Steamed

my head, a habit that always left me in a state of potential suffocation but was my favorite way to sleep. It felt nice to have a warm body in my bed, even if it was just Adrianna. Better her than Noah. Or Eric, obviously.
    I slept dream-free and woke up cozy and warm and still satisfied from the delicious Thai food. It was only 6:45 a.m., but I could hear Adrianna in the shower preparing for her bridal nightmare. I snuggled in my comforter and remembered when my food-love connection had first begun, namely, during a family trip to Europe when I was thirteen. When my now-beloved parents, Bethany and Jack, had packed us up, the last thing Heather and I had looked forward to was vacationing with our parents, and we’d especially resented the expectation that we girls actually learn something. I’d devoted the first part of the vacation to devouring Gone with the Wind and delectable food. While Scarlett pursued her precious Ashley, I munched on buttery baguettes smeared with a triple-cream Brie and air-dried beef, the perfect love story and perfect food. I’d taken breaks from the Civil War (truces, I guess) for meals with my family. When I finished Gone with the Wind, I started The Great Gatsby. While our parents toured the Louvre and Notre Dame, my sister and I sat on benches in the Paris sun enjoying spinach-filled crepes and cones of exotic sorbet. I embedded myself in the world of Gatsby’s all-night parties, lavish food, and romantic quests, and looked up occasionally to join Heather in gazing with vague longing at beautiful French boys. (At that point, my graphic knowledge about boys came from the one pornographic picture my classmate Elliot had shown me.) So, my pursuit of the perfect blend of romance and food dated to that summer, when I basked in literary love and bombarded my senses with new tastes and smells. Especially since then, good food had always meant love or the hope of love: Scarlett, Ashley, Rhett, Gatsby, Daisy, French boys, and surprisingly good times with my family. It had meant weddings and holidays. Until now, it had never, ever meant death. Never before.
    Adrianna interrupted my reminiscing when she entered the bedroom looking intolerably glamorous in a black spaghetti-strap sundress. “How can you look like that this early in the morning? Or ever, for that matter?” I demanded.
    “Oh, shut up!” She waved away my words and handed me a steaming cup of perfect coffee that she’d somehow extracted from my defective coffeemaker. No wonder I was the only woman friend she had. No one else could tolerate her perfection.
    “I’ll walk you out.” Holding the coffee cup, I hauled myself out of bed, walked her out the side door to the fire escape, and sat down in the one rickety chair I had managed to squeeze onto the little landing. I was just about to say my good-byes and thank-yous to Adrianna when I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Noah.
    This was how my life worked. Faced with an ex, I was dressed in silly pajamas, and my hair was a mess. Meanwhile, my gorgeous friend stood beside me in all her glamorous glory with Noah flagrantly ogling her, black dress and all.
    “What do you want?” demanded Adrianna, who stood beside me in more ways than one.
    “Hi, Adrianna.” Noah leaned flirtatiously against the railing. “You look good.” Oh, I hate him! “So, Chloe, I see you’ve moved on nicely. A little switch for you, but you’ve got good taste.”
    I jumped in before Ade socked him. “Noah, what do you want?”
    His flirty expression vanished as he turned to me with irritation. “Well, I didn’t realize you were mad enough to throw the police at me.” My stomach dropped. “Some detective came by asking me questions about where I was Sunday night around dinnertime and after. I explained that I’d had company here and therefore couldn’t have murdered your date.” I bet he’d been with that horrid blonde woman again. “Why the hell would you even have mentioned me to the police?” he continued. Boy, he was mad. Good.
    “Well,” I said as casually as I could manage, “Detective Hurley asked me some questions, and somehow your name came up. I mean, they are the police. They have to be thorough.” I grinned smugly at him.
    “Yeah, well this detective started asking me all about paint. Whether I’d painted anything lately, if my office had been painted, and on and on. And I was more than happy to inform him that the person who does all the painting around here is