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I dutifully dictated my information, I wondered whether the Penthouse’s owner knew that Ellie was taking it upon herself to invite people to the restaurant’s big night. “Thanks so much for your help,” I said. “It was nice to talk to you. And I hope I’ll meet you soon.”
    “Of course. I’ll see if I’m free to be there when Digger cooks for you and Kyle. It’ll be like a double date!”
    “Kyle is—” I was on the verge of explaining that Kyle and I had a strictly professional relationship but then thought better of it. What did I care if Digger and Ellie thought that we were dating? And if word got back to Josh that I was seeing someone, then fine! Let him stew on that one. “Sounds great.”
    “I’ll page Digger right now and have him get in touch with you. Bye, Chloe.”
    I hung up the phone. It was obvious that Ellie was enthusiastic about Digger and his career, but she sounded like a strange match for Digger, too bubbly and positive for the sarcastic, pessimistic, tough chef. But what did I know about love?
    I was foraging in the fridge for the makings of dinner when the phone rang.
    “Chloe!” Digger shouted at me. “What’s up, babe?”
    “That was fast,” I said with a laugh.
    “Yeah, my girl has me on a short leash. She just called me and instructed me to call you immediately. She says you have a PR opportunity for me, and I’d better get my ass in gear and get ahold of you.” Metallic noises echoed through the phone so loudly that I had to pull the receiver away from my ear.
    “Where are you? What is that racket?” I asked.
    “Sorry. I’m at the restaurant tonight, and they’re trying to get the new stoves in here. It’s a goddamn nightmare. Christ, this sucks. Hold on. I have to stop these guys.” Digger began yelling and cursing in his usual colorful manner and ended with, “How do you jackasses think you’re going to move that stove in when you haven’t taken the other one out yet? Evolution in reverse, right here, huh? Sorry, Chloe. So what’s up?”
    I quickly described Kyle’s project. “So, do you think we could meet up with you to taste some recipes? Maybe do a short interview?”
    “Did you even turn the frickin’ gas off, you morons?” Digger screamed. “Chloe, I don’t know. I’m mobbed here these days.”
    “Please? It’s Hank Boucher’s book, after all. How could you not want to be in that?”
    The chef said something that I couldn’t hear because of the banging in the background, but I did catch him saying, “How about Saturday morning? Ten o’clock at my place.”
    “Awesome. Thanks so much. It’ll be good to see you.”
    I scrawled down the address he gave me. Just before I hung up, Digger let loose a stream of four-letter words. I smiled. I missed that guy. As crass as he could be, he had a wonderful heart and a gooey soft spot that I adored. I’d last seen Digger in August, when Josh and I had gone out to dinner at a Brookline restaurant, but I could tell that Digger hadn’t changed.
    There was Josh, creeping into my thoughts again. Instead of distracting myself with dinner, schoolwork, or television, I went into the bedroom and pulled a thick scrapbook from a shelf. I crawled onto the bed and lost myself in the pages. I’d been putting the scrapbook together to give to Josh as an anniversary present. I’d saved cards he’d given me, movie ticket stubs, takeout menus from our favorite places, pictures of the two of us, and lots of other memorabilia. The pages went on and on. Well, I rationalized, I was doing well most of the time, wasn’t I? Yes. So I was entitled to a night of misery here and there. I ran my finger over a picture of my chef. I missed that gorgeous face. I missed everything about him. Even so, I had blocked his e-mails and had changed my cell number after he’d kept leaving me messages. I didn’t want to read his words or hear his voice. I couldn’t. Why? Because as furious and confused as I was by his abrupt