Page 44 of You Don’t Kiss Your Brother's Best Friends

We both looked up. A man stood behind a long bar on the other side of the room, meticulously polishing an arrangement of crystal glasses with a bright yellow cloth. And he was undeniably, undoubtedly Italian. As Italian as if all the Italian molecules in the universe managed to solidify into a five-and-a-half-foot person.

“C’mere. Drink this.”

The man pushed a V-shaped martini glass forward, as I followed Andre to the bar.

“Emily, this is Bruschetta Joe,” said Andre. “Joe, Emily.”

The man scanned me for a moment with his Italian brown eyes and gave me a distinctly Italian nod. Then he pointed to the drink again.

“Alright, alright.”

Andre brought the glass to his lips and took a long pull of the strange, multi-hued liquid. The layers of different weights and densities rolled together, moving like a beautiful storm as he tipped it back.

I watched as he doubled over, coughing and wincing before looking up again. “Jesus, that’s good.”

“Right?” Joe looked pleased.

“Whaddya call it?”

“It doesn’t have a name yet,” Joe conceded. “But it will.”

“You should call it Airstrike then,” offered Andre, clearing his throat. “Because it hits like one.”

The man behind the bar seemed to consider this. Joe scratched at his deepening five o’clock shadow, which on a guy like him, probably showed up around twelve-thirty.

“That’s not half bad, actually,” he said, turning to face me. “What doyouthink?”

I shrugged. “I think first I need to know why they call you Bruschetta Joe.”

The man’s face erupted into a gigantic, mirthful smile. It looked bright white against his perfect, olive skin.

“Joe…” Andre warned. “Don’t do it.”

But it was too late, Joe was already in motion. Reaching beneath the bar, like some bizarre magic trick, he produced a plate of delicious-looking, perfectly-aligned… bruschetta.

“Don’t eat that,” Andre said flatly.

The rich, vinegary scent of garlic and basil and tomato floated to my nostrils. Instantly, my mouth began to water.

“Why not?” my stomach protested for me. “It looks delicious.”

“Itisdelicious,” Andre affirmed. “It’s beyond delicious, actually. It’s so good it should be fucking criminal.”

“So then why wouldn’t I—”

“Because it’ll ruin you,” he cut me off. “Trust me. You don’t want to do this. It’ll ruin you forever.”

“There’s been a lot of ruining going around,” I smirked at him.

“Still.”

Andre reached out, took a slice, and crunched into it. Right away his eyes closed, and he seemed to go somewhere else entirely.

“Oh, fuck this.”

I grabbed a piece of the toasted ciabatta bread soaked in olive oil and bit into it, and instantly I knew. Angels soared. Religion happened. I saw God. It was like my taste buds fell to their knees, trembling in awe, begging me to take the next bite.

And bite I did. I ate the whole thing, savoring it, cherishing the moment, chewing it slowly. When I’d finished and swallowed the last crumb, I was already reaching for more.

---