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peppercorns, and
sel de mer
from France’s Brittany coast. People’s pantries were as perplexing as their lives. Whisking the eggs, Georgia considered Clem’s words. Marriage
was
a huge step. Had she accepted Glenn’s proposal because she wanted to marry him or because she wanted what came with marriage: a baby, a family, security? Or maybe she was scared of what would happen if she didn’t marry him. But how could she build a life and family with someone she couldn’t trust? She turned on the stove and listened for the whish that signaled the burner was on.
    The eggs sizzled in the sauté pan. Her brow moistened and she preemptively twisted her hair into a bun, knotting it at her neck. During her yearlong break from Glenn, Georgia had dated a dozen men, sleeping with four. There was Marco. And that truffle purveyor who had always flirted with her. And Jim, the singer-songwriter Lo was friends with, the one who lived in corduroy suits. And Paul, the really cute guy who, it had turned out, had a really scary girlfriend.
    The thing was, Georgia loved being half of a couple. Waiting in line for overpriced brunches, soaking up sun in SheepMeadow, late-night flicks at the Angelika—she felt her best when part of a pair. And in that whole year, she hadn’t met anyone, not anyone, she could pair up with. So when Glenn came knocking on her door a year after she walked out of his, bearing a bouquet of out-of-season ranunculus, she welcomed him back with cautiously open arms, sick of hoping to meet
him,
ready to be an
us
again.
    The smell of crackling bacon lured Petal into the kitchen, where she licked imaginary food drippings from Georgia’s sneakers. Ignoring her, Georgia flipped the omelet, trying to recall the last time she and Glenn had sex. With their equally grueling but opposite schedules, they barely had time for a kiss let alone a romp. Every girl who’d read
Cosmo
even once knew that once the sex is gone, you may as well kiss the relationship good-bye.
    Their first time was that summer in Newport on
Mysterious Ways,
a sixty-five-foot burled-wood beauty that looked as if it belonged in a Bond movie and was docked at the Yacht Club where they both worked. Easy access to unattended boats was a perk of being the head launch driver. Save for the waves of nausea rippling through Georgia’s belly with each pitch of the boat, it was amazing. After, he sang the Beatles’ “Julia” only semi-ironically, replacing the title name with hers. Somehow she managed to smile serenely as bile danced in her belly, never letting on how close she was to spewing her guts all over her unsuspecting lover. By summer’s end they had inaugurated nearly every boat in the harbor—plowing through three albums’ worth of Beatles songs—and she hadn’t thrown up even once.
    Clem walked into the kitchen and pulled up a stool at the center island. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah. Just trying to figure out if it’s really possible that I haven’t had sex with my fiancé in five weeks. And I’m part of the problem too, so I can’t blame it all on the coke. What is happeningto us? And why am I just noticing it now? Here”—Georgia slipped the omelet onto a plate—“have an omelet.”
    “You know, sometimes nothing happens,” Clem said with her mouth full. “Sometimes you just grow apart. Happened to me, happens to everyone. There’s probably even a Hallmark card for it.” She popped another bite into her mouth and rubbed her tummy. “Now this is good. Even with these lame ingredients, this is good. Open up Georgia’s Joint, and it’ll be a huge hit, no question. Just make the kind of food you like to eat, and they will come.” Clem was the food and wine editor for
Happenings,
a weekly magazine about the city, and even more obsessed with the restaurant scene than Georgia.
    “That’s the plan, minus the Georgia’s Joint part. The Mercedes review definitely doesn’t suck as far as financing is concerned, but first I need to