinary world at his feet, all those people he might help, both Living and Dead—it would be everything he’d ever wanted.

And then, at long last, he could do the other thing he’d been waiting for. The thing he’d been longing to do since that first ghost appeared in The Library of Spirits.

He could bring back his dad.

Here, Maura messaged him, and Kostya swallowed the flavor of chocolate in the back of his throat and rose to meet her.

FUCK, I HATEthis part.

Deep breath. Okay.

I slept with you again. Every chance I got.

I visited the Afterlife.

I kept tabs on the Food Tour.

There were more spirits gathering. So many. The crowd restless, eager to begin. Sooner or later, I figured, Ev would show up there. Be on that tour when it left. Which seemed like a better way to find her than aimlessly searching the Afterlife.

But there were delays. Frankie kept stalling. He gave tours of your early aftertastes; he explained how you brought those spirits back. But no one new went through. Not yet.

He was waiting on you, he told us. On your restaurant for ghosts.

It didn’t take me long to figure he meant DUH.

So I encouraged you. Pushed you toward Viktor even though he was a sleaze. Pushed you toward the Dead despite the risks. Pushed you into the kitchen because that was where I needed you. But it didn’t work fast enough.

My Hunger took a turn.

When I wasn’t around you, the cravings got worse. They were eating mealive, reaching for Death, demanding it. I was scared to be alone, to go to sleep. The day I showed up with those pastries, I’d woken screaming, the Hunger pangs so sharp and strong I had to fight to wake at all. I was scared that, one day soon, I’d close my eyes and never open them again. That the Hunger would take me while I dreamed.

I couldn’t wait for the tour, or for your restaurant.

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