“Okay.”

The chopping starts in the background, reaching through the absence of Sloane’s voice. I close my eyes and lean my head against the tree as I try to imagine Sloane with her hand expertly wrapped around the handle of a knife. I don’t know why that’s so fucking sexy, but it is. Just like the thought of her on stage with her little Madonna mic. Same as the image of Sloane in the booth at my restaurant, bent over a sketch.

“Why do you work there?” I ask abruptly.

“At Viamax?”

“Yeah. Why not art for a living?”

There’s a pause before she snorts. The flush on her throat and down her chest must be absolutely crimson. “I’m not really going to make money selling bird sketches, Rowan.”

I’m surprised she’d go there, after the way she looked toward the booth at 3 In Coach as though she wanted to take a flamethrower to that drawing she left behind, and probably the whole fucking restaurant. But as much as she’s going straight to this moment that clearly embarrassed her, it’s still a deflection. “But you could. You could do other art, if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not.” Her firm words ring between us like she’s waiting for them to settle into my head. “I like what I do. It’s different from the career I envisioned for myself when I was young. Like, who does, right? Not many of us end up as dolphin trainers or whatever.” She snickers and pauses again, but I don’t press her this time, content to wait her out. “Art brings up bad memories sometimes. I used to love painting. I’d paint for hours. I started experimenting with sculpture too. But things…changed.  Sketching is like the foundation. It’s all that was left when the rest burned down—the only thing I still enjoy. Well, that and my webs, which feel like art to me.”

These might be only tiny pieces of Sloane, but I’ll hold on to them nonetheless. My art was never so tarnished that I couldn’t bear to create it. It makes me wonder what would strip art from Sloane so thoroughly that she can no longer paint or sculpt, reduced to monochrome.

“I always wanted to be a chef,” I offer. “Even when I was young.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my shoes as I recall the kitchen of my childhood home in Sligo, eating around the small table with my brothers, the three of us usually alone in the dark, unwelcoming house. “Lachlan would find a way to bring home food. I would cook it. And our little brother was a picky little shit at that age, so I got pretty good creating decent flavors from limited resources. Cooking became a kind of escape. A safe place for my mind to run free and explore.”

“Culinary art. Literally.”

“Exactly. And my ability to cook probably made hard times at home a little easier.” At least my father’s drunken or drug-induced rages weren’t made worse by hunger. There were a few times he controlled himself long enough to shove me into the kitchen and demand dinner rather than strike me down. Cooking became a kind of armor. Not fool-proof, but a barrier at least. Something to soften the blow. “I was lucky, I guess. It survived. Eventually, it became another mechanism for me and my brothers to build a better life.”

Sloane pauses, her voice melancholy when she says, “I’m sorry you and your brothers went through that. But I’m happy for you that your art survived.”

“And I’m sorry you don’t enjoy your art anymore.”

“Me too. But thank you for teaching me yours. I may have only grated a baby’s head’s worth of cheese, but…” she pauses to take a deep breath, as though mustering up courage, “I’m having fun.”

I gasp theatrically. “No, you can’t, that wasn’t part of my plan.”

Sloane giggles and I grin my way through the rest of the preparation of the dish. We stay on the line as she eats and insists I find something to snack on so she doesn’t dine alone. All I’ve got is a granola bar that was squished in my carry-on, but I eat it anyway as we talk about random shit. Raleigh. Boston. Food. Drinks. Everything. Nothing.

I leave when she’s finished eating, only moving from my hiding spot when I know she’s occupied at the sink.

The next day, I come back. I wait behind the tree as the kid delivers the bag of groceries. He earns another hundred bucks. Sloane calls me and we make roasted feta shrimp and polenta. I bring a pre-made salad so I can eat with her. We talk about work. About fun. A little about Albert Briscoe and the aftermath of our serendipitous visit to his house. Several murders have been pinned on him, and Sloane seems pleased. I might have nudged the police in the right direction, but I don’t tell her that.

On the third day, I hide behind a different tree a little closer to the house where I can hear her when she opens the door. Sloane peppers the kid with questions but he holds out. Gotta hand it to him, he’s pretty dependable. When I peer from behind the trunk, I can see her frustration, but she clearly doesn’t want to freak the kid out either. As he collects his bike, I ask him what he’s going to do with all this cash, and he tells me he’s saving for a PlayStation. Before he goes, I give him an extra two hundred bucks.

Sloane makes steak, a beautiful Wagyu filet mignon, with charred Brussels sprouts on the side. She’s the most nervous about this one. I know she doesn’t want to fuck it up. But she doesn’t. It turns out a perfect medium rare. She hums through every bite. We talk about our families. Well, I talk about my brothers. She doesn’t have much to say about hers. No siblings. No close cousins. Her parents keep in touch on her birthday and Christmas but that’s it. They’re too immersed in their own lives and I don’t get the sense she wants to share. Maybe there’s just not much worth remembering about them. And I get that, better than most.

The next day, I hide behind the tree for a long while and watch her house. At one point, she opens the door, takes a few steps outside. She looks down the street, her brow furrowed. I shift out of view when her gaze pans in my direction as she assesses the other end of the road. But there’s no kid. No groceries.

She steps back inside, locks the door. The curtains sweep away from the window only to fall once more.

After a few more minutes, I walk away. I’m in my rental car, already driving toward the airport when a text buzzes on my burner. But I force myself not to read it. Not until I’m back in my apartment in Boston.

Because I know if I do, there’s a chance I’ll tear the fucking door off the plane to get back to Jasmine Street.

A few hours later, the phone is clutched tight in my hand when I pour a generous shot of whiskey over the cracking cubes of ice. It’s not until I’m settled in my favorite leather chair with my shoes kicked off and my feet up that I look at the screen.

Forcing myself to wait is a delicious torment. Alcohol burns down my throat as I open the unread message from Sloane.

I missed you today.

I also realized I can’t cook for shit without you. I don’t think I’m a fully-fledged adult after all.

I smile and take a long sip of my drink before I set it aside and tap out my reply.

I missed you too. Next time you’re back in Boston for another one of those meetings we’ll make fig phyllo Napoleon in the restaurant.

At first I’m not sure she’ll reply, given the late hour and how long I’ve left it to send a response. But almost immediately I see those three dots flicker, and then:

I’d like that.

My eyes close as my head settles against the leather. I smile as I think about her face today as she stood on her front porch and looked in both directions for the delivery that didn’t come. Disappointment has never looked so damn sweet.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

See you in a few weeks for the game. Friends or not, I’m still going to kick your ass. Just so you know…