Out to Lunch by Stacey Ballis Read Free Book Online Page B

reservations somewhere you like, because seriously, some things I just cannot manage. Sorry. I’m not insane.
    Dinner parties with Wayne aren’t hard. I make a great roast chicken. Burgers can be fun and unexpected. I can always save his portion of beef and cook it medium and still serve everyone else medium rare. I love the challenge of making things he will eat for a whole table and not feel like some 1950s housewife serving up banal Tuesday dinner. And I can always go all out on the dessert, which helps.
    But tonight it’s just the two of us. No buffering friends or joyful noise. And no Aimee to keep him from going off on a Star Wars tangent, or asking a mortifying and inappropriate question. First time he met Andrea, he asked her if African Americans could get acne. I’m not kidding. I wanted to crawl into a hole. Aimee laughed it off, smacked him in the arm and told him to refill her wineglass and that was the end of it, but that moment haunted me for months.
    Wayne called yesterday and said he thought we should get together, so I have a couple of fat pork rib chops brining in cider that I will throw on the grill. Crisp wedges of iceberg lettuce with a homemade buttermilk ranch dressing spiked with fresh herbs. Buttery glazed carrots, steamed green beans with lemon and a little bit of chili. On the sideboard in my enormous walk-in pantry, I have fresh fig tarts cooling, shiny with fig jam glaze and ready to be dolloped with a pistachio whipped cream. A meal that Wayne will eat, and I will actually enjoy. As much as I can enjoy a meal with Wayne.
    “Suck it up, buttercup,”
the Voix spits in my ear.
“Get your head in the game. You have one year. One year to be his pal, to keep him from blowing through my money, and to learn why I thought he was the bee’s fricking knees, so how about you put on your game face.”
    Sigh. It was bad enough that Aimee was always right when she was around; being right AND dead is sort of monumentally annoying. But it is what it is. And the fact is that the only time I ever have spent with Wayne alone in the eight years he and Aimee were together was in my hospital room after the transplant. Aimee was in the ICU; neither of us could be with her for the first few days, so Wayne hung out in my room. And if I’m going to be honest, he was mostly pretty awesome. Always went on a coffee run when my folks were there or other people came to visit, quick to fetch me a Popsicle or more ice water. Checking with my doctor to see what I was allowed to eat, since while you are recovering from donating part of your liver, stuff can really disagree with you, and then going out to find delicious versions so that I didn’t have to eat the hospital food. He brought me an iPod full of audio books so that I didn’t have to keep my eyes open to read, and an iPad with the entire
Buffy
and
Angel
series loaded in, since he remembered I once confessed that I had never seen them, but was somewhat curious.
    Of course, he also managed to knock over my tray table at least once a day, usually right after I had fallen asleep, used my bathroom with loud frequency, which totally squicked me out, and had to be asked to leave the room every time a doctor came by to check my incision or discuss my progress.
    Deep breath. One day at a time. And a year isn’t so much. Aimee thought that this little experiment would work, but I know better. Wayne lived in her blind spot. I just have to get through this year. Not even a full year, just have to get to October first of next year. Eleven months and sixteen days. Do I have a calendar in my closet with red Xs on the days? You had better believe it. That’s the truth, Ruth. You betcha.
    I take the chops out of their brine, pat them dry and leave them on a tray on the island to come to room temp. I feed Volnay, who eats in her unusual way, delicately removing one piece of kibble at a time from her bowl, placing it on the little rug that serves as her dining room, and then