“Right, right,” Pete says. “And I’ve got to fight my way back across the river, of course. Thanks for your help tonight, okay?”
And, for a second, he twitches forward, like—like he’s going to hug Ben, maybe, or—or lean down and kiss him, carefully at first and then more deeply, drawing him close, and Ben could lose himself in it entirely. They’d be jostled, probably, by hurrying, irritated New Yorkers, and eventually Pete would break away and laugh and say, “Come on, come on, let’s find somewhere better to be,” and they’d duck into an alley and confirm they were alone, and Ben would makeabsolutely surehis Grindr location settings were off, and then Pete would smile and reach for his belt and?—
—oh, but it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing, anyway, probably, a trick of the flickering lights; a second later, Pete’s waving cheerfully over his shoulder, gone before Ben can so much as say good night.
SIX
The rest of October rips past Ben like an overdue bullet train, time streaking recklessly by, each day sliding between his hands like silk before he can totally get a grip on it.
It’s not that it’s abadthing, exactly. Ben’s lived months—years, even—wallowing in such depths where time seemed to become thin and hollow, the minutes stretched out meaningless before him and then flattening to nothing in his memory. This, thankfully, isn’t like that. He’s, for once in his life, busy. Days that used to creep along at a snail’s pace are now sprinting past him, cackling merrily at his shocked expression over their shoulders; there’s simply too much todo.His work on twenty-seven isn’t difficult, but it ispresent, and it’s becoming harder and harder to get it all done. One way or another, he keeps finding himself several floors removed from all that, ensconced instead in the increasingly familiar warmth of theGastronomeoffices.
The footage from their late-night dinner escapade was…well, okay, it certainly wasn’tgood. For one thing, the video quality was nothing compared to what Jaelyn’s fancier equipment would have rendered; when Ben sent her the first cut to make sure it was not unwatchablygrainy, she sent back,Good lord,did you film this in 1987 somehow? Did you convert it from the original VHS? Do you have a backup copy on a floppy disk?
Still: Pete was better in it. A lot better. Ben had been amazed by the difference when he cut the edit together: how much more easily Pete moved, how many more regular human sentences he said, how much easier it was to stitch them into reasonable cooking advice. He still made plenty of errors, of course, and Ben still poked a little fun at his expense in the edit, a little, but it was gentler poking, and thus gentler fun. The overall result was something easier to consume than even the first one, for all it wasn’t quite as funny. Watching it made you feel more like you were in the kitchen of your clumsiest friend, listening to his buddy affectionately razz him, than watching a trained professional beef it for views on camera. The latter of which was, for better or worse, what their first two attempts evoked.
Ben had been nervous, sending the video he’d come to think of as “Heaps for Dinner” off to Dave in S&P. The first video had done well; the second video had followed its footsteps; a tone shift in the third one was a risky choice. On the other hand, it was less risky than their other option, which was submitting nothing and giving Miranda the chance to cheerfully send Ben packing, so. He’d sent it off and tried to focus on other things.
But it had, in the end, gone even more viral than the first one, outperforming their second attempt by a wide margin. And then the video they posted after that, which Pete filmed while Ben was stuck in a multi-hour retrospective meeting for a project on twenty-seven he’d only been an ancillary part of, performed worse than any before it. It wasn’t that anything Pete did in it had been so much more horrible than what happened in the others—dropping multiple sheets of painstakingly hand-rolled pasta while making butternut squash ravioli was about par for the course—but the blank misery and frustration radiating off Pete had spoiled the vibe, no matter how Ben cut it.
So Ben decided he was going to be around for filming after that. For the good of the show, and everything. For thenumbers. For hiscareer.
God, Ben’s not even convincing himself. The truth is, he’s hanging around while Pete films because helikesbeing around while Pete films; he’s hanging out in theGastronomeoffices because he enjoys being there more than in his own. He’s come to know the other test cooks a little—Adina, whose background is in pastry, is a particular friend of Pete’s, so she’d been the first one he connected with. She’s bright and funny and incredibly laid-back about everything except her work; about that, she is an absolute, unrelenting lunatic, which made Ben take an immediate liking to her. She’s also very generous with scraps and samples, and though Ben’s not exactly proud of it, he’s not above being bought by a solid pâte à choux, or a thin slice of apple tart.
She’s probably Ben’s favorite, but the rest of the test cooks are nice enough, too. Ben is not, by nature, the sort of person who generally gets on well with others, so they’re not all a personality match. Brogan, whose focus is primarily on fish and vegetables, is so easygoing that Ben has no idea what to say to her, and Ezra, their meat and butchery expert, seems like he might be someone else’s cup of tea but isn’t exactly Ben’s. Ben, by nature more than intention, is the sort of gay man who’s never quite grasped “camp” as either an adjective or a verb; whether you cover him in sequins and feathers or drop him in the middle of the woods, he’s going to find himself wishing, in fairly short order, that he was at home in his sweatpants. Ezra, on the other hand, is the sort of gay who gets his nails done professionally, and flirts salaciously with anyone who happens by, and often feels called to express himself by bursting out in song. It’s entertaining, of course, and he’s got quite a good voice, but being around him sets Ben’s teeth on edge a little, leaves himwith the raw, uncomfortable itch of not quite fitting into your own community. It’s not that Ben begrudges him expressing himself—if anything, he wishes that he, Ben, had more to express.
Still, it’s nice to have someone else openly queer around. If nothing else, it’s helping Ben solve a little mystery for himself—in the back of his mind, for the last few weeks, he has been compiling a mental dossier without letting himself notice he was doing it. While he worked on editing, and thinking through the production schedules, and considering the best methods to get reasonable human behavior out of Pete, he’d just stuck everything he could find in that folder, every little piece of evidence. But only now has Ben allowed himself to mentally scrawl, across the folder, the actual query he’s hoping its contents will answer:Is Pete Bailey, In Fact, Gay? Or Is He Just Excruciatingly Hot and More Friendly than Most People?
The question is driving Ben slightly insane.
It’s not that he doesn’t have gaydar. Ben has gaydar, of a sort. He can tell immediately when, for example, a guy his sister is dating is gay, or a celebrity is gay, or a couple dining at his parents’ restaurant is gay, as opposed to a pair of middle-aged business associates who are about to be very offended by Ben’s father’s well-meaning assumption. But the minute he, himself, actually likes a guy, all bets are off; somewhat relatedly, Ben has now spent several weeks convinced by turns that Pete is either straight, gay, or bisexual, which he’s sure means absolutely nothing at all. And it doesn’t matter, anyway, since there’s one thing Pete definitely and categorically is, and that’s being so far out of Ben’s league as to be beyond rendering. Even if Ben could determine whether or not Pete liked guys, it wouldn’t mean Pete likedhim.
And Ben doesn’t care if Pete likes him, of course. Why would he care? It’s not as thoughhelikesPete. Or, well, no,that’s not fair—Ben likes Pete, of course he does, as a friend. They’re friends, now; Ben thinks that’s fair to say. They’ve had a variety of meals together, mostly in the test kitchen but also a few quick cafeteria lunches, and that one rainy afternoon towards the middle of the month, where they each scarfed down a hot dog from a street vendor under the protection of some nearby construction scaffolding. Ben’s also gone along for drinks with the test kitchen staff after work twice now and, both times, ended up wound in a long conversation with Pete about some topic or another. And they text, sometimes, about inconsequential stuff, or sharing memes and videos—so, normal friend stuff. Nothing weird there at all.
But in terms oflikingPete, in a less-than-professional, more-than-friendly way: Ben doesn’t. He doesn’t. Hedoes not. Pete is a perfectly lovely and very competent person so long as the camera’s not rolling; he’s kind to animals and children; he never seems to forget anything Ben tells him about himself, even though he does regularly forget almost everything else. And that’s all fine and good and wonderful, Ben is sure, but he’s not about to go and let it make him into some sort of idiot. He knows how things go, with guys like Pete and guys like him—it’s not an even match. Straight or gay, there wouldn’t be any point in Ben nurturing a fixation, or crush, or whatever. He’d just be setting himself up for heartbreak.
This is a good argument, a strong argument. It holds up admirably, despite several tests of Ben’s internal resolve, right up until the Halloween party.
The night of the event, Ben decides, after waffling about it through his entire dinner with Mrs. C, to take a cab to the party.
It’s not the sort of choice he would typically make. Cabs are expensive; if one is going to spring for a cab, best to save one’smoney for the ridehome,when one is likely to be far less sober, and thus far more incompetent at navigating the labyrinthine maze of the subway.
But tonight is not Ben’s typical party experience, because Ben’s typical party experience, at least here in New York, is something like a networking event, or the wedding of a family friend, or a public restaurant opening advertised online, which Ben is typically just dropping by at for the food, anyway.Thisis a real, genuine party. A food media party. Afood media Halloween party. It’s apparently an annual thing, held in some warehouse space owned by one of Rick’s friends, and invite-only. That Ben has an invite, if a somewhat last-minute one, still feels like maybe it’s a prank, or the result of a critical error, like mixing up his name with someone else’s.
Nevertheless, Rick had pressed the invitation into Ben’s actual hands himself only yesterday, breezily saying, “Kid! There you are. You don’t come to our staff meetings, so I keep forgetting to give this to you. Learned my lesson about emailing it out a few years ago; if that creep from the sports desk on twenty-three shows up this year, I’m going to end up getting arrested, so try not to spread the news around the building, okay? But I promise, it’ll be worth canceling your plans.” Ben had laughed in what he hoped was a convincing impression of someone who might, conceivably, have plans to cancel.
He’d unfolded the invitation with slightly trembling hands; even now, as he hails and climbs into the back of a cab, it’s burning a hole in his pocket. It’s a crude, handwritten thing in the style of house party invitations in eighties films, photocopied onto a half sheet of neon printer paper, and he knows he’s being stupid bringing it with him—it’s not like someone is going to be checking them at the door. But, pathetically, Ben knows himself well enough to know he’ll need the proof, the piece of physicalevidence that he’s wanted here, to make himself walk through the door.
He sweats through the cab ride, relieved that he has landed a stoic, silent driver. For the thousandth time, he looks down at his outfit, even knowing that it’s far too late, at this point, to do anything about it—he just hadn’t known whichdirectionto go. For gay Halloween in Michigan, at least in his teens and much of his twenties, Ben had generally thrown on some messy eyeliner and whatever band T-shirt he felt would play best to the crowd, called it a day. It had always gone over well enough. Since then, he has transitioned into what he thinks of as New York City Introvert Halloween, which, depending on the year, either involves wearing pajamas and handing out Twix bars to kids in his building, or hiding in his apartment with the lights off, pretending that he isn’t home. But this is semi-professional Halloween, the dress code on the invite offering the guidance,Costumes required. Dress to impress but not to kill; if you wouldn’t want it on your LinkedIn, don’t wear it.
With very little time to decide, and even less time to shop, Ben had made the executive decision to half-ass it. Really, it was his only move, and when he climbs out of the cab, he takes a minute in front of the large brick building to assess the clothing under his gray wool peacoat. Staring down at his well-worn maroon chinos and the branded ketchup T-shirt Renata sent him for his birthday a few years ago, he hopes to God he’s made the right call. He’s looking to come off like a cool, understated guy who doesn’t care very much about his costume one way or the other, as opposed to what he is, which is something more akin to an alien meeting human beings for the first time.
Still, he’s made it here, and he’s bound to know a few people—he’d asked Pete about it, and Pete grinned and said, “Oh, yeah, everyone will be there, it’s a blast,” but then they’d both been distracted by trying to solve for a missing element of a bologneseEzra was working on (it needed some simmering time with a parmesan rind, in the end) and the conversation had been lost. But “everyone” both sounded promising and implied Pete would be there, which Ben is, admittedly, counting on. Rick had said he invited everyone else in theGastronomestaff meeting, so there will probably be one person Ben has exchanged pleasant conversation with, but he’d prefer a proper ally.
He is not going to find one by way of loitering outside the building awkwardly. He takes a breath, steels himself, and steps inside.
It’s clear from the moment Ben steps through the door that the party is on the first floor, and close by. Taking off his coat and draping it over his arm, Ben follows the sound through the large, high-ceilinged, and mostly open-concept warehouse space, brick outer walls and cement floors broken only by white plaster dividers that don’t reach the ceiling. Ben would truly hate to work in a space like this, with sound bouncing around every wall, but it does make it easy to find the gathering, which is centered in a large, heavily windowed back area.
It’s not at all what Ben expected, which is to say he hadn’t known quite what to expect. What he’d hazily pictured had featured things like a tower of shrimp, or little hand-passed canapés with intricate flavor profiles, and guests standing around with very erudite expressions, critiquing each bite. Instead, what he sees reminds him more of parties his parents would occasionally throw for morale at Trattoria Luciana, or the annual Fleur de Sel Halloween blowout, at which everyone would have a little too much fun, and after which the following day’s openers would wish a variety of horrors on everyone involved. There’s alotof food, on every available surface that isn’t covered by the staggering variety of booze, but it’s a disconnected hodgepodge of different cuisines, dishes, presentations. After a few minutes of looking around the room,he’s able to connect some of the faces he sees—faces famous enough, in the food and restaurant world, to make Ben’s eyes bug out a little—with some of the food on the tables. He realizes, a little staggered by it, that this party is essentially a potluck: Anyone here who owns a restaurant must have come with some catering to offer.
