I peer up at Alex. “How about you just tell me what it says?”
He gives me his most disappointed look. “Ted.”
“How about I guess?” I take a step back, pocketing my phone. “Guess one: your mom accidentally sent the Bruscato family beach vacation itinerary to Jen again and now Jen’s forwarding it to us… from… Ethan’s… email?”
Alex gives me a flat look. “Mom only did that the first summer, right after we divorced, then she removed Jen from the family email list and hasn’t done it since.”
I feel immediate, tail-between-my-legs guilt for bringing that up. Alex’s mom, Lydia, is one of my favorite people, and she told me herself she felt terrible when she did that, an honest mistake born out of habit.
“That was poor form,” I admit. “I rescind my guess. And I apologize.”
“Apology accepted.” He takes a step toward me. “Now open the email.”
I take another step back and give him sad-puppy eyes. “Right now?”
“Yes,” he says, unmoved in the face of my puppy pout. “Right. Now.”
I freeze. And then Alex hitsmewith his sad-puppy eyes, which is bad news. My resolve against them is pitiful at best (when he’s being playful), hopeless at worst (when he’s being sincere, which he is now). Holding my gaze, he says, “Please, Ted.”
Sighing, I drag my phone from my pocket, tap my way to the Buttface McGee subfolder, and rip off the Band-Aid.
My eyes fully scan the email. My brain barely processes the first line. Breathing out slowly, I pocket my phone again. “I opened the email.”
“And?” he asks.
“I read one line.”
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“I will read the rest, I promise.” I let out a wheezing breath. “But first, I’m going to need a gas station hot dog.”
“The hell you are,” he says.
“You’ve got Nicorette!” I holler.
“It’s not acigarette!” he hollers back.
“Well, I’m sorry there isn’t a gas station hot dog Nicorette analogue for those craving a hit of a week’s worth of sodium and nitrates!”
“That’s what you think,” Alex says. Opening his refrigerator, he unearths the last thing I ever expected to darken its pristine door.
“Grass-fed organic-beef hot dogs,” I read aloud from the package. I peer up at him. “You got these for me because… you knew I’d need them?”
He points to the Nicorette in his mouth by way of confirmation.
“Well,” I tell him, “now I’mreallyexcited to read the rest of that email.”
“It’s bad.” Alex tosses the hot dogs on the counter and finally pulls me in for a warm, hard hug. “But it’s notthatbad.”
“How do you know?” I whine into his shoulder.
“Because I actually read the whole thing,” he says. “And even after that, I still managed to bake damn good hot dog brioche buns.”
There is no delicate way to eat a hot dog, even as gourmet as the one Alex put together. Char-grilled casing that cracks as I bite in.Light-as-air, subtly sweet brioche bun, finely diced shallots scattered across it. Two slim spears of crunchy homemade dill pickle. Tangy brown mustard. And of course, because this is Pittsburgh, a hearty drizzle of Heinz Ketchup.
My hands have a pleasant stickiness to them from the humidity clinging to my skin, the ketchup and mustard that leaked from the bun. Salty grease lingers on my lips. My stomach is wonderfully full. I breathe in and taste the scent of grill smoke hanging in the air as a chorus of crickets chirps in the backyard, the steady thuds of Alex traipsing through the kitchen like a comforting heartbeat.
My first hot dog from Alex’s kitchen. Knees knocking as we sat side by side and ate in comfortable quiet. Eyes meeting over just-right bites. His thumb sweeping ketchup from my mouth. Smiling so hard it hurt when I noticed he had mustard on his nose.