The First Husband

“That’s cool, Ray, Annie’s a friend of mine. I dragged her out to have a nightcap with me while I finish up some things. Go on, I’ll lock it out for you.”

Ray looked back at me. “You’re friends with Griff?” he said.

I smiled at Griff, as he po

ured me my bourbon, a double shot of it, the greatest amount of salt going in, right on top.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Cool, then.” Ray twirled his leather jacket over his head and turned to leave. “Later!”

When I looked back at Griffin, he was holding up his bourbon glass, tipping it toward me. “I’m guessing you’re glad I’m not Ray now.”

“Very,” I said, tipping mine toward him.

Then I took a long, slow sip of the bourbon. It felt warm and right hitting my throat.

“That is a pretty dress though,” he said. “He’s right about that.”

I shrugged. “Don’t let it fool you,” I said. “It’s a magic dress.”

“I don’t . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s like a mirage. But all I had was this and a very pink kimono, and the kimono doesn’t fit me anymore.” I paused. “Really, to be honest with you, I’m not sure it ever did.”

He started to laugh—this was funny? Apparently this was funny.

Griffin walked around the bar and pointed at the bar stool next to mine.

“May I?” he asked. “It’ll make it seem more believable that we actually know each other.”

“In case Ray comes back?” I asked, and smiled.

He smiled back, his dimple growing. “Exactly,” he said.

I patted the bar stool. “Be my guest,” I said.

He sat down and pulled his long legs around, so we were facing each other. And I noticed that the jacket he had unbuttoned—the bright green jacket—was a chef’s jacket. The words EXECUTIVE CHEF embroidered over the pocket, in white.

“Wait a minute, you’re the chef here?”

He looked down at his jacket, and pulled on the lettering. “I am?” he joked, responding to how surprised I sounded. “Wow, I guess so, if that’s what the jacket says.”

“Sorry . 0 .. I just . . . you were standing back there so I thought you worked here as a bartender. As your day job. Or your night job, I guess. I thought maybe you were an actor.”

“What would make you think that?”

I didn’t know how to make your eyes for starters sound like a noncreepy answer.

“Apparently I make up stories,” I said.

He smiled. “Well, the last time I stepped on a stage was for my fifth-grade class’s production of The Pajama Game.”

“I love The Pajama Game,” I said.

“You wouldn’t have liked this version of it. Trust me.”

I gave him a smile. “And now you’re the chef here?”