Page 54 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Life’s too short to care if I give Norovirus to someone who drinks IPAs and wears alabaster pearls,” Alex said before dipping into the pan once more. “Fifty cases of explosive diarrhea and three bathrooms would liven up the joint anyway.”

Peter rolled his eyes, though not unamused.

“Are you hungry, Frenchie?” Alex asked again. “You look hungry. I don’t bite. Come get some food.”

“I’m starving,” I found myself saying.

“Waddle up to the trough,” he said. “Y’all paid for it.”

I turned my head to look at Peter. He squeezed my hand and smiled.

“It’s okay if you want to have a snack with Alex,” Peter said. “I’ll go back to the party. Make sure everyone knows they weren’t abandoned.”

“Okay,” I said. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Peter leaned in and gave me a quick kiss. Then he turned his attention to Alex.

“Don’t corrupt my husband,” he said.

“Qui? Moi?” Alex asked.

Even more interesting, I thought. He speaks French.

Peter said nothing, but he laughed and gave my hand another squeeze. After another quick kiss, he slipped out of the kitchen the way we had entered. As the door slid shut behind him, I was left with the thick silence of being alone with a complete stranger. I turned my attention back to Alex to find he was sipping his beer and appraising me. For the span of a few breaths, we stared at each other.

“It was a true story,” he broke the silence. “That lady in the black dress? That really happened. Though, admittedly, I sounded like I was judging her. I admire her style. Three guys and a lightsaber. That’s a party.”

I managed a nervous chuckle.

“People clusterfucked together, sipping dirty martinis, and talking about the health of the stock market is a corporate retreat,” he said and shook his beer at me. “PBR and chemical burns on your cooch? That’s a shindig.”

Again, I chuckled, though it was more genuine.

“Are you going to eat?” he asked. “It’s really good.”

He lifted a potsticker from the pan with the tips of his fingers and shook it at me before popping it into his mouth with a grin. Hesitantly, I shuffled over to the kitchen island and peered down into the pan nearly overflowing with uneaten potstickers. Peter and I had ordered far too much food. Then again, once people were inebriated, the food might go quicker. I plucked a potsticker from the pan and stuffed it into my mouth.

Bursting with meaty juices, the dough sticking to my teeth and roof of my mouth, and spices that played along my tongue, I couldn’t help but groan with pleasure at the bite. I hadn’t eaten since lunch and I hadn’t realized how hungry I really was. All I had needed was a bit of food to help me clear my head. Alex smiled at me and sipped his beer, watching as I shoved two more potstickers into my mouth in rapid succession.

“People who love to eat are the best people,” he said suddenly. “I tend to hate the skinny ones, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Rotund and tall, though not quite as tall as me, Alex obviously knew what he was talking about—and I agreed with him. People who loved food were good people. I’d said so many times throughout my life. To hear those words come from Alex’s mouth, I couldn’t help but feel I’d been correct in assessing him as someone I’d like.

“Parlez-vous français?” I asked as I selected another potsticker.

He snorted. “Très peu. I know a few words. Just like Spanish. I can order a great meal if I’m on vacation, but I can’t hold a conversation. I can make fun of your mother’s vagina in Arabic. But I’m not fluent in French, no. Though, I did notice you used the formal ‘vous.’ I’ll be a ‘tu’ before this party is over.”

I smiled at him. He was quick. Witty. Deliciously intelligent. Self-possessed in a way that I’d always hoped to be.

“It’s important to know a little bit about everything, don’t you think?” he asked. “Then you’re able to talk to rich assholes at house parties where the cheap, tasty beer is hidden in the kitchen so no one knows the homeowners are, actually, trash.”

“I suppose,” I said with a rich laugh.

“Anyway,” he said, holding his hand out, “to be deserving of a ‘tu,’ I’m Alex.”

I popped the potsticker in my mouth and used one of the caterer’s cloths to wipe my hand quickly before accepting Alex’s.