Page 297 of What We Burn

“Now that,” Jamie says, “is my kind of healing plan.”

We drink.

The margarita is cold and tart and just sweet enough to trick me into having another one, which is how I end up laughing so hard at Jamie’s burrito commentary that I snort tequila through my nose and nearly die on the patio.

“I’m serious,” he says, one hand to his chest as he checks something on his phone. “This thing has layers. Emotional layers. It’s not a meal, it’s a character arc.”

“It’s beans in a blanket,” Amy says.

“It’s art.” He types out a quick message and sets his phone face down on the table.

“New boyfriend?” I ask, waggling my brows.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “I wish. No, I’m just dealing with some leftover school stuff.” He nudges me with his foot. “Not all of us can be so lucky as you, Miss Queen of the Dicks.”

When he’s done with the burrito, Jamie flops into what looks like a food coma. Amy tells a story about a kid in her class who brought a live frog to show-and-tell and it escaped into the ventilation system. I do an impression of Holden organizing the refrigerator that makes Jamie laugh so hard he chokes on a bean.

“I can’t believe you live with him,” Amy says, wiping her eyes. “Does he label the shelves?”

“He labels the shelves.”

“Does he label the labels?”

“He has a label maker, Amy. A fancy one. It has settings. And the labels are all color-coded as well.”

Jamie is doubled over. “Stop. I’m going to die. I’m going to die in a Mexican restaurant choking on a burrito and it’s going to be your fault.”

“At least you’ll die happy,” I say.

“At least I’ll die near queso. That’s all I ask.”

The afternoon melts. The margaritas keep coming. Amy gets all giggly and starts telling Jamie about Dean—carefully, edited, the version that includes French toast and toenail painting but omits the crematorium and the bodies. Jamie listens with his chin in his hand, asking all the right questions, being his usual warm, thoughtful self.

“He sounds great,” Jamie says. “When do I get to meet him?”

“Soon,” Amy says. “He’s a little shy, but he’s lovely. And he’s tall. Like, really tall.”

“Everyone in the orbit of you two seems tall. Is there a height requirement? I feel like the mascot.”

“You’re the heart of the group,” I say, meaning it. “We’d fall apart without you.”

“Don’t make me cry without a margarita. I’ll have to blame it on real feelings.”

By four o’clock I’m pleasantly drunk and Amy is decidedly more than pleasant. Jamie has consumed nothing but water and Diet Coke and is stone-cold sober, because he takes his designated driver responsibilities extremely seriously.

“Okay, lightweights,” he says, signing the check. “Let’s get you home.”

We drop Amy at Dean’s first. She wobbles out of the car and Dean is at the door before she reaches it—steady, calm, one hand extended to guide her up the steps. She turns and blows us a kiss.

“Love you both,” she calls. “Stab si—” She catches herself. Glances at Jamie. “Saturday sisters! That’s our thing. Saturday sisters.”

“Smooth,” I call back, laughing it off.

“She’s drunk,” Jamie says, grinning. “It’s adorable.”

Dean waves from the doorway. Jamie waves back. Then we pull away.

“We dropped her off at a funeral home,” he says after a while.