Page 46 of Yule Know It When You See It
Moments later, we’re sitting at a corner table in Scarpacci’s, the lighting moody and dim, with most of the illumination from the artificial fire table sconces. I trail my fingers over the red and white checkered tablecloth, dryness coating my throat, knowing what comes next.
Desiree orders us each a personal-sized deep-dish pizza, and I’m thankful to have lunch for the next two days. Despite its labeling as “personal-sized,” they are still big enough and loaded with so many ingredients that most end up eating only one portion of it and carting the rest home in a doggy bag.
“With how long Scarpacci’s has been in business, I’m surprised the magazine has you covering here,” I say with genuine curiosity and only marginally as a deterrent.
“They’re under new management. Now—” Desiree states this with such flippancy that I want to slap my palms on the table but decide on decorum instead.
“Wait. New management? That means the recipe could’ve changed.” I grip the table’s sides. “It could taste entirely different. I’m unsure if I’m ready for this type of world-rocking right now, Des. I—”
Her foot kicks my calf underneath the table, not with the brute force of an MMA fighter, but enough to make me gape at her. “Focus, Hackett. Tell me what’s going on.”
This is a can of worms I’d hoped to leave buried in the ground, rotting until each worm became a shriveled, dried-up, non-existent speck in the universe.
“I never told you about the last guy I dated. I mean, dated seriously.” Yanking the paper ring from the napkin in front of me, I begin tearing it into microscopic pieces. “We’d been dating for a couple of years. He was a fellow writer at my local newspaper before Celestial. He covered most of the artsy fartsy happenings in the area.”
Desiree lets out a breath like a deflating puffer fish and leans back. “Oh, man. I can already guess where this is going.” A frown pulls at her lips, and I can appreciate this expression because she’s constantly reminded me how such mouth movements can cause wrinkles.
“Our editor asked me to go to this Shakespeare event they were having and write not only about the event but the romance vibes in the air.” A snow pile of white paper rests on the table now and I swirl my finger in it. “He thought me better suited for the task given my aptitude for flowery prose.” I smirk, remembering this and how absurd it sounded at the time, but now would take the compliment and frame it in hindsight.
Desiree remains silent, even when the waiter brings glasses of red wine. She picks one up and swirls its contents. Taking a tiny bit in her mouth, she tastes it and nods to herself as if making a mental note instead of physically jotting it down straight away.
“So, I worked the piece, took photos, did interviews, and wrote one of the better straight-laced articles of my career.” My sinuses sting, but never being a fan of crying in public, I gulp the threatening tears away.
“Did that asshole seriously steal it somehow?” Desiree’s frown deepens, a crinkle forming in her brow.
A laugh pushes from my throat—but not out of amusement or the kind you do when you’re so in pain and don’t know what else to do—no, this one is a laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Yes. Yes, he did. I’m still unsure how he convinced our editor that we’d partnered on it. He straight lied that he had enough input to call it his article. And it’s all because I asked himonequestion.” I make a fist and smoosh the paper pile until every piece is flattened. “But it was enough ammunition, he knew that I couldn’t argue and say I didn’t.”
“Wow.” Desiree taps her fingernails on the table in a jittery staccato. “I don’t know this jerk, and I want to knee him in the balls.”
“I’d have broken up with him over it and stayed at the paper because I loved the people I worked with, but when he stood in front of them all and blatantly took full credit for the piece—” Sighing, I focus my gaze on the green branches interwoven with holly and off-white lights bordering the rafters above us. “—I knew I couldn’t make it work and put in my two weeks the next day.”
“I’ll say this much.” Desiree reaches across the table and pats my hand. “I’m only glad because I met my best friend at Celestial Magazine when she came puttering in, all bright-eyed and disheartened. Now I know what was up with the latter.”
Sniffling, I bite my lip and rest my other hand atop hers. “Always a silver lining, right?” Our pizzas arrive, and the tangy smell of tomato mingling with cheese, sausage, and crust has the corners of my mouth watering.
Desiree rests a notepad beside her plate, quickly scribbling something onto it. She takes a photo of the spread with her phone, picks up her fork, and raises it to me for us to clink together like toasting with glasses.
“I’ll let you savor a bite of that before your mouth starts moving to explain why you were stammering like a broken record while simultaneously trying to overdose on sugar in the office.” Desiree points at me with her fork before we both shovel heaping bites.
We are a mix of groans, moans, and all other noises far less suitable for a public restaurant. But with flavor like this, it’s impossible not to vocalize your appreciation. Thankfully, the recipe hasn’t changed a bit. I take far more chews than necessary, delaying the inevitable, and once I make an exaggerated gulp, Desiree’s hand is on my plate, sliding it away from me.
I hold the fork poised for stabbing and stare at her hand. “Des?”
“Calm down, Aquaman. I’ll let you have a bite for every piece of information you divulge. Deal?” Des licks her lips and writes something on her notepad.
“Your evil bargaining prowess with pizza is unmatched.”
The crooning, melancholy tones ofPlease ComeHome for Christmasby Eagles play over the loudspeakers. Ironic. The volume makes it just faint enough to cause an irritated pang in the back of my skull.
“Axel and I have grown—closer,” I start, mentally patting myself on the back for sayingsomething, anything, despite being lured with delicious meat pie.
Desiree pulls a bite from her pizza, purposefully making the cheese go stringy as she lifts it above her head. “Nuh-uh. You don’t get a bite for that. Weallknew that.”
Snarling, I cross my ankles and slide them beneath my seat. “We’ve kissed. More than once. With tongue.”
Desiree chokes on pizza and reaches for her wine, coaxing it down the right pipe. “When the hell did this happen?”
“The practice day before the actual hockey game? He was there ice skating and—” Desiree shoves the plate to me, and I stab my fork into it like a starving chimpanzee, scooping it into my mouth before she can take it away.
