When the desserts arrived, the caramel pie was a perfect golden dome, the cheesecake a white rectangle wearing a crimson crown. They didn't talk about the empty chair. They didn't talk about the hospital. They just took their forks and met in the middle of the table, the prongs clinking softly.
The first bite was cold, sweet, and rich. It tasted like memory. It tasted like now. And for ten minutes, under the warm glow of the Saltgrass lights, the dessert menu did what grief could not. It brought them back to the table, together.
The leather booth creaked as Marcus slid into it, the long day of driving from Houston finally settling into his bones. Across from him, his daughter, Lena, traced a finger over the condensation on her water glass. She was twelve now, too old for the kids' menu, too young for the silent weight that had filled the car since the funeral. saltgrass dessert menu
Marcus nodded, grateful for the small mercy. He opened the menu, but his eyes skipped past the ribeyes and the prime rib, landing squarely on the back page:
Lena finally looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but dry. "I'm not hungry for chicken," she said, her voice small. "Can we just... look at the dessert menu?" When the desserts arrived, the caramel pie was
Marcus felt the knot in his chest loosen a fraction. "Yeah, baby. We can do that."
Marcus smiled for the first time in a week. "And the Strawberry Cheesecake. Two forks." They just took their forks and met in
Dottie materialized again. "Decide on anything?"