“No one who loved Drew,” Jordan says, careful and certain, “would want you lonely forever.”
The words land, not like a wound, but a relief—a key turning, a door I didn’t know how to open.
“Come to dinner,” I offer. The invitation flies out before I have time to weigh it.
Jordan’s thumb circles the back of my hand. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.” The word feels good in my mouth.
“I’ll bring wine,” Jordan promises, “the good stuff, not the screw-cap kind. I’ll even go bug Noelle for a real recommendation, and suffer her judgment if I have to.”
I laugh, out loud and free. “Just bring yourself. The wine is optional.”
“Deal.”
We bask. The sun slides lower, the shadows stretch, and the creek keeps running, unworried. My hand is tucked in Jordan’s, and for this perfect, impossible afternoon, that’s all I need.
Chapter 6
Ipark the truck three houses down from Maddie’s place and stay there for a good forty-five seconds more than anyone with average nerves should, white-knuckling the steering wheel like it might send me hurtling into orbit if I let go.
Just dinner. That’s the line I feed myself, low and stubborn, aimed at the dashboard. Just dinner, just a normal evening, and I’m just a grown adult with an understanding of buttons, going to have a meal with a woman who once kissed me in a creek and made a noise I’m pretty sure NASA could pick up.
The dash doesn’t offer much commentary, which feels about right.
Maddie’s porch light glows over the stoop and the rose bushes, yellow and steady in the dusk. Drew’s roses. I spot them instantly, the same way you find your own reflection in a crowded room; I helped his mom plant some of those, back when I clocked more hours at Drew’s house than my own.
I take the wine and breathe in, out, in again—the kind of deliberate inhale Thuba would definitely sanction—and climb the steps before I come up with a new excuse to hide in the driveway.
She opens the door before I even get my knuckles ready. Either she’s been staking out the window or she’s got radar. She stands there, filling the doorway, in a pale blue apron printed with tiny paintbrushes, the dish towel tossed over her shoulder, her white-blonde hair escaping a knot at her neck. There’s a streak of something red on her cheek, maybe sauce, and her socks are mismatched: one gray, one blue. I see this like it’sthe only safe thing to see while my brain short-circuits over everything else.
“Hi,” she says, smile bright enough to land a plane.
“Hi,” I manage back, but it comes out weird—not quite a squeak, not quite a proper word either.
She grins, something warmer and more knowing than a regular smile, like she’s looking past everything I’m trying to play cool. “Come in before you vaporize on my steps. I swept them this morning, you know.”
I step inside and the house welcomes me in all the right ways: garlic and tomato, something green and herby bubbling on the stove. The hallway’s dim, but in the kitchen there’s a bright spill of candlelight. Music, soft and thoughtful, floats from a speaker on the counter.
It looks lived in. Not staged, not company-perfect. Just real. There’s a stack of mail by the door, a mug with a paintbrush sticking out, gardening gloves tossed over a chair. On the hallway shelf, that familiar photo: Drew and Maddie on their wedding day, both laughing, arms slung around each other. I see it. I look away. The reflex is old, like stepping around a spot in the floor you’ve nearly tripped over a hundred times.
“You brought wine,” Maddie says, taking the bottle. Her fingers brush against mine, brief and bright, and my skin lights up in a way I pretend not to notice. “And the good stuff. Noelle’s call?”
“Interrogated her,” I say. “She threatened to cut off my oat milk if I showed up with anything below her standards.”
“That tracks.” Maddie sets the wine on the counter, spins back to face me with the dish towel now tangled up in her hands. “You’re helping, just so you know. No spectating allowed. This is a team effort.”
“I’m capable of chopping. My thumb-to-blade ratio is excellent,” I say, deadpan.
She just points me toward a cutting board already loaded with vegetables. “Onions, first. Diced, not chunked. Chunks are a crime.”
She moves around the kitchen with all the comfort of someone at home, reaching past me for a spoon, arm brushing my sleeve, filling the space between us with a hint of jasmine and something sharp and clean.
The onions, well, the onions don’t go great. Not tragic, but not exactly Michelin-level either. Some of the pieces are huge, some the size of pepper flakes. Maddie leans in over my shoulder, chin almost touching my collarbone, and lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half Oh, boy.
“These are... creative,” she says.
“They’re diced,” I argue.
