The porch had cleared out.
When I walked inside, everyone was turned toward the front of the vaulted living room. I actually thought they were turned toward me.
After all, it could have been a party for me. I had eerie flashbacks, looking around the exquisitely designed room—rustic beams and a fireplace. All the usual suspects were milling around. Julie and Christopher. The food writers and journalists. It reminded me of my party at Locanda Verde. It could have been my party at Locanda Verde. Except instead of me being feted by Louis and a variety of Food Network and publishing brass, it was Amber. She was standing a little to my left, behind a rustic farm table covered with farm-fresh ingredients and cookware, wearing a Dolce & Gabbana dress.
I quickly stepped down into the room, before she saw me, before any of them did.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Louis said, putting his hands together for quiet. “If I could please get your attention. Thank you for joining us tonight to celebrate the release of Tender Toast.”
There were whoops and cheers from the crowd—which Amber pretended to be embarrassed by. It was all I could do to not vomit.
“We couldn’t be more excited to be releasing Amber’s cookbook. Her recipes are not only inventive, but they reflect her rustic approach to cooking. And of course, they are pulled together by her signature ingredient. Toast. Made tenderly.” He paused while a couple of people let out cheers. “We are thrilled to welcome her into our family, and for you to welcome her into your home.”
Amber put her hand on her chest, as though touched by this. And the crowd smiled at one another—at her humility, at her talent. It was funny being on the outside of it all. How bullshitty it seemed. After all, Louis was saying all the same things he would have been saying about me.
“Amber is going to make us a little something, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “That’s right. I wanted to pick something both sexy and homey. Something that really exemplifies my cookbook. My ricotta and raw honey toast, if that sounds good to everybody?”
“It sure does!” someone called out.
Amber threw her head back, laughing.
Then she went to work, whipping together a fresh, homemade sheep ricotta, drizzling it with raw honey.
As she prepped, she explained what she was doing, and I could already see it. She was going to be great on television.
“I made the buckwheat toast from scratch, of course,” she said. “As can you, if you go to page fifty-five in Tender Toast.”
The crowd laughed.
“I feel the buckwheat is a great platform for appreciating the salty and sweet synthesis of the toppings, but if you don’t have five hours to spare, you can also head to your local bakery and pick out any dark bread.”
She was stunning up there. She was talking bullshit, but she was stunning all the same. And it wasn’t new to me that the look was all that mattered. I knew that better than anyone.
“Who wants a taste?” she said.
Everyone started to applaud as waiters in matching TENDER TOAST aprons started handing out the ricotta and honey toasts.
“I whipped these up for you. Enjoy!”
The crowd broke into more applause, grabbing for the waiters, eagerly having a taste.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I reached for a triangle of toast off a tray. I took a small taste. It was delicious—creamy and light, with just the right amount of sweetness coming from the honey. It occurred to me mid-chew that I probably shouldn’t have been eating it. Raw cheese was a pregnancy no-no. But I had no idea if it was actually homemade—and, if it was, if it was homemade by Amber. For all I knew, what she made up there wasn’t what was being passed around. The ricotta was from Murray’s Cheese. The honey was from a great farm in North Carolina.
Even if it was the case, who was going to tell on her? No one. Or maybe someone, one day. There would have to be someone she treated so badly that they were compelled to undo the mirage she had created.
As Amber stepped toward the crowd, greeting people, I tracked Louis, heading toward the bar.
I dropped the toast and made a beeline toward him. But I felt a hand on my arm, stopping me right before I reached him. Ryan. He looked pretty great in jeans and a relaxed button-down shirt.
“I thought that was you,” he said. He focused in on my thickening waist. “I wasn’t sure.”
I forced a smile, watching Louis order his drink, knowing I was about to miss my chance.
“What are you doing here?” Ryan said.
I turned to him reluctantly. “Night out. You?”
“Well, these are still my people.”
I smiled. It was such a ridiculous thing to say—such a Ryan thing to say—that I couldn’t even take him seriously. “That’s right! Violet was just saying that you’re gearing up to air. How’s it going?”
“Great. Really great. The focus groups are just in love with Meredith. Not that Violet would ever tell you that.” He leaned in. “We had to let her go.”
It was all I could do not to call him out. What did I expect from him, though? Honesty? What did I expect from any of these people, from a world that was built on perception? Their whole business was to make people long for a perfect meal—a perfect night, a perfect life. And then they held it, just outside of reach.
Ryan was still talking. “We just shot the pilot up in Scarsdale. And we’re really doing stuff that no one is doing. It’s like this Korean fusion, but in the French tradition . . .”
He prattled on, and I nodded, as though I cared. How had this man ever been intriguing to me? And why did he think that, after what he did, I’d want anything to do with him? Then I remembered. He wasn’t thinking about me. He hadn’t thought about me for one minute since I hadn’t done exactly what he wanted. And yet, for him—and his silly games—I had compromised my relationship.
My cheeks turned red, and Ryan clocked it. “Are you going to cry?” he said. “Really. C’mon!”
I was close to slapping him, right across the face, but I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Louis, a bourbon in his hands.
“Hello, Ryan.”
“Louis!” he said. “How are things with you?”
Ryan put out his hand for Louis to shake, but Louis smiled instead. “Forgive me, but I’m going to steal her.”
And without waiting for an answer, he moved us to the other end of the bar.
“Is it fair to tell you now?” he whispered. “I hate that jackass.”
“Thank you for the assist,” I said.
“It seemed like you could use it.”
He tipped his bourbon in my direction.
“I’d offer this to you, but I’m not waiting in that drink line again.”
“Actually, I’m not drinking tonight anyway.”