Page 24 of The Spirit of Love

I tend to see Summer only in person at this party once a year, but we have a pretty regular text conversation going.

I message her whenever a new spice blend drops at Trader Joe’s; she hits me up when she comes across a good podcast on near-death experiences.

Tonight, she’s jamming to Feist on low volume and snacking on sweet corn Turtle Chips.

“What’s good, sister?” she says, coming toward me with a spoon. “Taste this zucchini Parm?”

I open my mouth and let her spoon in. I chew and moan. “You are an alchemist, and that is gold.”

Summer smiles as if she’d been aiming for nothing less. “Courtesy of J&J Farms in the San Joaquin Valley. I’m glad to see you, but I wasn’t expecting you in the back of house tonight. Don’t directors get swarmed at these things?”

I think of Jude out there. I think of Amy’s open arms. “ Directors do.”

“Uh-oh,” Summer says, reading my tone.

Everyone who meets Summer or tastes her cooking wants to hire her, if they have the means to.

She worked as a private chef for Rich for exactly one juice cleanse, after which she told him point-blank she couldn’t take repeat clients she didn’t respect.

Summer and I have a wordless understanding when it comes to a lot of the guests at this party, which saves us both the valuable energy it takes to complain.

“You wanna snip some herbs and dance it out?” she asks.

I nod as she hands me a big bunch of chives, a pair of tiny scissors, and a glass bowl. For a couple Feist songs, we prep and breathe and dance in Amy’s fortress of a kitchen.

“Should we talk about something other than work?” Summer asks. “How your sex life?”

“Worse than my work life.”

“Stop.”

“I had a fling. Which I thought was great at the time, but which now casts my real life in this very dismal light.”

Summer smears labneh on a plate and then drizzles chili oil over the top. “Maybe you need another helping of the fling.”

“I can’t. Doesn’t that defy the definition of fling ? Plus, he lives in a very inconvenient location for a booty call.”

“Honey, that’s why you make him come to you.”

I close my eyes. “I think, more likely, I’ll never see him again.”

“Oh,” she says, “you like him—”

The kitchen door swings open. My eyes snap open in horror at the sight of Jude ducking inside.

“Fenny?”

“Jude!”

Under her breath, Summer mutters, “Holy shit, is this him ?”

Thank God Amy Reisenbach’s kitchen is the size of a soundstage and Jude’s too far away to hear. Why would she think that?

“Absolutely not,” I mutter back.

“Whatever you say,” Summer says between her teeth, “but there’s major energy between you two.”

“Like Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan,” I mutter. Turning to Jude, I call, “Wrong turn, Jude. The bathroom’s one door down.” I know my voice sounds brusque, but this was supposed to be my sanctuary from him.

“Sorry,” he says, looking around, confused by his surroundings. “I didn’t know where this door led. I was trying to grab a second alone with you. Instead, I’m interrupting—”

“All good,” Summer says, giving him a friendly nod. “I’m Summer. This is where the cool kids hang out at these parties. My artichokes oxidize at a faster rate in high-stress atmospheres, so you wanna be cool, Jude?”

“Thank you for the invitation,” he says. “Yes, I do.”

“Great. Then you can stay,” Summer says. “Here’s some scissors. Fenny, show him how to snip the herbs.”

Jude comes to stand next to me. I breathe in his cologne, which I’ve never smelled before, a musky, spicy fig.

He seems even taller when we’re side by side in the kitchen, and I try not to stare at how well tailored his suit is.

Really hugging all the right places. It’s by far my favorite one he’s worn this week.

Second place goes maybe to what he was wearing Tuesday night, that slim-fit white oxford and the pants I heard him unzip.

Not that I give the slightest damn about this man or his bespoke attire.

Scissors. Herbs. Focus.

“So what do I…” He holds a sprig of dill. I move the blades of his scissors nearer to the end of the herbs.

“Snip,” I say, and he does.

“You’ve done this before.”

“It’s not directing a show about brain surgery. You just want a very fine cut. You almost can’t be too fine.”

Does it sound like I just called him fine? Is that why both of us are blushing?

“You owe me an apology,” he says, taking me aback.

“I’m aware.”

“You said I’d be fine at this dinner, when in fact, I am in one of the lower circles of hell.”

I look at him, confused. “Really? Which one?”

“Fraud,” he says. “I believe that’s number eight.”

“You feel like a fraud here?”

“I did, until I found you in here. This is better.”

He wasn’t actually fishing for the apology I was planning on giving him.

For being cruel in the costume warehouse the other night.

No, Jude is truly struggling to handle the attention he’s getting at this dinner.

Is it possible that he doesn’t want the acclaim, that he just wants to do the work?

I don’t quite understand that because I want it all.

If I was in Jude’s place, I would have glowingly soaked up a compliment and a hug from Amy Reisenbach.

I would have written and delivered a grateful, witty toast to really luxuriate in tonight’s moment.

I’ve been hiding in this kitchen for years because what I get at these dinners is, at best, ignored.

I’m curious and a little impressed that Jude doesn’t seem to need or want that validation.

“You snip a mean herb,” he says. “But how come you’re in here when the rest of the party’s out there?”

The kitchen door swings open again, and in blows Amy Reisenbach, holding a pad of paper with handwritten notes. She beams at Jude. “There you are! My guest of honor. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

I think I hear Jude groan as she takes him by the bicep and flips through the notes in her hands. “Fenny.” She looks up at me. “I didn’t realize you were in here. That’s not good.”

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“We’ll have to add a chair.”

Through a cloud of steam as she drains her pasta, Summer blows me a kiss.

I have no choice but to follow Amy and Jude’s linked arms out into the giant open dining room facing the ocean.

At least the sun has set enough so I can’t see Two Harbors anymore.

Just a thirty-person seated dinner table, with only two empty chairs left.

“Jude, right here, next to me,” Amy says. She turns to a member of the catering staff. “Could we squeeze in one more place setting?” She gestures at the far end of the table, the nether regions where some men from the finance department are talking about golf.

“Right here,” Jude says, moving his own placemat to the left and gesturing for me to sit down. “I’ll take the extra chair.”

“No really—” I say.

“I insist.” Jude smiles.

“What a man,” Amy beams and then clinks her fork against her champagne flute.

I sit down next to Jude, who is given an extra chair squeezed in so tightly next to mine that there’s no way to sit without our arms touching.

“Cool kids have to stick together, right?” he says.

“Listen up!” Amy clinks her fork again. “I promise this year I won’t go on and on,” she says, like she says every year before going on and on.

“I know we all want to dig into Chef Summer’s phenomenal first course.

But as we embark on this, our seventh! Season!

Of our flagship! Series! I want to thank you all for your exquisite work, and I want to give a big welcome to our drop-dead brilliant new director, the incomparable JDS.

We are so lucky to have him, a once-in-a-generation talent and a true fan of the show—”

I look at Jude, who has his eyes closed and his face tipped down as if to avoid being seen, and I hope for his sake—not even my own anymore—that Amy wraps up her JDS worship hour soon. The man can’t handle it.

“Cheers, everyone! To zombies!” Amy says, so at least it’s time to drink.

“To zombies!” the rest of the party calls out.

“And to writers,” Jude says quietly, turning to me, clinking my glass. We lock eyes, and we take sips. If I don’t do this now, I fear I’ll never do it.

“Look, I’m sorry about Tuesday,” I say as a waiter sets down salads in front of us, a temporary ceasefire made of endive and hazelnuts and Summer’s anchovy vinaigrette.

“Tuesday?” Jude says. He takes a bite, and his eyes pop as he chews. Everyone does this when they first taste Summer’s food.

I can’t bring myself to eat yet. I push a hazelnut around on my plate. “When we were in the costume department? Our argument about the show and, I guess, existence? That thing I said about your nightmares wasn’t cool.”

He turns his whole body toward me, like we’re not at a party, like we’re entirely alone. And what I thought was going to feel contentious feels different. Apologizing to Jude feels unexpectedly safe.

“I didn’t mind,” Jude says, his voice warmer than I’ve heard it before. So he almost sounds like Sam. “I heard what you were saying, and I think you’re probably right. You were defending your point of view and the show you care about. You’re more in tune with Zombie Hospital than anyone else.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I say, and my words are sharp but my tone is just as warm as Jude’s. I think I’m testing him, trying to discern whether he’s patronizing me. I don’t think so, but my guard refuses to go all the way down just yet.

“No, really.” Jude moves his chair a little closer, like he’s about to tell me a secret. “People say you’re the heart and soul of the show—”

“See, now you’re doing the thing you hate to me.” I take a bite of salad, sending telepathic chef’s kisses Summer’s way.

“But with you,” Jude says, “at least it’s true. I heard Aurora saying as much to Rich when I came in tonight.”

I wave him off and take another bite of salad. “She just wants me to plan her stupid birthday party.”