Page 36 of The New Year's Party
In her circuit around the room, she now had a view through the archway toward the dining room. She could make out Olivia, looking like a goddess in a silky yellow number, and Hellie in some cheap empire waist slinky green thing. Bunny loved Hellie, but did shetryto look like a little girl, was that a conscious choice, or...? And Jenn, in a black halter top and silky bias-cut skirt, obsessively placing little sequins on her paper top hat. Will was smiling at something Hellie was saying, but his expression looked strained. Bennett was watching Will and fidgeting with a piece of construction paper, even though he already had a hat onhishead. Damn, Bennett looked good. Bunny had always had a thing for tall men. And Doug—God, he didnotlook good: sweat stains the size of Montana, his cheeks a blotchy red, his hair curling around his face in sweaty locks, wielding a glue gun in a very unsafe-looking way.
She focused her glare on oblivious Will.Why did you screw me over?she mused. Of course, seeing the group all together like this, she had to allow that it might not have been Will... or at least not directly. He might have told someone else, under the guise of confidentiality, of course, who then told Grandpa Max. Bunny didn’t grow up yesterday; she knew how gossip worked. How secrets could snake from ear to ear until they made it to the very person you never wanted to know.
Oh, God... Nathan. Didheknow?
Her heartbeat drummed uncomfortably. What she needed to do was get Will alone and grill him until he squealed.
And then what?
What would she do once she had the culprit’s name?
She allowed herself dramatic visions of punching whoever it was in the face (did the thumb go inside or outside the fist?). Slashing their tires or keying their car—ooh, she could write a country song aboutthat. Girl-power revenge songs always did well. Or... poison. Not a deadly poison, she wasn’t a killer, but something to make them really fuckingsick. She imaginedthem leaning over the toilet all night, feeling as shitty as she had felt after her procedure, all alone with cramps that felt like they were eviscerating her.
Will was the first to notice Bunny standing there. Was it a trick of the light, or was there a second of unpleasant shock in his expression? If it was even there to begin with, it was quickly replaced with a big smile.
“Hey, it’s Bunny!” he cried. The room exploded.
“Back from the dead!” she joked, opening her arms for the barrage of hugs as everyone surged forward. “And I hope you’re all in the market for essential oils or sex toys, because no one is leaving here without making a purchase! Time to update your dildos, ladies!”
Chapter 18
Phelps
Bunny was literally trying to sell sex toys. He’d thought she was joking, but she’d pulled them out of her bag and they were now displayed on the dining room table, in the middle of all the crafting chaos. An aqua dildo scaled toAvatarproportions, ridged with what looked like rows of gills. An egg-shaped vibrator. Pink fur-lined cuffs. Something that looked like a leather pom-pom, and a purple light-up riding crop that sparkled on impact.
“So this one is on the large side, but post-babies, let’s be real—we need something a little more substantial, don’t we?” Bunny was saying, waving the aqua dildo like a flag.
Phelps had to chuckle at Jenn’s expression, which was horrified. Olivia looked politely interested, and Hellie was stroking the cuffs as if the pink fur was a cat. If anyone was going to purchase a sex toy tonight, his bets were on Allie, who had picked up the riding crop and was smacking it against her palm as it winked and blinked.
He wouldn’t mind if Jenn just got offended and left, like she’d done... which year was it? Dragging Will with her, freaking out about her unborn baby inhaling marijuana smoke... But tonight, she was stuck to Will like duct tape. When Will had come to the kitchen to ask if he could help, Jenn came too.
“Go back and sex toy shop with the ladies,” said Phelps. “We bro-dudes need to catch up in our own special way.”
“That’s okay,” said Jenn sweetly. “I’d prefer to help in the kitchen, really! Sex stuff isn’t really our thing.”
“You evangelicals don’t have sex?” Phelps said. “I thought immaculate conceptions were a Catholic thing?”
“Very funny,” said Jenn, but she didn’t look amused.
No way that energy was staying in his kitchen.
“I have a different job for you two, then. Take drink orders and mix up some beverages. Supplies are in the bar cart. There’s stuff downstairs in the basement bar too.”
“I’m not drinking,” said Jenn.
“Perfect. None of the best bartenders drink,” said Phelps. “And hey, we need to get the dining table cleared off for dinner. Go commission someone to move all the crafty shit to the living room.”
That dispatched the two of them, and in the welcome silence, Phelps took the long slab of salmon out of the fridge. He’d dropped almost a hundred dollars on it. Thirteen bucks a pound, but it was fresh, never frozen, and a nice thick center piece.
He slathered the salmon with oil on all sides, then salted it. Dinner was thirty minutes away from being ready, and it was finally starting to feel like a party in here. Of course there had been some awkwardness with all the arrivals. It had been so long since they were all together. But he could feel everyone warming up to each other. Throw some food in the mix, some more booze, and this could end up being the best night of his year.
He relished the sound of merriment from the dining room: Olivia’s throaty laugh; Bennett’s energetic cackle; Hellie’s raspy caw. It was good to have his friends here, to be cooking for them.
Cooking had always been his sanctuary. He was neverreligious, even before he had reason to really hate religion, but you could say that, in a way, food was his religion. He’d had a knack for it since he was young. His favorite childhood toy? The plastic kitchen set his mom picked up at Goodwill, missing most of the pieces, but still completely wonderful. He’d pretend to fry eggs, or bake cookies, and he felt... great. Then he started helping out at his uncle’s restaurant when he was fourteen, and worked at Rock the Clock a couple summers, where he really got a taste for the business, and what a food establishment could mean to people. His senior year, he disappointed all his school counselors by not applying for college like they all so desperately wanted him to, but instead becoming a full-time employee at his uncle’s place as a line cook, and dating Bunny.
Well, dating Bunny hadn’t ultimately been good, nor had working for his uncle, who was unquestionably an asshole, but... thecookinghad been good. It was simple, unlike everything else in Phelps’s life. You took these ingredients, and you made them taste fucking great. Done. That was cooking. You couldn’t lie with cooking. It either tasted good or it didn’t. There was a raw honesty to it. And Phelps had a knack. When people loved his cooking, it was the same as if they loved him—better, actually, because he hadn’t tricked them into it. He would never forget that first New Year’s, when Doug put him in charge of an elaborate menu, which he spent all day cooking. They were all still young and stupid back then, and, yes, Phelps had undercooked the salmon that night, but the poached pears—the way Olivia had groaned when she took that first bite—
Better than sex. Feeding people, experiencing their pleasure in what you’d created, was better than coitus. God’s honest truth.
