Hello, Sunshine

“What?” Taylor said.

“Walk away.”

“Chef, Sammy will tell you . . .”

“Who is Sammy?”

I raised my hand.

“Stupid name.” He shook his head. “Is that what your parents named you, or did you shorten it all by yourself?”

I looked around the kitchen, wondering who would react to the lie, who knew my real name. Everyone continued working, cleaning up their stations, closing down for the night. If anyone was interested in outing me, they were going to do it when they hadn’t been on their feet for fourteen hours already and were dreaming of getting into their beds, confrontation free.

Z turned away from me, looked Taylor up and down.

“Taylor, why are you still standing here?”

Taylor walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with Z.

“So, Sammy. This is your entire job, trash. You look at what people left on their plate. And write it down. Then you throw it out. Is that understood?”

I nodded, trying to contain my joy. “I won’t let you down, Chef,” I said.

“Of course you will,” he said.

Then he walked away.

24

On the way home from the restaurant, I stopped at a pay phone off of Montauk Highway to call Danny. I knew he wouldn’t pick up if I called from my phone, so I had to try a different way. It felt wrong to have a night like I’d just had and not tell him about it—not hear him laugh about how scary Chef Z was—and how scary Douglas was. He would probably say Douglas was scarier. And it felt wrong not to tell him that I had scored a first victory on the way to getting a life back.

We’d had a tradition when one of us had a big day—something at school or work, something worth reporting—of bringing home some super-unhealthy takeout, dealer’s choice. It had started in the first apartment, the garden apartment, when we were so broke that any takeout was a treat. And we had stayed with it.

The night that A Little Sunshine was picked up to series, we hadn’t gone to some fancy restaurant. And of course, I didn’t cook. I had ordered spicy chicken and extra egg rolls, and we ate on the couch while imagining what we were going to do with the (small) influx of money. It was enough to put a dent in the down payment on the town house. But I hesitated.

Ryan had already signed a lease on the studio in Chelsea. He wanted Danny and me to get a place not so far from there.

As hip as Red Hook was, Ryan decided that my living in Manhattan was more relatable—especially to people unfamiliar with New York. That was the dream people aspired to, as opposed to our dream of living off the beaten path. It wouldn’t appeal to viewers in the same way to engage with someone who was living miles from the nearest subway station.

They wanted what they’d seen on television—what they thought New York was supposed to be—lively streets crowded with sexy people and late-night bars. Fancy restaurants. And a dream apartment in spitting distance of the action—where they could dream they would have a chance to live too.

Danny was holding his ground on staying in Red Hook—not ready to give up our dream just yet. But, as I enjoyed my greasy takeout, I was already happily envisioning the East Village apartment that Ryan thought c

ould be perfect. It was right by Astor Place, shiny and new, with a shower that was larger than our current bathroom. I told Danny that we would figure it out together, but I think I already decided that was the way I wanted to go. Takeout and dreams be damned. I was already willing to sell us out.

As I dialed Danny’s number, I remembered the night of the surprise party. Danny had offered me the takeout option. Sushi and a terrible movie. Why hadn’t I taken it? Maybe if we had been home when those tweets came through, I would have handled it better. I would have convinced him it didn’t define us. Which, of course, it didn’t.

Right now, there was no chance of takeout. The most I could hope for was just to hear his voice. And, at 1:45 A.M., that was unlikely too.

Still, my heart dropped when he didn’t pick up. The phone went right to voice mail, and all I heard was the machine-operated version of him, saying he’d give a ring back.

I knew he wouldn’t.

So instead of leaving a message, I held the phone out so he could hear what I was hearing. The late night breeze, the ocean kicking up, and somewhere on the beach in the distance, someone laughing at something I couldn’t see.

25

I tiptoed into the guesthouse a little after 2 A.M., and turned on the kitchen light.