LITMIR.BIZ

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of his own to hang with at the moment. I worry that the boredom may lead to something more sinister. Alas, there are no new messages from him, which could actually mean he’s at an NA meeting. I take a calming breath at the thought and strive to be a little more present at my special birthday brunch.

      “Did you get it? My arm’s getting tired,” Maya says.

      “Oh, damn, my storage is full. Let me delete some photos and we’ll try again when our food comes.”

      The three-egg veggie omelet on the menu catches my eye. Sometimes, the simpler the dish, the better when Benji isn’t around. Because when he is, it’s always something like evaporated pancake mix with bacon jam. Delicious? Yes. Swoon-worthy? Totally. But filling? Hardly. And even though gourmet is my new normal, I enjoy the simple throwbacks, especially when they come with a side of home-style hash browns. When it’s time to order, I make a game-time decision to go sweet instead of savory, locking in the cinnamon brioche French toast and a promise to go for a jog by the lake later.

      “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Jazzy says as she hands her menu back to the server, who trots off to put in our orders. I can’t tell if she’s peeved that I’ve dropped off the radar a bit, or just stating a fact. “I have bangs now.”

      I love how Jazzy is using her bold hair choices as a milestone for our hangouts. From now on, I wouldn’t be surprised if we refer to things as “BB”—Before Bangs—and “AB”—After Bangs—which coincidentally aligns with Before Benji and After Benji. Either way, they suit her well. But when you look like Padma Lakshmi’s little sister and work as a buyer for Nordstrom, how could a trendy haircut betray your already perfect sense of style?

      I think back on when the last time we all got together actually was and realize it was for our book club meeting a few months ago. It was my turn to host and Benji was only about a week sober at that point. I hadn’t yet told the girls he was living with me, nor had I filled them in on any of the gory details about his addiction, but I couldn’t cancel on them the day of. I also couldn’t tell Benji to get lost for a couple hours while we girls drank half a crate of wine and discussed periods, recent blow-job mishaps and a little bit about the book Gone Girl. So I explained that I was having friends over to talk about a book we were all reading and would try to hurry it up.

      “You don’t have to rush because of me,” he immediately said. “If these girls are important to you, they’re important to me.”

      “I know, but there will be wine. A lot of wine.”

      “There will always be wine, babe. It doesn’t tempt me anymore, though. So why don’t you just sit down, relax and let me make you ladies some canapés.”

      Before I had a chance to answer, my doorman was calling up to my unit to let me know my first guests had arrived.

      As they filed in, I glossed over the introduction and explanation of Benji. He waved and smiled and looked hot in his apron while whipping up some hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen. The girls took their seats around the coffee table in my living room as I fetched a wine key from the utensil drawer.

      “Sorry, babe,” I whispered as I grabbed the bottle opener from the drawer next to him.

      “Stop apologizing, Al. Enjoy yourself. Please.”

      On my tippy toes, I reached up to plant a kiss on his lips. That’s the first moment I realized I had it all.

      A half hour later, Benji walked into the room with a tray of snacks. I know the girls were expecting some crackers and brie, but when he placed the canapés that could be on the cover of Plate magazine in front of us on the coffee table, everyone took their phones out and started Snapchatting like crazy.

      “Holy shit. Does he cook like this all the time?”

      “Oh my god, is this for real?”

      “Did he just whip this up for us?”

      Yes, yes and yes.

      As the night went on, so did the culinary surprises from Benji. Deconstructed elotes featuring yellow corn, homemade mayo and parmesan cheese. Crispy cucumber slices with fresh-made garlic hummus and dehydrated cranberries. Mini toast points with guacamole made from avocadoes that were sitting on my countertop earlier that day. All of these treats came from ordinary groceries I happened to have in my fridge and pantry.

      I soon recognized the infamous Benji Zane food coma coming over my girlfriends. At that, a few excused themselves by way of an Uber, leaving Jazzy, Maya and me to sit and chat while Benji cleaned up the kitchen and fixed himself dinner with the leftovers. That’s when I decided to tell them about my new living arrangement. I figured doing so after they’d experienced the Benji Effect firsthand would lessen the judgmental blowback that comes with telling people you’ve reached a major relationship milestone seemingly overnight.

      Jazzy: “He’s living here now? God, you’re so lucky.”

      Maya: “Agree. Maybe book club should morph into supper club, and permanently be at your place.”

      Me: Mission accomplished.

      “Sorry, it’s been crazy,” I say, returning to our brunch conversation. It’s minimal, but true.

      “Speaking of crazy, can we talk about this?” Maya flips her wavy red hair over her shoulder and holds her phone my way. Her gap-toothed smile gets bigger by the second. I squint to see what’s lit up on her screen but before I can make it out, Jazzy grabs it from across the table for a better look of her own.

      “‘Hot in the Kitchen,’” she reads. “‘Zane Stuns at North Side Pop-up.’”

      “No way,” I say. “Gimme that.”

      “Oh yeah, your face is all over FoodFeed,” Maya confirms, spiraling a curl around her pointer finger.

      She’s right. FoodFeed—the quintessential dining-out blog of Chicago—has posted their review of Friday’s pop-up and chosen a photo of Benji holding my hand and bowing as the article’s hero image. Damn, we look good together.

      Skimming the post, I see that FoodFeed approves of everything from the courtship to the courses. I scroll down to the comments and aside from one that says, “The fuck is she wearing?” in what I assume is in regards to my romper, it all seems positive. I text myself the link from Maya’s phone before giving it back to her.

      I never used to care what FoodFeed had to say, mostly because I never knew what FoodFeed was. But since Benji’s name is as common on there as a photo of a doughnut on Instagram, I figured I had better familiarize myself. Not to mention, they’re the ones who broke the news we were dating in the first place.

      When I hear the ding from inside my bag, the link to the article isn’t the only new message I’ve received. I’ve somehow missed five texts from Benji in the last few minutes.

      Hi.

      How’s brunch?

      When R U coming home?

      How do I go from TV to DVD with this remote?

      Hello???

      I picture him on the couch struggling to figure out how to put on Little Miss Sunshine but the directions are too much to type without being rude to Jazzy and Maya. So I quickly forward him the article in hopes that it distracts him long enough to realize he can probably just find the flick for free OnDemand.

      Moments later, our brunch order arrives. The food runner places my French toast in front of me and our server follows behind him with a plate of ricotta pancakes.

      “You’re Allie Simon, right?” he asks.

      “Yes, why?”

      “I knew it.” He puts the plate down and smiles proudly.

      None of us ordered the short stack, but the fluffy pillows of perfection with their golden-blond hue look and smell delicious.

      “I had the kitchen make these for you as a thank-you. I

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