Only then did I step into the kitchen.
Three fully cooked pizzas were arranged on the counter. They were homemade pizzas, on cutting boards, golden-crusted and bubbling, each one topped differently in what appeared to be an organized progression from conservative (margherita) to ambitious (something involving figs and prosciutto) to unhinged (an arrangement of toppings I could not immediately identify but included what appeared to be sliced peaches and chili flakes and a drizzle of honey that was still being applied by Benji, who was holding a squeeze bottle at a height that suggested he believed honey application was a form of performance art).
Three more pizzas were in the double oven. I could see them through the glass at various stagesof doneness, rotating on the racks in a production cycle that implied a volume of food designed for significantly more people than currently occupied this apartment.
Popcorn was happening in three separate pots on the stove, because apparently one pot of popcorn was insufficient for whatever Benji had planned. Each pot was producing kernels at a rate that had already overflowed one bowl and was threatening a second.
Benji stood in the middle of all of it, wearing an apron I didn’t know I owned over his boxers and inside-out dinosaur shirt. His hair, now orange (because orange was apparently the correct follicular pairing with pizza) defied several laws of physics. His movements carried the frantic precision of a man who was running late for something he hadn’t told anyone about.
I opened my mouth to ask why there were six pizzas in my kitchen on a Monday evening, but a loud banging sounded at the front door, silencing my voice before it could even escape my mouth.
Benji held up one finger, set down the honey bottle, vaulted over Potato (who was on the floor in the direct center of the kitchen’s primary traffic lane, because Potato’s spatial awareness was nonexistent and his commitment to inconvenient locations wasabsolute), and sprinted to the front door.
“Jacks!” he said loud enough for every person living with a twenty-mile radius to hear. “You’re early. Come in. Come in. Put the beer wherever. Peter’s home. No, he doesn’t know yet, but he’s going to be fine with it.”
I stood in the kitchen,mykitchen, surrounded by six pizzas and three pots of popcorn. Jacks walked in carrying a six-pack and a canvas bag, his face wearing the mild, apologetic expression of a man who suspected he was arriving at a crime scene but had committed to attending and wasn’t about to flee lest the cops suspect he was in on whatever had occurred.
“Peter,” Jacks said.
“Jacks.”
“I brought beer.”
“I see that.”
“I also brought the movie. I was told I’m in charge of the movie.”
“Of course you are. You’re in charge of the movie for an event that I’m learning about right now—at this moment—as you walk into my kitchen.”
Benji reappeared from somewhere behind me, having completed a lap of the apartment at a speed that suggested he was powered by adrenaline, Red Bull, and the knowledge that he had approximately thirty seconds to explain himself before I startedasking questions in the tone I used when a pet owner told me they’d been “supplementing” their dog’s diet with chocolate.
“So,” Benji said. “The bar is closed tonight.”
“I know the bar is closed tonight. The bar is closed every Monday.”
“Right, butthisMonday the bar is closed for a deep clean. Finn hired an industrial crew to do the floors, the vents, and the whole kitchen exhaust system. It’s a full shutdown, which means the entire gang has the night off, which never happens. Peter, weneverall have the same night off. It’s like a solar eclipse of scheduling, on the Mayan calendar, because that would be more dramatic and mysterious. And I thought, instead of everyone sitting in their separate apartments staring at walls—”
“You invited them here.”
“I invited them here.”
“To my apartment.”
“Toourapartment.”
I sucked in a deep breath. Let it out. Then clicked my tongue. And blinked.
“Without telling me.”
“Without telling youin advance. I’m telling younowwith full transparency and honesty and also with six pizzas, which I made from scratch, Peter. The dough has been rising since noon. I learnedthe fig-and-prosciutto combination from Rod. The peach situation is experimental, but I’m confident—”
“How many people?”
This was a concession disguised as a question.
Benji knew it was a concession, and I knew he knew, and it annoyed me to no end that he knew, and he knew that I knew, and I knew that he knew that I knew.
Our negotiation proceeded along its previously established track: I requested logistical details, he provided them with confidence, and by the time I’d assembled enough information to mount an objection, I’d already agreed. It was all sadly predictable.
