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“I’ve got it together,” I said. “Or pretty much together, at least. Which is no small miracle to tell you the truth.”
“Why’s that?”
“I did something terrible that involves watching a certain movie that I love, and now I’m facing the consequences.”
“Which movie’s that?”
“Roman Holiday.”
He was quiet for a minute, as he finished adding in the lobster and the cheese. “Are you usually this honest?” he asked.
“No never. Never in the history of my life,” I said. Then I added, “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I agree with you.”
“Agree with me about what?” I said.
“Roman Holiday’s a really great movie,” he said.
I smiled.
Griffin took the pan off the still-going burner, and scooped out a large forkful of the eggs, blowing on it, slowly and deliberately, before holding it out for me to take the first bite.
“You may want to brace yourself,” he said.
“I’m braced,” I said.
Then I took a bite of the eggs and realized how unbraced I was.
They were totally and completely delicious. The single most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. I’d tasted all sorts of things that had competed for that ranking—a mustard-coated prime rib in Salzburg, Germany; blowfish in Kyoto; chocolate-covered crickets in Nova Scotia—but nothing like these eggs. How do you describe something that good? They tasted like cotton candy, but the egg version. They were creamy and rich and melted as soon as they touched my tongue, as soon as I tasted the sea-salty edge of them.
And maybe it was in part the bourbon, and maybe it was in part that I hadn’t really had an appetite since Nick left. But I don’t think so. I don’t think those parts were the important ones. Not then. The important one was this: if I could have dived right into the pan, I seriously would have considered doing it.
Instead, I scooped up another enormous bite.
Griffin smiled, knowing he had me. I attempted a shrug. “Not bad,” I said, my mouth full.
“Not bad? They are fucking great.”
I laughed. “They are,” I said. “They are fucking great.”
“Thank you for that,” he said. “And if you ever do make that trip back to western Mass., I might even go up to Lasse’s Seafood Mart and get us the real deal. You’ve never seen lobster claws so red. Lasse makes you work for them, though. He only sells the really good stuff to the local chefs at three A.M., sometimes later, sometimes closer to four A.M., a little before he goes out lobstering with his son. And even then, he only sells them if he is in a good enough mood. And then, only to the chefs he can stand.”
“That seems unnecessary.”
He smiled. “You haven’t tasted those lobster claws,” he said.
Then he took another fork out of the drawer and jumped up on the countertop so he was sitting cross-legged too, directly in front of me, the pan between us. I tried to move all of the eggs to my side of the pan, breaking off just a small portion for him.
“Um . . .” I said. “Get your own pan.”
He fought a smile, that dimple making a final appearance as he waited for me to relent.
“Fine,” I said, and shuffled one more biteful to his side of the pan. “But you leave me no choice. I’m cutting you off after this.”
“How generous,” he said. Then he tilted his head, and looked at me. Really looked.
“So, how are you dealing with it?” he asked.
