Page 69 of Hearts on the Line

I scrape the bottom of the pan, dredging up the caramelized bits, then pull it off the heat and start plating it up. I focus on the food and not the way she leans against the counter, daring me to ask more.

I don’t want to play this game, so for a minute, I’m quiet.

“I’m teasing, Ethan.”

“Hmm.” I hand her a plate to put on the island behind us as I make up the second before she returns to peeling the orange. I love watching her hands, love the way she sticks her tongue out as she concentrates.

“I’m guessing you’re not into poetry,” she says, not looking up at me.

“I read.” But if I’m being honest, it takes me months to finish a book. Not because I’m not interested, but because I fall asleep every fucking time.

“Well, one of my favorite poems is about peeling an orange. How it’s such a small pleasure in life. Since reading it, I haven’t been able to forget it.” She finishes making her drink, then follows me to the island and sits down across from me. “That’s good writing. I miss that.” She takes a slow drink, locking her eyes on mine. “I want to be heard, but only when I have something to say, not because I’m expected to say what everyone wants to hear.”

“And you want more?”

She shrugs and sets her glass on the table. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”

“Don’t change the subject, Sloane.”

She snickers, tipping her head down. I’ve seen the move before—her hair sweeping in and creating a curtain, almost blocking my view of her lips tipped up into a barely-there smile. But I know.

That’s the problem—I always know.

“I don’t know what I want.” She closes her eyes as she takes another bite and savors it.

It’s so obvious to me that she wants the space to figure it out, but she always chased what others wanted for her. Which is why, after she left town, I never followed. I texted, and she never replied, and her dad left later that winter, before he was diagnosed with cancer.

“Maybe you have what you need.” I take a sip of my drink. It’s crisp and orange, almost bitter on the tongue. It pairs perfectly with dinner.

“I’m unemployed, just ran away from my wedding, and sleeping on a couch for the summer.”

“You’re not unemployed. If anything, you’re overemployed with two jobs now.” I lean forward, trying my best not to get lost in her brown eyes. “Besides, there’s that PR job waiting for you at the end of the summer, right? Safe. Steady. Everything you want.”

She goes still, her fork halfway to her mouth. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“Is it? Or is it just easier than admitting you want something you’re too scared to chase?”

Her jaw tightens. “I’m burned out, Ethan. Sometimes safe sounds pretty good when you’ve been living off caffeine and deadlines for something like fifteen years.”

She shrugs, and I can feel her pull away, but I’m not in the mood tonight to let it go.

“You know what I think?” I lean forward again. “I think you’re terrified that if you actually try for what you want, you might not get it. So instead, you take something you don’t want and pretend it’s enough.”

“What about you?” She sets down her drink. “When’s the last time you risked anything? You’re so worried about the restaurant, about covering shifts and payroll, but when do you ever actually cook what you want?” I’m about to interject when she holds up her hand. “Nana’s supper club doesn’t count. You could make her a Fluffernutter, and that woman would think you hung the moon.”

Maybe she would for Jack, but the fact that Sloane brings it up catches me off guard.

“I cook.”

“You haul in lobsters, boil them, and hide behind the world’s worst fryer turning out subpar french fries. You’re better than that, but you keep playing it safe so you don’t let anyone down. Even yourself.”

“Our french fries are fine,” I say, blowing out an aggravated breath. I set my fork down. There’s no point in denying it, we both know she’s right. “You know what I’ve missed most about fighting with you?”

Her breath catches. “What?”

“How good you look when you’re pissed off.”

She rests her elbow on the table and holds up her head in one hand, studying me. I can practically hear the words tumbling around in her head, but I wait.