Page 33 of Fractured Hearts

“It’s Connie’s birthday, and I was going to make her dinner, but I just remembered I don’t really know how to cook.”

Darren laughs so hard he ends up bent over with other shoppers staring at us. After what feels like far too long, he stands up and wipes the tears from under his eyes. A few stray chuckles slip out as he pulls himself back together.

“Do you know how to grill?” he asks, going into problem-solving mode.

“I’ve made burgers and hot dogs on a grill, but that’s about it.” I don’t mention that the last time that happened was a decade ago when I went camping with Kai and Cal. I’m not sure if Jo even eats that stuff. She probably does, but she’s also a really healthy cook, so I’m not positive. I’ve eaten more vegetables since I’ve been here with her than I have in the past year. Darren must be able to read my face because he just smiles and grabs my arm, pulling me along after him.

We end up at the meat counter. “You do have a grill, right?”

“Yes. I don’t know what type. Martha picked it out.”

Darren nods, probably knowing exactly what his wife would’ve picked. He orders some marinated chicken, asparagus, and potatoes, putting them all into the basket I’m holding.

“This is a meat thermometer,” he says, holding up a red rectangle. “The probe folds out, and you stick it in the chicken. It has to be at least one hundred and sixty-five degrees before you serve it to anyone or they’ll be sick.”

“Got it. What do I do about the other things?”

“Make a foil packet and stick it on the top rack of the grill. They’re already seasoned and buttered, so it should be easy for you.”

I let out a breath, and my shoulders relax. “Thanks, Darren.”

“No problem,” he says, slapping my back. He pauses, clearly thinking about what he wants to say next. That does not bode well for me. “You know, it’s okay if you’re not gay. Sexuality is a spectrum, and being attracted to a woman doesn’t mean you can’t also be attracted to men.”

I inhale so fast I choke on my spit. “What?” I squeak. Darren slaps my back so hard I lurch forward and slam directly into the meat counter.

“You’re just going through a lot of trouble here,” Darren says, his voice low but gentle.

“She’s my friend. She’s been through a lot. We both have. I just thought . . .” I shrug, not really liking that I have to justify cooking dinner for someone who lives with me. Damn small towns.

“I thought since your boyfriend⁠—”

“She’s important to him, too,” I say, cutting off the questions I know are coming. Everyone wants to know where he is and why he isn’t with me. If I hadn’t been so confident, so delusional, about thinking Maverick would be the one here with me, I wouldn’t have this problem.

“Hmm,” Darren hums. “Well, good luck tonight. See ya around, Ben.”

I watch him walk away, both grateful and confused by the entire interaction.

I grab some potted blue flowers before paying for everything and leaving. I’m not sure there’s a vase at the house for the cut kind. Not that I should buy Jo flowers, but I’m suddenly second-guessing the gift I got her, and this seems like an adequate backup. Dinner and flowers for her birthday.

Fuck. This sounds like a date.

thirty-one

JO

I come downstairs, bending slightly backwards as I walk, trying to stretch out my sore muscles. I spent too long in the same hunched-over position on my laptop. Midnightmare had some interesting theories on where Noelle is, if she is still alive.

Looking in the fridge to see what I can make for dinner, I pause and spin around. There’s a blue-flowered plant in a cute blue and white striped pot sitting on the kitchen island. I spotted it as I came into the kitchen, but it took my tired brain a minute to catch up to what I was seeing.

Did Ezra get flowers while he was out? I bet he ran into Martha and she made him. The idea makes me chuckle. As I’m about to make my way back to the fridge, I see a waft of white smoke blowing by the window.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, running to the sliding glass door that leads out back. “What’s happening?” Ezra is standing behind the grill, tongs in one hand, spatula in the other. I can tell his shoulders are tense from here.

I open the door enough to stick my head out. I’m in one of Ezra’s sweatshirts and my pajama shorts. The temperature has been in the low fifties this week, and it’s too cold to go outside without pants.

“You know how to grill?” I ask.

Ezra turns, looking slightly panicked. “Can you get the meat thing? It’s red. I left it on the counter next to the stove, and I’ve been too afraid to leave the food to get it.”