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THE LAST SUPPER , or the Structural Unsoundness of Veggie Burgers

The Lily Pad smelled amazing that night when I got home around six—like fresh cilantro and feta cheese and just the faintest hint of smoke, smells that indicated dinner was going to be a real step up from the meals we’d been having—no offense to Ros, who was responsible for most of the cooking. Also a step up: our dinner conversation. I was excited to have juicy Oliver Teller gossip to report. Ros and I had been hungry for it since my first run-in with him.

“Hey!” called Ros. Their voice was bright and happy. They were in the kitchenette with Touchstone (who’d gotten a ride home with Audrey), tending to something smoking in a frying pan. “Can you pass me the pepper?” they called.

“What are we making?” I asked.

“Black-bean burgers and roasted potatoes,” Touch said, passing Ros the pepper.

“Where’s the recipe?” I said, eager to help pitch in.

“No recipe,” Ros said. “We’re winging it.”

The kitchen looked like they’d been winging it—it seemed as if every single utensil and every single piece of dishware had been recruited to make this dinner. Even so, it was fun to see them cooking together. While I was an okay baker, both Ros and Touchstone had a deep appreciation for food—gourmands, you might have called them—and would occasionally cook us elaborate feasts back home: buttermilk-brined chicken, gluten-free pasta with feta cheese and cherry tomatoes. I was glad to see them together now in the kitchen—it felt like some order had been restored.

“I bought sparkling apple cider,” Ros said. “It’s in the fridge.”

“Sign me up,” said Touchstone. He pulled the bottle from the fridge and cracked it open, filling Henry’s champagne flutes with three healthy pours. Henry not only had a frog for every occasion, but he also had glasses for every occasion in all different shapes and sizes, from skinny champagne flutes to heavy-bottomed glasses that practically required the drinker to wear a velvet smoking jacket. My favorites were wide-brimmed coupes made of pink glass and etched with flowers. I wanted to use them for everything and was simultaneously terrified of breaking them.

“I have news,” I said, lifting my glass slightly.

“So do I,” said Ros. “I got a job!”

I nearly choked on my sparkling cider.

“What? Really? At the Hidden Fern?” I said.

“At the Hidden Fern!” said Ros, and a pit formed in my stomach, remembering Jess Orlando among the plants. “Celia and I went there the other day when you went off to unicycle, Touch. It’s beautiful. They do arrangements for the theater festival.”

“Do you get a discount?” Touchstone asked.

“What do you need plants for?” I said.

“I’m thinking flowers,” Touch said. “It’s going well with Audrey.”

“When did you hear about the job?” I asked Ros.

“Wait, say more about Audrey,” said Ros.

“Not only did she give me a ride home, but we worked together in a clowning exercise. We had to make each other laugh. She was really good at it. I kept cracking up, and she was, like, stone-faced.”

“You like her? She seemed really nice the other night,” said Ros.

“I think so,” said Touch. “Though another person in the workshop said they thought I was gay when I said I was going out with her.”

“Back to Ros’s job…,” I said.

Ros shook their head. “It’s so rude of other people to keep assuming things about you. Don’t let it bother you.”

“It’s one thing to get it from my brothers. It’s another to get it from strangers.”

“Your brothers are cretins,” Ros said.

“You barely know them,” said Touch, which was true.

“Am I wrong?” said Ros.

“No, you’re not wrong,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Ros. “Okay, these are ready.”

They ferried burgers onto three plates heaped with potatoes, and we took our seats around the table. Ros had thought to light two candles, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were in some sort of rehearsal for future dates they were planning.

“How did you hear about the job?” I asked.

“Jess called,” said Ros.

“Jess Orlando?” I said.

“You don’t have to call her by her first name and last name every time,” said Ros.

“Her name does have a nice ring to it, though,” said Touchstone.

“Doesn’t it?” said Ros, and they seemed so unlike themselves, almost dreamy, that I nearly dropped my flute of sparkling cider.

“I’m so happy for you,” I said, in spite of my impending sense of dread. “You seemed like you really liked that place.”

“Yeah,” Ros said. Their smile was enormous, and I knew they were thinking about not just the place but the person who worked there. “I did.”

“Then that’s fucking great,” said Touchstone. He raised his champagne flute in one hand and his veggie burger in the other. “Cheers to Ros, for the millionth time!”

“Thanks, dude!” said Ros. “Cheers to us for making dinner. These turned out great.”

“When do you start?” I asked.

“Tomorrow!” said Ros. “I’m starting out at four days a week, but it’s probably going to be more like five—”

Five days a week with Jess Orlando?! And it started tomorrow ? Suddenly the tenor of the dinner changed: It was no longer a rehearsal, nor was it even a celebration—it was a farewell. Ros was going to start at the Hidden Fern, and we were never going to see them again.

“What about the Hestia-ing?” I said.

Ros made a face, and I kicked myself for being who I was: pushy, stubborn, in love with the wrong person. Why couldn’t I just let things run their course? Why did I always need to jump in and remind everyone of the plan, when it was clear that the plan was going to pieces?

“Ros isn’t our maid,” said Touch. “We can take turns with the Hestia-ing. Honestly, I kind of think it was unfair for Ros to do all the Lily Pad upkeep in the first place.”

“There is a lot of weird shit to dust,” Ros agreed.

“As long as I’m not in charge of the plants,” I said, thinking of my mother, who’d killed every plant she’d ever owned. “I’ll fix the chore wheel later tonight.”

“We can just play it by ear,” Ros said. “We don’t have to be so rigid, you know?”

“Are you anti–chore wheel now?”

“I wouldn’t say I was ever pro –chore wheel,” said Ros.

“We’ll work it out,” said Touchstone, taking a huge bite of his veggie burger. “We’re smart,” he said through his mouthful.

“What’s your news, Celia?” Ros said.

“Oh—it’s nothing. I saw Oliver Teller again, that’s all.”

“You saw Oliver Teller again ? And you didn’t bring this up immediately ?” said Ros.

“The guy from Power Jam who’s got those googly fish eyes?” said Touch.

“Way to bury the lede! Spill, spill, spill!” Ros said, gesturing feverishly with their hands.

It was exactly the sort of reaction I’d been hoping for, but in the aftermath of Ros’s Hidden Fern news, their enthusiasm didn’t hit me nearly as hard as it should have.

“We spoke this time,” I said. “Like, actually.”

“What was he like? Did he give up anything about whether there’ll be a season three? Tell me everything,” said Ros.

“He was nice,” I said. “He showed me pictures of his cats.”

There was quiet. I’d thought I had more to say on the subject when I arrived at the Lily Pad, though now, hearing Ros’s news, I couldn’t think of anything more. I felt weirdly like I was moving through glue: It was hard to remember and recap our interaction when I was so fixated on Ros’s working with Jess Orlando.

“That’s all that happened?” said Ros. “You’re so quiet. Did something weird happen with you guys again?”

I laughed, trying to defuse the awkwardness. “Nope, no. Nothing like that.”

“Are you going to eat?” said Touch.

He was right: I’d been so preoccupied and feeling so ill over the Hidden Fern news that I hadn’t even taken a bite of my burger. This delicious Ros-and-Touch-made concoction had been growing cold on my plate while I quibbled over plants and chore wheels.

“Cheers,” I said, and raised it to my mouth.

It was delicious, but as a burger, it completely fell apart. It crumbled the second I took a bite, and as I watched the breakdown all across my plate, I couldn’t help it: I gave a little wail of distress.

“Hey,” said Ros. “What’s the matter? Are you homesick again?”

“No,” I said miserably. “I’m just worried that we’ll all get so busy we’ll never see each other again.”

“Celia, I think you’re being a little dramatic,” said Ros.

“We live together,” said Touchstone.

“Agree,” said Ros. “That’ll never happen.”

But in spite of everyone’s reassurances, I could already feel Ros drifting away into a different world, one made of plants and punches and poems.