“We’re serving these?” the head server looked at the pasta with the kind of concern he’d leveled against Blake’s sloppy plating.
“Kia has made beautiful casoncelli,” Sullivan said.
The head server didn’t move.
“What?” Sullivan asked.
Sullivan glanced over at Kia, who shrugged as if to say,I have no idea what the problem is. Then Sullivan looked at the plate more closely.
Casoncelli always looked a little vulva-like if you were thinking about vulva while you ate stuffed pasta, but these were an unambiguous tribute to the anatomy, with their delicate folds and curled edges. Sullivan’s mind flew to the image of Kia’s hands gently coaxing the casoncelli into shape. Sullivan felt a pulse of sexual need, as though her body remembered every empty day and night before Kia woke her again with a kiss. And she was looking at pasta. And thinking about her pretend wife. And they were still in the middle of the second seating. And half a dozen people had already ordered the vulva-celli.
“Chef Jackson!”
Kia strolled over. “I showed you one, and you said they were good.”
“You included aclitoris.” Sullivan tried not to laugh as her voice soared. “These look like a straight girls’ bachelorette party.”
“Straight girls have penis pops,” Kia said.
“That is not the point. The point is—”
Kia leaned closer and placed her index finger on Sullivan’s mouth. Sullivan gasped, taking in the rich scents emanating from Kia’s finger. Dill. Lemon. Sumac. Sullivan wanted to lick those fingers. That was definitely against health code.
“I told you I want to be point six percent better at handling casoncelli.”
Sullivan regarded the pasta, then she looked directly at Kia, touching the tip of her tongue to her upper lip in a gesture she hoped was subtle enough only Kia saw it. She held Kia’s eyes until Kia squirmed.I want you.Maybe Sullivan had always wanted Kia, she just hadn’t traced the outline of that desire, hadn’t realized how much deeper it went than the desire to make a richer bourguignon.
Sullivan turned back to the head server.
“They look fine to me. Serve them.” When Kia handed her another plate of casoncelli, Sullivan held them at eye level and whispered, “You little temptresses.” Then she looked right at Kia to let her know she wasn’t talking to the food.
“We’re going to get murdered,” Nina said as they sped—at least lumbered—up I-84 in Opal’s rugby van. “And the van smells like wet socks.”
“Then why did you come?” Sullivan leaned forward with her elbows on the front seats.
Opal was driving. Nina rode shotgun.
“Because if you get murdered,” Nina said, “I want to get murdered with you, and this gives me a couple of hours to practice what you’re going to say on the stand. Let’s start with firstprinciples. Only answer what they ask. Don’t volunteer anything, no matter how useful it seems. They’ll set traps that way. And they’ll try to rattle you. Let’s try some questions.”
An hour’s worth of questions later, Sullivan had mastered the art of three-syllable answers.
“Are we done with that?” Opal asked.
“We are talking about Sullivan’slife,” Nina said. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”
Sullivan wished Nina didn’t sound so fierce. It was good to have friends protect you. It was not good to need Nina Hashim’s protection.
But even the impending lawsuit couldn’t totally quell the excitement of cars zipping past them and Billie Eilish on the radio. The gas station snacks tasted like high school road trips, not like chemicals that caused cancer in the state of California. Sullivan had found a Wind Searcher Pop-Up Pavilion. She’d spent hours on Craigslist. She’d done a deep dive into local newspaper ads and flea market sites. She’d even reactivated her Facebook page so she could message with potential sellers. And she’d found Kia’s dream RV accessory. The exact make and model to fit Old Girl. For a thousand dollars cash, which Nina insisted on callingunmarked twenties. And Sullivan had had sex with Kia. Beautiful, funny, unguarded sex. Fuck all the sad things that could happen later. Like Nina had reminded them, the wheels could fall off the rugby van at any moment. (Nina had no faith in lug nuts.) Carpe diem.
“Opal says this old-ass RV accessory is on point,” Nina said.
“This present is for Kia, but did Kia talk to you about your birthday?” Opal asked.
“No. We’ll have to plan something for her socials.”
The idea didn’t fill Sullivan with dread anymore. For one thing, posing for socials would mean more time with Kia and touching her on screen would lead to touching off screen.
Nina sipped from her gold-rimmed travel mug.
