Page 53 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Our house, for the evening, no longer felt like a sanctuary in my new homeland. That deepened the sadness swirling in my brain. When Peter and I finally managed to make our way through the house to the kitchen, I was relieved to be away from it all. However, when we entered the kitchen, we found that the refrigerator was open, and the sounds of someone rummaging around inside made my stomach drop. I wouldn’t be able to let my guard down and talk to Peter in a way that was typical for us. I would have to continue to perform.

Peter squeezed my hand, picking up on my consternation, and gave me a small, comforting smile. When the person rummaging in the fridge stood and closed the door, my curiosity was piqued. The man who had told me the unbelievably salacious story in the living room was standing there, a can of beer in hand. Peter gave a sharp bark of a laugh at the sight of the man.

“When the hell did you get here?” Peter asked.

Peter’s tone surprised me. The way he had spoken and conversed with his friends all night had been formal. Appropriate. Upon seeing this man, he reverted to the Peter I knew. That both brought me elation and concern.

Who was this man?

Was he an ex-boyfriend of Peter’s?

“Who the hell are you trying to impress?” the man asked. “IPAs in the cooler and Pabst in the fridge? No one likes IPAs, you ginger fuck. They just want everyone else to think they like IPAs. Fucking hipsters.”

Peter laughed again. My eyes darted from my husband to the man at the refrigerator, curiosity gnawing at my gut.

“Oh,” the man said as he popped the tab on the can of beer, “fifteen minutes ago. Ish. I don’t know. It’s been a day. Minnesota time.”

“Fair enough,” Peter chuckled, then suddenly remembered me at his side. “Have you met—”

“Frenchie?” the man asked. “Of course. I’m not rude. I introduced myself as soon as I got here.”

“Enzo,” Peter said as I clasped his hand with both of mine. “My husband’s name is Enzo.”

For some reason, this uncouth man in the kitchen unnerved me more than anyone else at the party. Even the chicest of party attendees made me feel less self-conscious. It wasn’t the man’s aggressive speech or how self-assured he seemed—it was that he fascinated me more than anyone else. I desperately wanted to ask who he was, but I was uncertain if his sharp tongue would be turned on me.

“Nice to meet you, Enzo,” the man raised the can of beer in a salute, then took a sip. “I was telling Enzo about Lady FiFi Knobhouse, and—”

“Damnit, Alex,” Peter grumbled, his head rolling back on his shoulders, an amused grin stretching across his face. “Her name is Katherine.”

“—but then I got thirsty,” he continued, unbothered. “After scoping out the bullshit in the dining room, I knew you’d have hidden the good stuff in here.”

“Pabst?” Peter asked. “That’s…the good stuff?”

The man shrugged and took another sip.

“Yet it’s in your fridge. Towards the back. Hidden from the guests so you can have it to yourself later. The food doesn’t have two vultures watching over it in here, either,” Alex said as he moved to the island and plucked a potsticker from one of the warming pans and popped it into his mouth. “You hungry, Frenchie?”

He grinned at me in the most mischievous way as he chewed, one cheek bulging. I found that I liked this person deeply immediately. Probably because he offered me food. Sure, it was mine and Peter’s food, but he was still offering food.

“Enzo,” Peter said.

“Look, Pecker,” Alex rolled his eyes as he swallowed the bite and plucked another potsticker from the pan, “he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Enzo—" Peter turned to me.

“It’s fine,” I mumbled and squeezed his hand, letting one of them fall from his. “Um—”

“This is Alex,” Peter said, waving his arm in Alex’s direction. “He’s a complete piece of shit and annoyance. You’ll despise him.”

Alex simply grinned, bowed his head slightly, and popped the second potsticker into his mouth.

“We, unfortunately, met years ago at a bar,” Peter explained as Alex sipped his beer. “He’s been orbiting me ever since.”

“To fuck,” Alex said casually. “Anytime this guy needs to liven up a party, he calls me. He’s absolutely enamored with me. In the non-Biblical sense, of course, so don’t worry, Frenchie. He simply thinks I’m the best. Aside from you.”

“Stop putting your fingers in the communal food,” Peter said, not disputing what Alex had said.

I found that interesting.