Page 68 of Aftertaste

“Hey, Chef.” She grinned, wagging the bag at him. “I went to Balthazar.”

“I have never been more attracted to you.” He kissed her, tasted the sugar and butter and almond paste coating her lips.Yum. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, just your average Tuesday morning bribe.”

“Oh, yeah?” He unlocked the entryway door. “And which of my many services are you trying to buy? Because there aren’t enough croissants in the world to get me to clean your kitchen.”

She laughed, the sound thinner than normal. “Guess again.”

“Well, if this is about using me for some sort of kink,” he continued, letting her into the building and unlocking his apartment, “like really dirty, filthy stuff, then save the pastries. Truly. I volunteer.”

She gave a queasy smile. “Maybe after.”

“After?Don’t tell me we’re assembling IKEA furniture.”

She followed him inside, something definitely off. She twisted the top of the pastry bag so hard it threatened to tear.

“Maur?” he asked, rescuing the bag. “Seriously, what is it?”

“I—” She looked petrified. “I’m ready.”

“For…?”

“I want you to bring back my sister.”

“Oh!” Kostya laughed with relief. “Is that all?”

Her eyes were enormous, full of emotion that threatened to spill into tears.

“You’ll do it?”

“Of course! I gave you my word. I just need to run to the bodega.”

“Why?”

“For the Reese’s,” Kostya told her. “I’ve tasted them around you since the night we met.”

BACK IN HISapartment, a dozen packages of peanut butter cups cluttering his counter, Kostya coached Maura through the visit. He explained about the memory she needed, about sitting in her grief, about reaching out withit. He told her about the rules—that Everleigh would only stay as long as Maura ate. He promised to be with her the whole time.

“Actually,” Maura said, her eyes not meeting his, “if you you don’t mind, I’d rather see her alone. In private.”

“Oh.” He tried not to sound hurt. “Sure. Totally. It’s such a personal thing. I’ll, um, I’ll get things started and then I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you.” She took his hand, kissed it. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

He gave her a sad sort of smile. “Actually? I really do.”

MAURA ELIZABETH STRUKsat at her boyfriend’s dining table, an empty white plate before her. She reached for Everleigh, through the otherworldly Hunger writhing inside her, through her endless regret and guilt, through all the risks associated with raising her sister from the Dead. She combed the tendrils of her mind for the memory, the one that hurt the most. That made her feel her grief most profoundly, just like Konstantin had said. It was obvious, once he mentioned the Reese’s.

Halloween night, a decade ago.

Maura was fourteen, and Ev was ten, and they were both still alive. They’d been trick-or-treating. For the very last time, only Maura didn’t know it then. They were on the porch, combing through their candy, taking inventory. Ev loved Reese’s, hoarded them every year, kept them under her bed to eat at night, especially on their dad’s bad days. Sometimes, in the dark, Maura could smell it from the other side of the room, chocolate and peanut butter, and she’d roll out of bed and curl up with her sister, saying nothing, just listening to Everleigh chew.

But that night, that Halloween, Ev didn’t hoard them. She didn’t ask Maura to trade—an even swap for Snickers or those paper packs of M&M’s, two Reese’s in exchange for Nerds, or, on rare occasion, three for an Airhead.

Everleigh ate them instead. She shared them with Maura.

They sat there, the air like ice, Everleigh’s Ayane wig (When I’m older, I’m gonna dye it purple for real!) and Maura’s Super Mario mask (I can’t breathe in this thing!) cast aside, eating every one of their collective peanut butter cups. It felt indulgent. Fun. They licked the chocolate from their fingertips. They threw the paper cups across the floor. They feasted. And then there was just one package left, a full-sized score, two final cups inside. They lifted them, and then, as if they were older, an age Everleigh would never live to see, they clinked them together like glasses of champagne, dinging the chocolate, a toast to themselves.

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