Dine With Me

by Layla Reyne

  Clancy spun in the doorway. “Maybe you ought to get me a beignet first.”

  Miller pushed him into the car, laughing. “Where does it all go?”

  * * *

  On the edge of New Orleans’s French Quarter, Port of Call wasn’t flashy from the outside. An older building with gray siding, dark storm shutters, unmarked awnings, and a weathered wood sign over its entrance. The inside wasn’t flashy either. Woven ropes below an exposed ceiling, wood-paneled walls, a big wooden bar, and seating areas with basic wooden tables. It reminded Miller of a hulled-out ship, which, given the name and location, only a few blocks from the river, he supposed was the point. But Port of Call wasn’t a seafood joint. A waiter set a monster burger and baked potato in front of Miller, both covered with freshly grated cheese, and he forgot all about ships.

  Now this was something to look at.

  Across from him, Greg was tucking a napkin in his shirt collar, preparing to get down and dirty, and beside Greg, Clancy had already picked up his burger and had on his how-do-I-attack-this face.

  “I know it’s not Brennan’s or Commander’s Palace...” Miller said.

  Clancy didn’t take his eyes off the burger. “No complaints here.”

  “Don’t overthink it,” Greg said, dark eyes twinkling. “Just go for it.”

  Clancy nodded and did just that. Grilled mushrooms escaped out the back, cheese from the sides, and grease down Clancy’s chin. Laughing, Miller snagged one of the extra napkins the waiter had wisely left behind and reached across the table. He stopped a few inches short of his intended target, caught in the laser beam of his friend’s stare, no longer mirthful but sharpened with curiosity.

  “Here, Doc.” Miller handed the napkin to Clancy instead.

  Already on the scent, Greg shifted in his chair toward Clancy. “Not the New Orleans stop you were expecting?”

  “Well, no, but holy shit, this is the best burger I’ve ever had.” Clancy paused to wipe his chin, then took another bite and had to repeat the whole hilarious process over again. He looked blissfully happy—not quite Oh-God-Truffles happy but pretty damn close.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Miller said. “No one does burgers better.”

  He’d said the same about the service and creativity at TFL, O’Banon’s simple yet unique spin on goat cheese, the view in Jackson Hole, and the butter and steaks at Morton’s. And he’d say the same again before the tour was over. It was part of the reason why he’d picked these places. He wasn’t leaving this planet without visiting and tasting the best, one last time. And barring that incident in Wyoming, he was fairly certain he’d make it through the next week. He’d felt back to normal in Chicago and great this morning, excited to revisit Port of Call and bring Clancy here, especially after his comment about loving a good burger. Miller had also been excited to visit his best friend, though Greg seemed to be on Team Clancy at the moment.

  “You are taking him for beignets too, right?”

  Miller dropped his fork from where he’d been scooping up a bite of baked potato. “For fuck’s sake.”

  “What?” Greg grinned. “You can’t deprive a NOLA virgin of Café Du Monde.”

  “Oh, I know.” Miller pointed his fork at Clancy. “He had on a Mario Kart T-shirt and corduroy blazer this morning. You notice the jacket’s gone and it’s now a God-awful Dodgers shirt.”

  “Casualties of the powdered sugar war.” Clancy smiled around a mouthful of burger. “And I could have put on the Lakers shirt.”

  “I will leave your perky ass on the tarmac.”

  “Keep your promise of more beignets tomorrow, and I promise to keep the Kershaw jersey buried in my suitcase.”

  “I see it, I will burn it.”

  Someone cleared their throat, and Miller was reminded that he and Clancy weren’t alone. Greg’s dark eyes were now both curious and highly amused. Consistent with his shit-eating grin.

  Fuck.

  Greg had always had a thing for cop shows, fancying himself an amateur sleuth. When they’d worked together, it’d been Greg’s favorite game to peek into the dining room and speculate about their guests. What did they do for a living? What would they order? What was their drink of choice? Who would they go home with? Miller could practically see the guesses and questions swirling in his friend’s head about Clancy.

  Thankfully, Clancy’s curiosity beat his to the punch. “How long have you two known each other?”

  “Almost twenty years,” Greg answered.

  “We washed dishes together,” Miller said, “in New York.”

  “Who worked their way up the line faster?” Clancy asked.

  “First place we worked wasn’t so formal.”

  “But at the next—” Greg jutted a thumb at Miller “—this one was on sauté in less than a month, then up to roundsman a month later.”

  “Meanwhile, Mr. Culinary School there couldn’t get his hollandaise to stop breaking.”

  Greg held his arms out wide in a come-at-me gesture. Miller flicked a mushroom at him, and they dissolved into laughter. “We all have our demons,” Greg said once the hilarity subsided. “Which is why that particular one of mine is nowhere on my menu. Fuck eggs Benedict.” That set off another round of laughter, and the story of how Greg screwed up an entire brunch service his first week in their second kitchen. “The sous-chef made me stay there until three in the morning until I got one to work.”

  “Where were you?” Clancy asked Miller.

  “Down the street at the pub where Sloan worked.”

  “Where we all used to work,” Greg said. “I had to hobble back to our apartment that night with a tipsy fool on each arm.”

  “Your fault, dude.”

  “You guys all lived together?” Clancy asked.

  Greg nodded. “Shared an apartment with him and Sloan in Harlem until I got the chance to move back here and chef at Commander’s Palace.”

  Clancy’s mouth rounded into an O and Miller could see the fanboy wheels spinning. He pumped the brakes, though, asking instead, “You’re from New Orleans originally?”

  Greg smiled proudly. “Born and bred.”

  Greg’s absolute devotion to his hometown was one of the things Miller loved most about his friend. After Katrina had hit, Greg had been a mess. Stuck in New York, fifteen hundred miles away from his family and his beloved city. Granted, he’d been safe, and working in a kitchen most rising chefs would kill to cook in, but every day away from his hurting hometown wore on his Cajun soul. When he’d gotten the offer to chef at Commander’s Palace, it’d been a no-brainer. It’d left Miller and Sloan stretched for the rent, but they’d been the ones to talk Greg into taking the job. Sloan had flexed her law school mock trial skills, and Greg, like Miller often did, folded under her logic. Like Miller had done buying this purple plaid jacket, a nod to Greg’s alma mater’s school colors. For the grin it’d won from Greg when they’d arrived, it was worth it. Miller hadn’t gone to college—he didn’t have any college sports allegiances—so he could pull for Greg’s LSU Tigers. He sure as hell wasn’t wearing the black and gold for Greg’s favorite professional team.

  “So then, what are your favorite places to eat here?” Clancy asked Greg.

  There was the foodie fanboy. Miller couldn’t help but smile.

  A good fifteen minutes passed, Greg going on about his favorites and Clancy excitedly asking follow-up questions. Miller flagged down the waiter for another round of drinks and finished his potato. He moved on to his burger next, cutting it into bite-sized pieces his throat could handle.

  “You too good now to pick up a burger and eat it with your hands?” Greg said.

  Miller flicked him his eyes, and a middle finger. “Fuck off, Valteau.” The dig from Greg didn’t bother Miller half as much as a certain someone’s bushy brows snapping together. “Do not tell him where we worked in New York,” M
iller said to Greg, hoping to distract his travel companion.

  “Oh!” Clancy bounced in his seat. “So New York is on the menu.”

  Mission accomplished. “Of course it is,” Miller said. Because also, no-brainer.

  Clancy whipped his phone out of his pocket. “I can Google and see where you two crossed paths.”

  “Those sorts of first jobs are not on our Wiki pages.”

  “Only the big ones,” Greg said. “Michelin stars, big openings, clos—” He cut himself off and darted guilty eyes toward Miller, who waved him off.

  Of the past year’s hits, losing the restaurant was, relatively, the least painful. And it’d worked out for the best; he would have had to close it anyway. “It’s fine, Greg. You were the one who walked me through the closing process after all.”

  Clancy glanced back and forth between them. “You’ve closed a restaurant before?” he asked Greg.

  “Three of ’em. I worked at Commander’s for a few years before striking out on my own. Plenty of physical spaces were open after Katrina, but they were open for a reason. It took more than a few years for this town to bounce back.” He looked again at Miller, voice and eyes earnest. “You’ll bounce back too.”

  A piece of food lodged in Miller’s throat. He forced it down and focused instead on the meld of flavors in the burger. Beef, cheese, mushrooms, and a buttered bun. Nothing fancy, just simple, good ingredients, perfectly cooked. This stop—this trip—was a lesson in where he’d misstepped at his previous restaurant. There was a reason his staff meals always won raves, and not just because it was free food. If he were to open a new concept, he could already see how he might rectify his mistakes.

  No, he cut off his own thought. No use going there.

  Miller ate while Clancy peppered Greg with more questions. It wasn’t until the waiter cleared their plates and they’d ordered another round of drinks that Greg, smiling wide, leaned forward and put his forearms on the table. Now what was he up to? Miller prayed for an embarrassing story and not Greg Valteau, amateur detective.

  He got neither.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Greg said. “Since you’ll have the time off now, and since I know you’ll stand up for Sloan at the wedding, I was wondering if you’d stand up as my best person too.”

  Ice water gushed through Miller’s veins. There was such sincerity, such happiness and hope, in his best friend’s eyes, and yet darkness fast encroached on Miller’s periphery, closing in on what was left of his ever-shortening life.

  “Wait, you’re marrying Sloan?” Clancy said. “I thought she was marrying some guy named Tyler.”

  Greg aimed a raised brow at Miller. “He knows?”

  Miller just nodded, still trying to figure out how to let his friend down easy without spilling the whole truth of the matter, to Greg or Clancy.

  “Tyler is my business partner,” Greg answered Clancy. “I introduced them.”

  “And you’re getting married too? At the same time?”

  Greg smiled wide. “To my beverage director, Tony. We’re planning a double wedding.” He shifted his attention back to Miller. “I’ve been pestering Sloan to go ahead and ask you to be our best person, but she keeps putting me off. A win for me, as I got to ask you in person now.”

  A win. Miller bit back a bitter laugh.

  Fuck, now he wished Sloan had told Greg the real reason she hadn’t asked him yet—that Miller might not make it to summer. But Miller had insisted she not, hoping he’d never have to tell Greg. He was being a shitty friend to both of them, leaving Greg out of the loop and leaving Sloan to explain why, but Miller didn’t have it in him to confront Greg’s inevitable anger and equally inevitable tears. He couldn’t bear to listen to another friend try to convince him to fight, to give up everything he was for a slim chance of survival and a life full of question marks. He couldn’t put the thought of a tasteless life into the mind of the best, most talented chef Miller knew. He wouldn’t curse Greg with that nightmare, or himself with the pity that would no doubt shine from Greg’s beautiful eyes knowing someone he loved was living that hell. Greg had too big a heart for that; it’d tear him up from the inside out. Miller would rather curse himself to the ass-kicking Greg would eventually give him in the ever-after.

  “I told her it was perfunctory, of course,” Greg carried on. “But we’re getting down to the wire on details, and we need to—”

  “No,” Miller forced out.

  “No?” Clancy squawked in surprise.

  Greg, however, rolled with it. “Look, I know this may be tough for you, with Sloan moving on, and maybe you’re mad I introduced her to Tyler.”

  Patently false. Miller couldn’t be happier for Sloan, but given the circumstances, it was an understandable assumption, for an outsider. Which Greg was not. “That’s not it, and you know me better than that.”

  Greg’s face fell, confronted with the truth. Greg had lived and worked with them—had partied and gone out to the clubs with Miller—he knew the score where it stood with Miller’s sexuality and with Miller’s relationship with Sloan, as well as anyone. He was grasping at straws, trying to explain Sloan’s behavior and Miller’s refusal. Trying not to be hurt or take it personally. Miller wished he could tell him that’s what he was trying to save him from, but all he could do was stand and grab his blazer off the back of the chair. He fished the trip card out of his wallet and tossed it on the table. “I have to go.”

  Greg shot to his feet, blocking his exit. “Miller, what the fuck is going on?”

  “Look, I’ll go,” Clancy said, starting to stand. “You guys can talk.”

  “No.” Miller waved him back down. “Stay and finish your drink.” He turned to Greg. “Take him to The Rum House for some of that colossal key lime pie.”

  “Miller, I don’t understand.” Hand on his arm, Greg looked at him with tears glistening in his dark, soulful eyes. Greg wore his heart on his sleeve, always out there for the world to see, with absolutely no shame. “You’re my best friend. I’m sorry if I did something to upset you, but please—”

  “Never be sorry for being in love and for being happy. None of you, you hear me.” Miller cupped his friend’s beautiful tear-streaked face, brushing away the wetness with his thumbs. Miller admired that openness, loved him all the harder for it. “Thank you, for always being there for me. For bringing all that is you into my life. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice for Greg’s ears only. “I’m sorry I can’t be a better friend for you now. That I won’t be there to see you get all the love and happiness you deserve.” He dropped a kiss on Greg’s forehead then turned, bolting for the restaurant exit before either man could see the pain and regret in his own eyes.

  * * *

  One would think a big bearded guy in a purple blazer would not be difficult to find. Except that Clancy had found a half dozen already, and none of them was the one he was looking for. Friday night in the French Quarter, a week before LSU played in a bowl game, and it was a sea of purple battling waves of red and green, an equal abundance of holiday dressed revelers out in the streets.

  And in the bars too, which Clancy also had to battle to get into. Bouncers reveled in hassling him, because, according to almost every one, no way was he thirty years old. Eventually they’d let him in, but not without some teasing and cajoling.

  “Precocious,” one said.

  “Fake,” another pronounced about his driver’s license and UCLA Med ID.

  Clancy was sure he’d appreciate his baby-face genetics when he was fifty and looked thirty-five, like his ageless mother, but fuck this shit when he actually needed to get in and out of those bars quickly and find his purple-suited giant.

  Something was seriously wrong with Miller. They hadn’t known each other long, but Clancy wouldn’t hesitate to say one of Miller’s defining char
acteristics was his loyalty, not to mention his complete and utter devotion to Sloan. He suspected Greg was a close second on Miller’s priority ladder. But Miller wouldn’t be their best person? He’d miss seeing the two most important people in his life get married? At a wedding event that was clearly one of the biggest events to happen among their group of friends?

  Clancy wanted to ask why. On top of a list of other questions that were filling his brain. Why did Miller cut all his food into tiny portions? Clancy had noticed it tonight and at Morton’s. A new development, per Greg. Why the pain and nausea meds? Had to be internal, because there were no visible muscular or skeletal issues. Had Miller really been suffering altitude sickness in Jackson Hole or had it been something else? Why was Miller selling the house, especially if he’d have more time now? Why the fatalistic look in his eyes or the bleakness in his voice that made Clancy’s heart clench every time the dark clouds rolled in? Why even this tour? Full of all of Miller’s favorites, like a last—

  Clancy violently pushed his slipping glasses up his nose, as if the motion could cut off his racing mind. He realized what he was doing. Running diagnostics. But fuck, it was his job. It was what he’d spent the last decade learning how and training to do. No more than Miller could turn off being a chef, analyzing every flavor profile, Clancy couldn’t turn off being a doctor, especially not when running through the streets and bars of New Orleans felt an awful lot like his trauma rotation. He suspected his quick diagnostic assessment was correct, or at least close to some version of it, but Miller hadn’t disclosed any health conditions to him. Why would he? Who was he to Miller but a meal ticket and travel companion?

  A friend.

  Clancy had committed himself to that much in Jackson Hole, and again in Chicago, and he had no reason to turn his back on that commitment, or on Miller. Not when Miller seemed to desperately need one; if only Clancy could find him. Because as his friend, even if he’d bite his tongue and not ask his questions, Clancy had to make sure Miller was safe and not puking in some corner or about to pass out like he’d been in Wyoming.