The next week, as the weather grew nicer, Elliott slid into a deep abyss of pain and anguish. I reluctantly engaged Lea. She had prepared what looked like a notebook for debriefing a head of state. One page was devoted to paying the bills—if they were drafted or if we needed to write a check and what day the bill was due or the draft occurred. The second page was a list of our vendors and what we bought from each, on which days, with little notes (“Never buy tuna from Nick. He always tells you it’s fresh. He lies.”) The next page was devoted to Elliott’s bank accounts and their numbers. The fourth and last page was a list of Elliott’s passwords for his various accounts. His passwords were complicated logarithms even a genius hacker in Silicon Valley couldn’t have breached.

He had given all this to Lea one afternoon when I was out on an appointment. It surprised me that he trusted her more than me. When I asked him about it, he said, “I can’t have you messing with the books. I love you, but you can’t do this. I can’t afford to lose my sterling credit score in case I need to borrow money for the restaurant.” It really didn’t matter. I was just glad this time I was ready. Or Lea was. But this time, a week stretched into two, and after that, into a whole month. The whole time, I expected Elliott to come bounding into the restaurant as he had before. But Elliott appeared to subsist on a steady diet of pain pills, muscle relaxers, and scotch, while I existed on an equally steady diet of worry and fret with the occasional sprinkling of mind-blowing meals and sex, wondering when or if Elliott would return. This life had become increasingly unpredictable. My new normal.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

One afternoon, Lea and I were working on the bills and placing orders when she said, “Take a break. Rex is making you a dish he’s been working on. Come have your lunch out in the restaurant like a real person. We need to put some meat on your bones. No offense, but someone as skinny as you is bad for business.” Lea always said things in such a good-natured way that it was hard to take offense.

“That might be nice.” I sat at a small table in the sun. Lea joined me, carrying a plate.

“This is a lobster and basil cake on mushroom risotto with sautéed spinach.”

“Sounds good.” I found myself relaxing and engaging in conversation with Lea.

“So, how long have you had a thing for cooking types?” she asked.

“You mean Elliott?”

“Griffin too.” Was it that obvious? Did I talk about Griffin too much around her?

“That was back in my impetuous youth. We’re just friends now. But he’s probably my best friend.”