“I would,” he says, “but she’s dead.”
I nearly choke on my food. “Oh my god, Alex, I’m so sorry.”
A chuckle tumbles out of him. He sighs as he cuts into his food. “No need. Sorry I said it that way, but I had to. That was her condition, when she told me she was sick, that whenever I talked about her, I had to tell people she was six feet under the way she would have—bone dry, all in for the shock value. Except Diane wouldn’t have broken as fast as I did. She would have given youthis flat stare for five seconds that felt like five minutes.Thenshe would have laughed.”
I smile. The way he talks about Diane reminds me of the way I talked about my namesake, Grandma Thea. Respect, deep gratitude, even deeper admiration. “She sounds like she was special.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She was.”
“That’s who your first cookbook is dedicated to, isn’t it?”
Alex peers up at me. And now I realize I’m busted.
I caved this past week and scoured The Bookshop for Alex’s cookbooks, learning he’s published two—first,Come Viene, Viene, the one Lauren gave me, which came out four years ago, and second,A Tavola, Non S’invecchia, which came out last year. I bought the second cookbook and, on my lunch break, flipped through both of them—more beautiful, mouthwatering photos (of foodandAlex); more scribbled-in-the-margins notes.
He tips his head and says, “So youdoknow who I am.”
“Ido,” I tell him. “You’re my first celebrity best friend.”
He groans, letting his head fall back. “I didn’t say it like that.”
I drop my voice and do my best Alex Bruscato: “So youdoknow who I am.”
Alex belly laughs. “Okay, I said it like that.”
“I’m teasing,” I tell him. “One hundred percent teasing. I knew what you meant. And I actually didn’t know who you were, when we met.”
“Okay, that’s what I thought,” he says.
“Why?”
Alex is suddenly deeply interested in his food. I lean in, enjoying this. The fun of talking, teasing, this innate comfort I feel around him to be playful. “Why, Alex?”
“People just…” He takes a bite, chews, swallows, then looksat me like he’s hoping I’ll have forgotten where we were in the conversation. I smile, eyebrows lifted, so it’s clear I haven’t. “They act a certain way, when they know. They’re different.”
I set my chin on my hands, laced together. “So you reallyarea celebrity.”
“Eat your damn breakfast,” he grumbles.
I laugh. “No, I’m serious. I’ve read six celebrity autobiographies, and they all said that—there’s this feeling you get when people know. They change around you.”
Alex shrugs. “I’m not a celebrity. I’m just… recognized in the foodie space. And when that damn cookbook took off—”
“Oh, the hardship! A bestseller!”
He stabs a piece of bacon from my plate and pops it in his mouth.
I gasp. “How could you?”
“Smart-ass tax,” he explains.
I try to stab a piece of bacon from his plate, but his fork parries mine, pinning it to his plate. I drag away my empty fork, moping.
“Three sisters, Ted. I have a lot of practice defending my food.”
“Three?” I sigh. “I always wanted sisters.”
“No, you didn’t.”