Page 25 of Her Age Gap Match

"Johnny—"

"I invited you to dinner," he said. "I'm making you dinner." His thumbs kept moving, which was deeply unfair given what he was saying. "And when I take you to bed for the first time it's not going to be because I got you a little drunk on good wine and told you my sad story and you felt sorry for me."

"I don't feel sorry for you," I said. "I feel⁠—"

"I know what you feel," he said. "I can feel it."

He stepped back, turned to the stove, checked the pasta like nothing had happened. I sat on his counter with my heart hammering and my sweater rucked up slightly and absolutely no idea what to do with myself.

"That's incredibly annoying," I said.

"Yeah," he agreed, not looking up. "Probably."

"You're doing this on purpose."

"I'm making you pasta on purpose," he said. "The rest of it is just—" he glanced back at me, that almost-smile, "—self control."

I looked at the ceiling.

"Plates are in the cabinet to your left," he said. "Make yourself useful."

CHAPTER 8

Johnny

On weekends when I was actually in town, Elle hosted breakfast.

She’d been doing it for years—ever since I’d walked out of prison and straight to her door, needing somewhere to land. The boys had been ten, then, and Elle had found a more reliable partner in a woman named Kim, who was about fifteen years older than her and a successful attorney. A lot had changed since then—Cassius was a photographer for the Chicago Times, Marco had a baby on the way—but Kim and Elle had stuck together.

They lived in a three-bedroom house in Oak Park, twelve minutes from the city on a good day, on a street with old elms that had somehow survived every storm and every winter. The house was Elle’s—she’d bought it at some point when I was in jail, had been here ever since and resisted every request for her to sell. Kim had moved in shortly thereafter, and they’d started adding on with a proper kitchen and all of what Kim described as essentials and Elle described as luxuries.

Saturday breakfast was the only time I didn’t eat eggs and bacon—because Elle made pancakes topped with whatever fruit Kim had picked up at the grocery store. I could smell syrup and powdered sugar from outside the door, even in the cold.

Kim was the one who yanked the door open, voices coming from inside, a scowl on her face. She had her reading glasses on and the weekend edition in her hand.

“You’re late,” she said.

“By four minutes.”

She quirked an eyebrow.

I cracked a smile.

She reached out and pulled me inside.

“Get in here,” she said. “I’m fucking with you—you know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know, I know…”

The kitchen was loud with Elle at the stove and what sounded like a sports recap playing from somewhere, which meant Cassius was already here. Marco would be close behind—he lived twenty minutes out now, in a place he and his girlfriend Dee had bought when they found out about the baby. Elle turned from the stove when she heard us come in and a smile bloomed on her face, the same smile she’d been giving me for twenty-five years without ever shaming me for the trouble I’d brought on her family.

“John!” she said. “I hope Kim isn’t giving you too much trouble…”

“Just enough,” I said, crossing the kitchen to pull Elle into a one-armed hug. She was tiny and blonde and round, Kim tall and brown and reedy. They made quite the pair. “How are you, Shortstack?”

“Living the good life,” she said. “As usual.” She gave me a onceover. “And you…look the same.”

“Gee, thanks,” I chuckled.