“Who are you texting? Kiara? Chester?”
“Not everything is about you.” I roll my eyes. “I had a life before this, you know.”
He scowls. “Try this.”
We’re standing in front of a produce stand. There’s a husband-and-wife team behind the table, wearing matching aprons and smiling as they sell tourists and locals alike on their fruits and vegetables. Jack picks up a paper tasting cup with a sliver of something yellow inside.
“You’re not trying to poison me, are you?” I eye the cup. “You know my secret now.”
“Just try it.”
I take the cup. “What is it?”
“Starfruit.” He scrubs his hand over his nape. “They don’t have pineapple at this stand. No cross-contamination.”
My belly does a happy flop at his words. He’s so serious, and it’s nice to see him be serious when it comes to me. Well, when it comes to keeping me alive, at least. I pick up the piece of starfruit—which I now notice does look like a star, with translucent yellow flesh—and put it in my mouth.
Sweetness bursts on my tongue. “Wow.”
“They’re perfect when they’re ripe.”
“It’s delicious.”
“I want us to think of a way we can use it,” he says, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook. He pulls a pencil out from behind his ear, licking the tip before writing. “Maybe candied as a dessert garnish. Or as an element of sweetness in a sauce. We could do a pork chop with starfruit and cherries.”
“Or we could put it in a salsa,” I offer. “Maybe over blackened fish?”
He taps the notebook with the pencil. “Delicious. Let’s get a few pounds and experiment.”
“Restauranteurs?” the woman asks as she weighs the starfruit for us.
Jack hands her cash. “Sort of.”
“He’s being modest,” I say, nudging his side. “We’re opening arestaurant up in Diamond Bay soon, right on the water. It’s called Fable.”
“The old Sailfish spot?” she says.
“Yeah,” Jack says, a wary note in his voice.
The woman smiles sadly; she pats Jack’s arm. “I was so sorry to hear of Sal’s death.” She adds a few more starfruit to our bag. “You do right by him.”
“I’m trying.” Jack smiles, but it’s stiff.
“She seemed nice,” I say, as we amble to another booth.
“Last time I came here, it was with Sal.” He shakes his head slightly. “Doesn’t look that different.”
After an hour of walking around the Greenmarket, it’s obvious that Sal knew most of the vendors, and by extension, many of them remember Jack, too. Jack braces himself each time he’s offered a hello or an extra sample, as if expecting to be reprimanded, but that never happens. A baker who knew Sal comes around his table to hug him—I smile at the bewildered look on Jack’s face—as his husband presses a free loaf of walnut-cranberry sourdough into my hands. A local distiller insists upon handing off a bottle of gin to us; we promise to get in touch about stocking it behind the bar at Fable. The cooler bags Jack brought along grow heavy with ingredients, each one representing a new dish for him to work on.
He wants fresh pasta on the menu. Seafood stew. Korean barbecue inspired steak, seared tuna, a vegan dinner salad filled with roasted vegetables, topped with tahini and lemon. I start taking notes after a while, typing way faster on my phone than he can manage writing in that little book. The sun beats down on us both. My body zings with electricity every time we accidentally touch. I steadfastly ignore both. This is the most we’ve spoken about the menu at one time, and I don’t want to mess up his flow, especially with how animated it’s gotten him. There’s passion in every word, and I’m addicted to the way his eyes shine with each new idea.
“Let me do the prep later,” I suggest, voice hesitant, when we finally settle underneath an enormous tree by the water to enjoy some of our spoils. The air smells hot and salty, and I’m grateful for the shade of the leafy canopy. We have a bag of street tacos filled with shredded chicken and slaw, wrapped tightly in foil, plus freshlymade Italian sodas. “I can get the mise en place set up and take notes while you cook.”
He unwraps a taco. His eyes shut at the first bite. He chews slowly, as if picking out each spice on his tongue. I bet if I asked him to list all the ingredients, he’d be able to. I wish I had that talent. I wish I could look at a table of random produce and see dozens of menu options.
“It’s going to be a long night,” he warns eventually.
“Good thing we’re heading to the same place after.”
