Page 45 of Back for Seconds

“Who will tell someone…?”

“Someone at church, yeah. Maybe even Darla.”

I raised a brow. “Amber’s mom?”

Joey gave me a quick nod, still eyeing the kitchen door like it might come to life and reveal that we were being live streamed directly to Bruce Jenkins’s flat screen TV. “Yeah. Darla Sanders.”

I blinked. “Amber’s last name is…is Sanders?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You dated someone named…Amber Sanders?”

“Yeah?”

Suddenly, I was choking on laughter. An unstoppable torrent of giggles. “Amber…Sanders…Ambersanders.”

“June, knock it off.” He pulled the paper off his straw, balled it up, and flicked it at me. “I don’t get it.”

“Like ampersand? Her name is ampersand.”

Joey’s cheeks began turning a deep shade of red. “It’s not that funny.”

I threw my head back and howled. “Being a gorgeous beachside goddess and having a name like ampersand? It’s fucking hilarious. Oh my god. I can’t wait to meet her friends, Jim Nasium and Phillis Stein.”

“Ha ha ha,” Joey snarked. “Laugh it up, Alfiero.”

So I did. I laughed harder than I had in a very long time.

***

Sandra made her way back to us, tray in hand, with two ice waters and a basket of french fries, fried pickles, and onion rings—“Joey’s favorite,” she let me know with a wink—before pulling a pad and pen out of her apron. “You two know what you want?” Sandra gave Joey a look filled with years-wizened knowledge.

And he flashed her the brightest, warmest smile I’d seen from him yet. “I think we both want The Joey tonight.”

I tried to hold back the heat rising in my cheeks. Boy, did I.

Everything was fried perfectly to a shade of golden brown that made my chest ache, and each bite gave way with the most satisfying crunch between our teeth. Crispy on the outside, tender in the middle. Each bite was a burst of exacted seasoning—just enough salt, simple spice from cracked black pepper, a dash of something tangy like cream of tartar. It was nostalgia and comfort and safety all in a single bite.

Joey sunk his teeth into an onion ring and his eyes fluttered shut. “This… Heaven.”

“Mm,” I managed, licking the perfect patina of grease and salt off my lips before picking up another french fry. “Heaven.”

After we’d cleared our paper-lined basket filled with joy, Sandra brought out another plate—dolma and grilled artichoke hearts, garnished with Kalamata olives.

The dolma melted in my mouth, as bright as a summer sunset. It wasn’t just a stuffed grape leaf; it was longer days and fresher air. The tang of the oil, the bite of lemon, the creaminess of the rice and grape leaf. Was I still on planet Earth?

“Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” Joey agreed.

“This is unbelievable.” I shook my head in awe-struck disbelief. “How did you find this place? Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?”

“My nonna and Sandra’s mom were sisters—which I guess makes Sandra my second cousin once removed or something?” He shrugged and popped a dolma in his mouth, whole. “They shared all sorts of recipes, then Sandra opened this place up in the nineties, and my grandmother would bring us here on Sundays for lunch. Sandra married into a Greek family—” He paused to eat another dolma, out of respect for his fictive kin. “And so her mother-in-law brought along all her family recipes.”

“Women. What did we do to deserve them?” Then I reached for his wrist, placing my fingertips against his cool skin. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Joey shrugged his shoulders. “This is what Christmas is all about, JB. Food, family, laughing our asses off, looking at the lights. This is why you love the holidays.” He reached for my forearm and gave me a squeeze. It wasn’t the type of touch from Joey that set my world on fire. Instead, it melted away the last bit of anger and discomfort in my gut. It was a touch that also felt like home.