I swipe at my eyes, clearing my throat. “But he’s there, now.”
She smiles tremulously. “I know you don’t believe in heaven.”
“Maybe that’s one of the things that’s changed.”
“Have you? Changed, I mean?”
“No. I’m still an asshole, for one thing.”
She laughs. A tear streaks down her cheek. She brushes it away roughly. “You’ve never been an asshole.”
“Of course you’d say that. You always thought the best of me.”
“Because I got to see the best of you every day for three years.” She stands to clear my plate, pressing a kiss to my hair. “It’s okay if Poppy sees it too.”
Chapter 32
Pop Tarts (Revised Recipe)
Poppy
Jack didn’t come back to the houseboat last night.
It’s just as well, because I tossed and turned all night. My mind ran in circles like a hamster on a wheel. It wasn’t the time to ask him about his past. I know that. But he kept pushing and pushing, demanding answers of me that I’m not fully sure how to give. My impulsivity got me into yet another scrape, and his sent him running. What a pair we are.
I take my time getting ready. I didn’t bother cleaning the kitchen before bed, but now I do, throwing out the ruined food, scrubbing the pans until they shine.
“This did smell really good,” I tell Gator, who is lounging in a patch of sun on the floor. He lifts his head, eyes glinting. “He made it for me, didn’t he? He knows I’ve been loving theLes Halles Cookbook.”
Gator meows plaintively, as if to say,Sure, and what about breakfast?
“Right, sorry.” I fetch a can of wet food from the fridge and scoop it into his bowl. He ambles over, rubbing against my legs in thanks. “Where did he go? Do you think he’s at the restaurant?”
Gator flicks his tail in answer.
“I know, I know. I messed up.” If there was ever a time to hold my tongue, it would’ve been then.
After fussing with the kitchen unnecessarily and taking way too long getting dressed, I finally head onto the deck, enjoying the salty breeze. It’s still on the early side, and the sun is already so strong, I can feel its rays fighting to get through my layer of sunscreen.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the rock music coming from the back of the restaurant. I wind my way past the décor that Kiara and I dropped off yesterday afternoon and slowly ease open the door to the kitchen, half expecting Jack to snarl if he sees me.
Despite my annoyance, I couldn’t help thinking last night about what his childhood must have been like. No wonder he’s so guarded. I wouldn’t trust easily either, if I spent most of my life shuttled from one home to the next. Some part of him must have been bracing, always, for the next rejection. His commitment to the restaurant makes all the more sense, knowing how Sal helped him become who he is today.
As I watch, Jack takes out a baking tray.
A baking tray filled with golden-brown, uniform pop tarts.
He sets the tray on the cooktop. The air is thick with the scent of sugar and dough and jam, a trio of the best smells in the universe. My mouth starts to water. He turns to another tray, filled with pop tarts that must be cooled, and drizzles on thick, pale purple icing. Then he leans down, taking a pair of tweezers and painstakingly applying an array of jewel-like sugared berries, edible flowers, sprinkles. My heart squeezes tightly. He transforms into an artist when he plates food.
“You even remembered the edible flowers.”
Jack looks up, piping bag in hand. His dark hair is streaked with powdered sugar, and he’s got a smudge of jam on his cheek. I’m overwhelmed with the urge to tousle his hair and lick the jam before kissing him. Instead, I inch into the kitchen, keeping a safe distance between us.
His eyes are dark, his movements feline. He picks up one of the finished pastries, sets it on a plate, and slides it across the pass to me. It’s a neat pillow of dough, the edges pressed down with a fork, the top laced with pale purple icing. A sprig of dried lavender adorns one corner, while sugared raspberries create a tantalizing swirl across the center.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“This is an apology pop tart?” I take a step closer. “I thought you couldn’t bake.”
