Cook the Books

enough. But pleather with rips? I joined Kyle, who was already seated at one of the booths. Except for Kyle and one table of rowdy, drunk college kids, the place was empty.
    Kyle stood to greet me. I had dressed casually tonight, but Kyle was wearing one of his requisite suits, this one dark brown with a red patterned tie.
    “Hi, Kyle,” I said as I slid into the booth. “Have you been waiting long?”
    “Nope, I just got here myself,” he said.
    A waitress walked by and tossed menus onto the table without pausing to see whether we wanted drinks. I eyed her suspiciously and picked up one of the laminated menus. It took only a quick skim to see that the dishes were typical of many old-school Italian restaurants: lots of pasta with a few sauce and meat options, piccata this, Parmesan that. Still, I resolved not to judge the food until it was served. After all, this unpromising dump could be the source of the most flavorful red sauce in Boston. I did, however, decide not to risk ordering seafood. The odds felt good that the kitchen was hideously unsanitary, and I didn’t happen to have a craving for rotten mussels. Our disgruntled waitress eventually stooped to taking our order, but she managed to act positively put out by our presence and annoyed at us for wanting something to eat—in a restaurant, of all places.
    “So how is your friend Adrianna doing?” Kyle asked as he moved to take a drink from his water glass. “Have you two been friends for a long time?”
    “Don’t drink that,” I said, touching his wrist. “The glass is dirty.”
    Kyle peered at his water and frowned. “Indeed it is.” A large glob of some dark substance clung to the inside of the glass. He set it down and pushed it to the center of the table.
    “Adrianna is doing well. I’ve hardly seen her this week, though, since I’ve been so busy with school and the cookbook work. But we’ve known each other since high school, so we each understand when the other gets bogged down with life. The poor girl has been so tired, of course, because of Patrick. I don’t think she was prepared for how stressful being a parent is.”
    Kyle nodded. “Well, she doesn’t show it. Does her husband, Owen, help out much?”
    “Sure. It’s a rough time for him with work, though. He gets up at about four thirty in the morning to get the seafood orders for his restaurants, and then he isn’t home again until five or so. Sometimes later if people call because they ran out of tuna or forgot to order scallops or something. And his income is dependent on the market, of course. He determines the price for what he sells, and there’s only so much he can raise the cost of fish. Sometimes he makes only pennies per pound on some items. Oh, and he pays for his gas, too. It’s a rough business, but some weeks are better than others. And his schedule is really good. He’s at home with Ade and Patrick every night.”
    “He must be exhausted, though, when he comes home.”
    “True, but at least he has a regular job now. This is much better than the puppeteer phase.”
    Kyle laughed. I admired the small dimples that appeared on his cheeks. “Well,” he said, “Patrick is adorable. He must be good company for Adrianna, huh?”
    “That bundle of baby yumminess is more amazing than I could have imagined. I knew that I’d be loopy about my best friend’s baby, but I had no idea how deeply attached I’d become. And so quickly. He’s only three months old, but I can’t imagine not having him in the world.” I thought about my class on attachment and about how important and meaningful our familial, romantic, and friendship attachments were. I knew how strong my attachment to Patrick was, how innate it felt and how uncomplicated it was. Since Patrick was Adrianna’s son, she must have magnified versions of those same feelings. “I know he’s only a baby, and I’m not his mother, but I can’t help feeling that he and I have a truly special bond. There’s just something magical that takes over when I’m with him.”
    Kyle nodded and looked at me with kindness in his eyes. “I could see that when I came to your house the other day. He’s very lucky to have you in his life, Chloe.”
    When the waitress brought our food, I managed to refrain from wrinkling my nose at the glob of thick spaghetti slathered with lumpy Alfredo sauce. Kyle looked equally horrified by his chicken Marsala. A few small bites of our food confirmed that some of the time, looks