Page 38 of Flare

“I’m sorry. Let me get a few more from the freezer.”

“You stay here. I’ll get the burgers. I’ll grill them.”

Sammy is running around the yard, chasing after something invisible.

And Brock? Brock is not here. And that concerns me.

I head back to the kitchen, grab the burgers out of the freezer, bring them to the deck, and place them on the grill. I close the lid and set the timer on my phone for four minutes.

Then I stand next to Brock, watch Sammy running around the yard happily.

He’s definitely not himself. Usually, when something is bothering him, he grabs me and kisses the air out of my lungs.

Tonight though?

His mind is somewhere…dark. Somewhere very dark.

My timer goes off, and I flip the burgers. I set the timer for two minutes.

Once the burgers are done, I transfer them to a plate. “Come on,” I say to Brock. “Everything’s ready.”

He follows me in, and I place a burger on a bun for him, add some of the shredded cheese and a bit of onion. Does he even like onion? Too bad now. He’s getting some. If I’m eating onion, so is he. We’ll cancel out each other’s onion breath.

Though I’m not sure, at this point, that my breath matters. He hasn’t so much as touched me since I got here.

I place a potato—cut open and steaming with butter, salt, and pepper—next to the burger, and then I add a few canned peaches to complete the meal.

“Sit down,” I instruct him.

He sits down, his eyes glazed over. I shove the plate in front of him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

I didn’t come over to cook dinner, but I don’t mind. I’m no gourmet, but I can certainly handle burgers and microwaved baked potatoes.

But if Brock and I have any future at all, he’s going to have to learn how to eat vegetables.

CHAPTER TEN

BROCK

I’m a piece of shit.

I told Rory I’d feed her, and what do I do? I burn the fucking burgers. An idiot can make burgers, but I burn them.

But she’s not complaining. She made the burgers, made some baked potatoes, and opened a can of Aunt Marjorie’s peaches.

I invited her here, and I have nothing in my kitchen, but she managed to make a meal out of it.

I don’t deserve her.

I should let her go.

Let her walk away unscathed.

She’s got her own issues, and I can’t drag her into mine.

But here’s the kicker. Her tormentor—Pat Lamone—may be related to me.

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