Page 57 of Left of Forever

I have a sinking feeling this entire debacle is about to get ugly.

“Everyone needs to divide into three groups,” Bernie explains. “One will be in charge of samosas, one will be making a variety of chutneys, and the last will be assembling keema. There are no vegetarians or diet restrictions here, yeah?” We all sound off our nos. The maid of honor yells out, “Naur!” obnoxiously. “Right, then,” says Bob, sharing a long-suffering look with Bernie before continuing. “Everyone, divvy up! Only rule is y’can’t stay in a group with the partner you came with! I know, I know. Very sad. But the goal of this class is to mingle. To mix it up and do something fresh. Feel free to put your spin on any part of your dish you’d like, but you’ll find instructions are in the binder at your island, along with all the proper tools you’ll require.”

This new bit takes me from mildly irritated to flat-out annoyed. I don’t want something fresh. I don’t want to mix it up. I need to be back with my wife as much as humanly possible and spending this time wisely. I’m officially pissed at Sam.

“Wanna sneak out?” I try, leaning into Wren.

“If they tracked us down earlier through a property-wide sound system, you think they’ll let us ditch without a fuss now?” She chuckles. “I’m hungry, anyway.” She swats my ass lightly before she struts off toward the samosa island, immediately wrangling the groom, the maid of honor, and Ferret’s partner to her station.

I’m pouting. I love when she gets bossy in a kitchen.

Of course Ferret moves to me first. Dammit. The bride and a barely coherent groomsman join us.

“Bear,” Ferret says, holding out his hand for me to shake. Fuck, that’s not going to be easy to remember.

“Ellis,” I reply with a worn-out sigh, taking his clammy palm in mine.

I learn that the bride’s name is Tabitha, and the groomsman (who is also the best man) goes by Schwartz.

Bob turns up the music again just as Bernie comes dancing around with a tray full of shots.

Great. This is definitely gonna get ugly. I take one, salute Wren from across the room, then toss it back. If you can’t leave them, join them, I guess?

Schwartz starts reading the directions for the spicy pineapple chutney with one eye shut. I start pulling ingredients out of bowls and grab a cutting board and a knife, moving aside a pair of gloves that was haphazardly thrown in with the pineapple.

Tabitha’s fading fast all of a sudden. After apologizing to me a few more times about comparing me to the Crypt Keeper and leaning into my shoulder drowsily, she’s now swaying to Michael Bublé and drinking from a tumbler with a penis straw. Fer—Bearis completely off task and useless, gone hunting for “an aged Riesling” because “anything else might as well be bilgewater with this meal.” I am the soberest, so I grab the knife and get to chopping. Pineapple first, then the chilies. Tabitha and Schwartz start bickering about what he is and isn’t allowed to talk about in his best man speech while they absentmindedly eat the diced pineapple straight from the bowl. I slide it away and chop a bit more, then cut up the onions as quickly as I can. I’ve cooked in a firehouse for years and have never desensitized my eyes to the damn things, so of course they start to water in the process. I wipe at them with the back of my wrist and wrap up the rest of the cutting that needs to get doneso I can make a quick trip to the bathroom and not leave my dead-drunk team unsupervised with knives.

A spot under my eye starts burning when I’ve taken care of my business and start washing my hands. I swipe at it with a little cool water and get back out into the kitchen. Christ, someone started playing “Sweet Caroline.” We’ve descended into chaos. Bob and Bernie look out on the group fondly, like this is any regular old Sunday to them.

The maid of honor is now fast asleep, slumped in a chair on the patio with her head hanging limply, shoes cradled in her lap. Wren’s all business, making her still-upright teammates laugh and smile. She’s got everyone in a line putting together samosas and has some already cooking in a fryer.

Shit, my eye burns again. It starts to water. I wipe at it again and it gets worse, right before the other one starts to sting, too. I rub at them harder, and suddenly, it’s like I poked at hot embers and stirred up a flame.

My heart starts to pummel in my chest, panic ratcheting through me as the pain picks up. The sting is immediately too raw to open either of my eyes at all and I don’t know my way around this place, so I don’t know what to do or where to go.

“Ellis?” I hear Wren ask when I bump into an island and curse. Tears are still leaking from my eyes despite being clenched shut as tight as I can keep them. “Ellis, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No. I don’t know what happened. My eyes are on fire. I… I can’t open them.” As soon as I say this, I feel a tingle in another place.

The absolute last place I want to feel a burn.

It ignites the moment my brain acknowledges it.

FUCK.

CHAPTER 29

WREN

Ellis is doing a potty dance.

I’m sure there’s a better way to describe it, but that is all that comes to mind at the moment. A very large, very grown man’s version of a potty dance.

He alternates lifting his knees and slightly crossing them, sputtering out a litany of curses. His eyes are still clenched shut, and his hands continuously ball and spread at his sides.

“Oh no!” Bernie yells, fluttering over here in all her linen. I guess she saidaur nauragain after all. “Did you not wear the gloves?!” she asks Ellis, a horrified look on her face.

Ellis turns toward her voice, but he’s angled about a foot off in the wrong direction. “The gloves weren’t in the instructions!” he says helplessly.