I’m positive they will all be blurry, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Is Benji going to come out?” my mom asks, playing with the pearls on her necklace. Her question captures the attention of strangers sitting across the table and now everyone’s eyes are on me.

“We’ll see,” I say, knowing that answer isn’t good enough. Not for anyone in the room who paid to be here. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to keep checking on other tables. Love you guys.”

As I make my rounds, everyone seems to be gushing over the fifth and final course of the night: grilled fig panna cotta with a bourbon, honeycomb drizzle over vanilla bean gelato. I hear one person whisper it was better than Alinea’s dessert. Another says she just had a foodgasm. At that, I set down the water pitcher and offer to clear a few dirty plates back to the kitchen. When no one is looking, I dip my pinky into some melted gelato and run it through a glob of the bourbon honey before quickly licking it off my manicured finger.

Heaven. Pure heaven.

Even though there’s no negative feedback to report to the kitchen and everyone is stuffed, I can tell people are saving room for one more culinary delight.

They want to see Benji Zane.

Put it this way: sure, the tenderness on the squab was on point. And, yes, the scoop of gelato was spherical as fuck. But as rock-star as his dishes may be, these people are here for something else entirely. They’ve ponied up to get up close and personal with Benji Zane and not just because he’s easy on the eyes. To them, this is the Reformed Addict Show. It’s their chance to witness firsthand if he’s turned over a real leaf this time, or if he’s just moments away from the downfall more than a few food bloggers think is coming.

My money is on the former.

Does that make me a naive idiot? Maybe. But these people don’t know Benji like I do. The one thing I’m sure of is that I am Benji’s number one supporter. If I waver from that, I know the chances of a slip are greater, so it’s not something I’m willing to do. Especially not since we live together. I mean, you try staying ahead of the curve when your roommate has a kinky past with cocaine.

“Benji?” I say, cracking the kitchen door open a few inches. “Can you come here a sec?”

He puts down his knife roll and heads to the doorway, tapping Sebastian on the way over and telling him to take five.

“What is it? Everything good?” I can see the anxiety in his eyes. Whether it’s an audience of one or a roomful of skeptical diners, Benji cuts zero corners when it comes to his cooking. He wants tonight to go seamlessly, and if he’s not pulling a huge profit in the end because of some dealer drama, well, then, his reputation among these unsuspecting people needs to be the thing that comes out on top.