Page 63 of Junk Magic

“Pork,” Dimas added, suddenly appearing out of nowhere and making me jump. He had a habit of disappearing for long stretches, then showing up looking like he’d been there the whole time. And then I noticed: the hand he had on the countertop was no longer medium brown, but off white with gray veins, the exact color of the quartz.

Taking a break, I reminded myself, and didn’t ask.

“Bacon is pork,” Cyrus pointed out.

“Yeah, but to do it right, you need pork shoulder. Like making carnitas, you know? Only you shred it into the beans.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Caleb said. “Let’s do that.”

Cyrus didn’t bother to reply, just gestured at the apron he was wearing, which proclaimed “No Bitchin’ in the Kitchen.”

Caleb frowned. “I’m not bitching, and it’s well known that I’ll eat anything, but the boys—”

“See, he’s thinking of the children,” I told Cyrus, who rolled his eyes.

“—might prefer the pulled pork. Maybe with some mac and cheese on the side—”

“We have plenty of sides,” Cyrus informed him.

“We also have plenty of mouths. I thought you wanted to feed them up?”

Cyrus quirked an eyebrow at him, while layering bacon slices onto the already dressed-up beans. “Are you offering to make said mac and cheese?”

“I don’t cook.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. It means you don’t get a vote.”

“But I eat—”

“Yes, you eat baked beans.”

Caleb looked at me. “You know, your man is—” he began, right before I popped a forkful of beans into his mouth. They were having to be done in batches, because my oven couldn’t handle that many dishes at once, and these had just come out. So they were hot and saucy and had now-crispy bacon on top, having shed all its fatty goodness into the beans.

Caleb didn’t complain about the steam they were sending up. For once, Caleb didn’t complain about anything. He swallowed the forkful, then grabbed the utensil away from me and went back for more.

I smacked his hand. “Not a chance.”

“How long until dinner?” he whined, which looked ridiculous coming from a guy who could take Mike Tyson in a fair fight. But I wisely didn’t say so.

“Go ask Danny.”

The restaurant owner’s son had taken on the role of pit king, fishing the tenderized ribs out of the boiling liquid when they were ready and setting them to charring on the grill. He seemed to be doing a bang-up job, judging by the smells drifting this way. And, honestly, I couldn’t blame Caleb; my own mouth had started to salivate.

“I just did. He said another hour, which is ridiculous. It’s after three now!”

“You won’t starve,” I promised, wrapping foil over the beans to keep them warm.

“Tell my stomach that,” he grumbled.

“Everything would go faster if there were fewer people in here,” Cyrus said pointedly, which was true. My kitchen remained packed.

“Who can we lose?” I asked, because everyone seemed to have a task except for Caleb, who was already on his way out of the door to “assist” Danny.

An ice-cold beer found its way into my hand.

“Seriously?” I looked at Cyrus. “I was helping!”

“Help outside,” he suggested, and gave me a little push.

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